I had high hopes about Madame Nostradamia because she’d been highly recommended to me as the one who foretold that Biden would fall up the stairs to Air Force One three times and that Megan Rapinoe would dye her hair purple.
Before I could knock on her door it opened and Madame Nostradamia said, “I see you are here to find out the future of America.”
“Wow. You are good,” I exclaimed.
She led me through a velvet-curtained doorway and sat me down next to a taxidermied raven.
“You will see the future clearly and life-sized. As if you were there. Close your eyes after I say the magic words.”
Wondering what the magic words were, I saw her suddenly twirl around 3 times as she chanted, “JoJo Demento. Harlotta Harris. Alexandria O’Crazio.” I closed my eyes.
Suddenly I saw a small Midwestern town and the kitchen of a little 2-story house. 8-year-old Anthony Siciliano came home from school and walked into the kitchen crying so hard that the family dog who’d run to greet him slipped on the puddle of tears on the floor and sprained his paw.
“What happened, angioletto?” said his concerned mother, wiping away the tears of her little son with her apron as the dog whimpered. “Mangia. I made your favorite manicotti.”
“I don’t want manicotti, Mammina,” sobbed little Tony. “I want my birthday party! The new teacher said I wasn’t being inclusive. She said I was being selfish because there are people who have their birthdays 364 other days of the year.”
“She threw away all the presents and birthday cards my classmates got me. Then at lunch she took away my chocolate milk because she said it’s cultural appropriation. Then when Bobby tried to give me his carton of white milk, the teacher threw his away, too because she said it was white supremacy.”
Dominic, his father, glowered and suddenly jumped up from the table, mumbling something about “the boys down at Local 45.” With the dog limping after him, Dominic barged out the front door, accidentally slamming the dog’s tail in the door.
Later that evening Helmut Hare started off his local newscast by reporting in front of a school building. “A situation over a birthday party at Renaming-In-Progress Middle School, formerly known as Benjamin Franklin Middle School, has been happily resolved.”
The camera then cut away to an interior shot of a hospital room showing someone with 2 leg casts, an arm cast and two black-and-blue eye sockets underneath a heavily bandaged forehead as Helmut’s voiceover continued. “The teacher involved said from her hospital bed that she had terminated both her membership in the National Education Association and the Communist Party.”
Across the country in an East Coast city another scenario was playing out at the corporate headquarters of Widgets R Us. A pencil-necked Antifa soy boy smashed the locked glass front door with an axe and rampaged down the hall. Spotting Vice President of Sales, Mo Finkelstein, he charged him from behind and ripped the yarmulke off his head.
“You bastard!”, he screeched, shaking his fist, the red rubber wristband with the yellow hammer and sickle design sliding up and down his puny, sweaty wrists. “How dare you wear that? You’re insulting not only me but every atheist on the face of this earth!” he screamed, purple veins bulging and throbbing on both temples.
Mo stammered, “But- but I don’t understand. How does my belief in God make you disbelieve any less in God?”
“Anyhow,” Mo added superciliously in somewhat of a non sequitur, “you don’t even work here.”
“Shut up!” exploded Antifa boy, ripping his own glasses off in a rage and stomping on them, packets of white powder falling out of his pants legs. “I don’t work anywhere! ”
Eyewitness Alopecia Carter described the scene on the 11 o’clock news. “Never seen anything like it in all my born days. He melted down just like the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz. The police, they was defunded so Mo flagged down an animal control truck and they caught the guy with a catch pole.”
Next I saw what was happening at the Manifesto Ad Agency downtown in a West Coast city. CEO Lenin Hammer was leaning over the shoulder of Art Director Lefty Monmartre. Lenin pursed his lips. “What seems to be the problem?”
“We overran the ad budget for the Discrete campaign by several times the agency’s annual budget,” sighed Lefty wearily.
“Don’t worry,” Lenin waved it off. “George Soros will pay for it.” “Abacus!” Lenin turned to the CFO who leaped to his feet. “Yes, sir!” “Just submit the invoice to George.”
Naivelee Gowinuhlong chimed in, “What department does George work in? I haven’t met him yet.” All eyes glared at her. “I’m sorry,” she apologized meekly. “It’s my first day here.”
“In line with woke policy, we hired 267 models for Discrete’s diversity shoot,” Lefty said.
Naivelee Gowinuhlong interjected, “Uhm- shouldn’t it be ‘awakened’ policy, not ‘woke’? ‘Woke’ is a verb as in ‘I woke up,’ whereas ‘awakened’ is an adjective in this case and only an adjective, not a verb, can modify a noun.”
HR Director of Inclusion, Diversity and Sensitivity, Tarantula Monroe, yelled “Shut up! Proper grammar is a sign of white supremacy!”
“I’m sorry,” whispered Naivelee.
Lefty continued, “We tried aerial shots but everything was too small. So we hired a drone but even then we couldn’t fit everyone into the lens. And we still need more models but we can’t find one who is a transgender, mixed race, heterochromic woman with two different-colored eyes who speaks Navajo or a bipolar, heroin-addicted, homosexual male who culturally identifies as a giraffe.”
“So what does the account executive say?” Lenin cocked his head.
“I don’t know,” Lefty mused. “He’s in the garage vaping.”
Naivelee piped up plaintively, “I don’t understand. Why do we need so many people? And so many different people? I mean everybody buys toilet paper. We’re all the same down there.”
Nobody answered, but a hard copy of “Das Kapital” whizzed through the air and hit the back of her head.
The meeting disbanded. Everyone shambled out and Naivelee left clutching a pink slip.
“Open your eyes,” Madame Nostradamia’s voice punctured the air .
I opened my eyes and she waggled an index finger in front of me. “You have seen the future. But it needn’t come to pass.”