BURNS = BURN UP ROTHSCHILD NOW SERIOUSLY

Scene: JCJ, Roseanne, and the Founding Fathers of Israel

Location: A surreal desert stage somewhere between Tel Aviv, Los Angeles, and the collective unconscious.

JCJ steps up to the microphone in a long black coat, curls tucked under a trucker hat that says “Kosher AF.” Roseanne is seated to his right, munching on a bag of matzah chips. Behind them, ghostly holograms of David Ben-Gurion, Golda Meir, and Chaim Weizmann shimmer in and out like bad Wi-Fi in a bunker.

JCJ:
So I was talking to Bert Goldstein—yeah, the other supreme Jewish comedian—and he tells me,
“JCJ, you know the Messiah might be here already, but he’s in hiding—at Burning Man, in a tent, giving TED Talks on ayahuasca.”

Pause for laughter from Golda Meir’s hologram. She’s got a dry sense of humor.

JCJ (pointing skyward):
And then there’s David De Rothschild. Not the banker, no. The eco-prince with the recycled yacht. Plastic Jesus himself. Sailing around the world in a boat made from bottles, saving the whales and white people’s guilt.

JCJ:
Tell me something. If the Messiah comes back in a PET plastic vessel, does that make him kosher?
If he walks on water but insists on biodegradable sandals, do we follow him... or cancel him?

Roseanne (mouth full):
Only if he says Palestine and Israel get free weed and universal healthcare.

JCJ:
Exactly, Rosie. See, the founding fathers of Israel had vision. But these new messiahs? They got brand deals and Instagram filters.
You ask them about Zion and they say, “Is that near Erewhon?”
You ask them about Exodus and they say, “Is that the new AI chat app?”

JCJ (turning serious for a second):
And I smell something off in the air. Not just hummus left in the sun. It’s this Messiah Complex — like the new religion is ego wrapped in activism.
They call it “vision,” but it reeks like the California motto: Eureka.
I found it!
Yeah... you found it all right. You found your own reflection and thought it was divine.

David Ben-Gurion’s ghost nods silently, stroking an imaginary beard. Roseanne raises an eyebrow.

Roseanne:
So what now, JCJ? Are you the new prophet?

JCJ:
Hell no. I’m just the court jester with a mic and a few good zingers. I’m here to remind you:
The real messiah doesn’t need a yacht or a TED Talk.
He’s probably washing feet in Skid Row or working the night shift at a Tel Aviv falafel stand.
And he doesn’t shout Eureka!
He whispers: Are you okay, my child?

Applause from both sides of the heavenly partition. Even Bert Goldstein somewhere in the afterlife lights a cigar and nods.

JCJ (winking):
Don’t follow plastic messiahs. Follow the guy with calloused hands and a bad sense of timing. That’s the real one.

Curtain.