As we slog into the third month of 2022, it’s becoming obvious that this year is going to be screwier than last year. Marching into 2022 has been like getting an unexpected hug from a wet, fetid orangutan that slathers you with kisses. And it really has to crap. It’s just a matter of when and in what direction.

Not wanting to add to the problem, this reporter decided to address the rest of the year in a positive, hopeful article. The plan was to interview experts, from doctors to politicians to priests to glean positive quotes. After a week of “no comments” and two breaking and entering charges, this reporter finally found himself sitting across from The Psychic Baby. When queried about the oncoming year, the baby projectile vomited on this scribe’s head, dampening both his spirit and his shirt.

Returning home, this journo received a call from Piscataway, New Jersey dermatologist Dr. Hans Offami and the official psychic link to Bobstradamus, famed seer Nostradamus’s younger brother. According to Offami, Bob was the brains behind everything. But, because he was a hunchback with the legs of a baby, he tended to fall over a lot and roll. People thought he was a performance artist and paid him no mind. Still, it gave him a unique perspective on life.

For the record, there are no historical references proving the existence of Bob.


Bob made spiritual contact with Offami six years back and yearly produces a treasure trove of prophecies, usually placed in shallow earth. The doc had the latest box of prophecies – dug up in his garden just last night. The doorbell rang and I greeted Dr. Hans Offami, pimple-popper extraordinaire. He clutched a Nike shoebox. He rushed into my rental and headed straight for the kitchen table where he opened the box. “Here they are!”

“That smells delicious. What is it?”

“The prophesies. What you smell is ‘wisdom.’”

This newsman stared at the contents of the box. It appeared to be a mound of baked post-it notes. Each note was covered in what looked like chicken scratches. This journo inhaled the aroma. It still smelled delicious. “You baked post-it notes?”

“No! Not at all! It’s just the wear and tear of coming from the Beyond.”

“They’re post-it notes! Bob lived in the 1500s!”

“Was he a prescient inventor or not?

“I’m going with ‘not,’ right now.”

“Did you know he designed the first toaster oven? Sad, really, since there wasn’t electricity at the time. Same with the post-it notes. Nobody had space for them in their rat-infested hovels. He was truly ahead of his time.”

This columnist found himself growing angry. “How big an idiot do you think I am.”

Offami considered this. “Dunno; 5’7”? 5’8”?”

This scrivener inhaled the prophecies once again. “I can smell the olive oil!”

“And not the Parmesan?” Offami whispered before auto-correcting himself. “It smells cooked because the center of the Earth is molten.”

“Yeah, right. If you had left them in the oven longer, I would be breaking out the dip. And the marks on the notes? They look like chicken scratches!”

“It’s a secret code.”


This ink slinger found himself simmering. “Okay. Let’s agree that these prophecies are totally legit. They come from the beyond of the 1500s. Then why the hell are they in a Nike shoebox!!!”

“I told you he invented things. He came up with that logo along with the Pilsbury Doughboy, the Golden Arches, the Apple logo…you name it. But he had nothing he could use them for.”

“You’re wearing a new pair of Nikes.”

“Amazingly enough, they were in the box, too!”



Offami gazed at the notes. “Bobstradamus says that the world will enter a time of global peace, wherein all will prosper.”

“You’re kidding me, right? We’re on the brink of World War III, with Russia barreling into Ukraine like an unhinged gorilla! Thousands have died already!”

Offami sagged. “What do you want Bob to say? Things suck? Everybody is saying that. Does that raise one’s spirits? No. Isn’t it Bob’s job to give people a sense of hope, even if it’s fleeting?”

This reporter sagged and turned on his tape recorder. “You maybe onto something. That was actually what the story was going to be about. Hope. Go back to reading Bob. Maybe you misread his chicken scratches.”

The Doc brightened. “Why, yes, I misread the code. Bob says that the world will unite against Russia, eventually isolating Putin and his oligarchs to the point where they are powerless. Western Europe will join together to fight a common enemy like never before.  America will lead the way. Americans will unite via their own self-interests, when the war hits their wallets. With the Russian escapade past and the Western nations united, we can finally address climate change, economic unfairness and racism. It may take a while, but this can be the dawning of a new global civilization.”

This newswriter smiled, turning off the recorder. “I love it. I’ll file this tomorrow.”


Offami gathered his post-it notes. “Sometimes, you just have to lift people’s spirits. Okay. I have to go, now.”

“Uh, why?”

“To go back home and thaw dinner, watch some TV.”

“Well, we can have an early dinner and watch TV here. I have some bacon and sausage in the fridge.”

Offami reached into his pockets and pulled out eight fresh eggs. “These came with the chicken scratches. Allow me to cook.”

Fifteen minutes later Offami and this reporter were enjoying a great breakfast/dinner and watching a show he described as “a comic book on acid” called Peacemaker. Within minutes, this correspondent was wincing and laughing hysterical at the same time.

Offami chimed in. “We must never forget the things that make us happy.”

“I’m going to quote you.”

“It wasn’t me. It was Bob. I’m his conduit.”

Glasses were raised. “To Bob.”

“To Bob.”

“And hope,” Offami added.

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