I was vegging out in front of the boob tube — literally — the other night watching “Keeping Up With the Kardashians,” when a mystic fog began obscuring my view of one of the classy young ladies having a nude photo shoot while eight months pregnant.
At first I hoped the fog was a gas leak because those can be kind of fun if you can deal with the splitting headaches and occasional explosions, but then I realized it was just my old friend and mystic seer Nostrildumas paying a visit from a different dimension or time zone. Soon the fog cleared and there he stood in all his mystic seer glory, which kind of has a crotchety old Middle Ages monk vibe.
“Good evening Robert. I see you have found entertainment matching your level of vapidness and talent for celebrating idiocy,” he said all holier than thou.
“Gee, that’s really sweet to say, Nostril. But I wish I could claim to have anywhere near the talent those Kardashians have,” I said. “Did you know that in addition to all the amazing things Kim and her sisters have done to help make taking selfies safer for children in the Third Word, their brother also designs socks?! Who would have thought someone could become a famous sock designer? I wish I’d have known about him before I bought that big bag of tube socks at Dollar General.”
“I foretold that very occurrence of this celebrated sock maker in May of 1439,” Nostril said. “Right before I revealed that Hitler would be allergic to pistachio and frightened by clowns. The world could have been saved many tragedies had they heeded my warnings there.”
“I don’t remember any of that,” I replied.
He sighed then started reciting one of the mystical quatrains he uses to tell the future. I still don’t know why he can’t just talk normal like regular people.
“They will come, carrying large booties that will blot out the sun like a dying albatross. Behind them will follow the one, the designer who shall decorate the feet of kings and others who can afford $39 for socks!” he said with a flourish.
“I guess I read that in one of your books,” I said, “but I just thought you’d eaten a bunch of peyote or something. Speaking of getting high, maybe while you’re here you can get baked and offer me some predictions about the local stuff we have going on.”
“I don’t ‘get baked’ to see the future, Robert,” he said, doing air quotes with his fingers, which is really annoying.
“Whatever … you’re always doing something weird to get into a trance before you make a prediction. Sure looks like you’re getting high,” I said.
“I like to call it ‘becoming one with the eternal,’” he said.
“I think you’re high right now,” I said, looking at him suspiciously. “Let’s start with something everyone around here is talking about. Is the city ever going to be able to stop the Press-Register from throwing tons of those ad circulars in people’s yards and littering up everything? Will the City Council actually pass an ordinance stopping it or not?”
Nostril reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a cookie or something and started nibbling it.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Just a brownie from the Baldwin County District Attorney’s office,” he said. “They’re really good. I ate a whole plate before I got here.”
“That explains a lot,” I said. Nostrildumas’ eyelids started to flicker and soon he started talking in a weird voice.
“When the spring floods come forth the city of azaleas shall fall to the ones from New York with pointy shoes and $500 ties, and a great cry shall go out across the land when the dog chokes,” he said.
“OK, you got me. I’m confused. What the heck does that mean?” I asked.
“Basically it means the council is going to keep wimping out because a bunch of high-priced Press-Register lawyers are threatening to sue the city if it tries to stop them from throwing these circulars nobody wants. Only after Dog River gets clogged by Gulf Coast Livings and overflows will people start to take action,” he said.
“Isn’t it a lot easier just to say it that way?” I asked.
“Yeah, but it’s just not as much fun,” Nostril said. “Hit me with another.”
“Here’s a good one for you, what’s going to happen with the Mobile Civic Center?” I asked.
Nostril nibbled some more Baldwin D.A. brownie and his eyes rolled back in his head.
“This is definitely not yo momma’s Duncan Hines …” he muttered before going back into his mystic voice. “The wrecking ball will come in 2016 and lay low the behemoth. MoonPies shall dance on the river making way for the daughter of pigeon forge.”
“I’m completely confused,” I said.
“They’re going to tear it down and build a Dollywood there,” Nostril said. “The Mardi Gras balls are all going to have to move into the cruise terminal.”
“Dollywood? Really?” I asked incredulously.
“Yeah man … Dollywood,” Nostril said slowly. He then started humming “Here You Come Again.”
“Got enough gas in the tank for one more?” I asked.
“Fire away … Man, that Kardashian chick has a bootay!” he said, getting distracted and staring at the TV.
“OK, this is a tough one. When is the GulfQuest National Maritime Museum going to open?” I asked.
Nostril started patting around his robe. “Man, I’m all out of DA brownies. Guess I ate them all. But I’m still really hungry,” he said.
“Stay with me Nostril. What about GulfQuest?” I asked.
“Gonna have to wing it here. I’m guessing sometime in the next five years maybe? Dude, you gotta take me to Taco Bell right now before I chew my arm off. And lets get some of those trippy Kardashian socks while we’re out,” he said.
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