EDITOR’S NOTE: Like all major publications, Weekly World News receives many unsolicited letters, ransom demands and badly photo-shopped pictures of celebrities engaging in bestiality. About a year ago, WWN received a badly typed booklet purportedly containing the prophecies of Nostradamus’ younger brother, Bob. The man who sent the letter, Doctor Hans Offami, claimed that he had found Bob’s prophesies in his back yard. What stood out, however, was the fact that all the prophecies were beyond wrong. We decided it was time to get Brick Rivers on the case. Here’s Brick’s report.

When WWE called Dr. Hans Offami, he was overjoyed. “Finally!” he exclaimed over the phone. “It’s perfect timing! I’ve just discovered another trove of Bobstradamus’ predictions!”


We agreed to meet at an office in an undisclosed location in Piscataway, New Jersey. When Dr. Offami arrived, he cut a distinctive figure. His hair resembled a half-used Brillo pad. His eyes very rarely looked in the same direction and he seemed as jittery as a duck on a skillet. After adjusting our masks and gloves and bumping elbows, we settled down to talk.

We produced last year’s booklet and glanced at him. “How big a fool do you think I am?”

He blinked. “I don’t know: 5’7”, 5’8”?”

“You claim this an original manuscript?”

“Why, yes. Yes, I do.”

We threw our hands up in the air. “This is typewritten! Nostradamus lived in the 1500s!”

“Bob was more prescient than his brother,” Offami replied. “He was also a bit of an inventor and tried his best not to be overshadowed by Noss. He also had things to prove to himself – that he was truly gifted – despite his impairment.”


“He was a hunchback,” Offami, replied, his eyes darting back and forth. “With the legs of a baby. He fell over a lot. He was known to roll for blocks. People made fun of him at his work.”

“And he did what?”

“He was a freelance bell-ringer at churches in the area. It was difficult for him to do because of his baby-legs. He’d wind up bouncing up and down, his tiny legs flailing wildly in the wind, as he clutched the bell-rope. People used to laugh their heinies off watching a hunchback with itty-bitty feet bouncing all over the place. Priests actually requested that he not play at funerals.”


We sighed and returned to the booklet. “Okay. Assuming that a hunchback with baby legs invented a typewriter to catalogue his prophecies back in France in the 1500s, these are all written in English.”

“He was a scholar.”

“And all of these are wrong. And, I quote: ‘In the year 2020, America will see great prosperity.’ We’re in the middle of a plague, civil unrest and a financial collapse!”

Offami scrutinized the booklet. “That should read ‘a great plague.’ That’s what he meant. Although he invented the typewriter, he didn’t invent Wite-Out. He was working on a deadline so he just went with it.”

We heaved a sigh, thumbing through the booklet. “Herds of elephants roaming through Texas.”

“He meant ‘cattle.’ ‘Herds of cattle.’”

“We’ll build colonies on the moon…”

“He meant ‘Montana.’”

We’d had enough. “How did he know about America? America didn’t exist in the 1500s!”

Offami smiled. “Was he good or what?”

We sighed. “You said you found more of his prophesies?”


Offami produced a spiral notebook with articles taped to the inside pages. We thumbed through it. “This is a spiral notebook.”

“He was an inventor.”

We continued examining the notebook. “These are all recipes.”

“Guaranteed to come true if you follow the directions.”

“You’ve cut out pages of cooking books and taped …”

“He invented tape.”

“And you’ve taped them into a notebook! You haven’t even removed the authors’ names. Betty Crocker. Julia Child. Chef Boyardee???”

“Bobstradamus also had multiple personalities in the future. He channeled them,” Offami said. “And I channel Bob. I’m sort of his cerebral editor from his future.”

We sighed. “What kind of doctor are you?”

Offami grinned. “I’m a dermatologist. I pop pimples. The white heads are the best. They explode! Whammo! It’s like dropping little nuclear bombs all over someone’s face. I pride myself in my popping skills. It’s an art form, really.”

WWE had had enough. “Please leave, Dr. Offami.”


“I have a gun, Dr. Offami.”

The man grabbed his manuscripts and headed for the door. He paused and turned. “Are you sure you want me to leave? It looks like you’re getting a blackhead right between your eyebrows.”

“How’d you like a fist between yours?”

“Bob told me you’d say that.”

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