Dennis Mahagin

So have you heard the one about how Nostradamus and Andy Warhol walk into this pub, where someone in the peanut gallery proceeds to shout:

“Hey, Freaky Zoids! Is it true that in future everybody has their own reality show?”

Warhol sweeps back his thick shock of hay straw hair, and goes:

“Yah. Fifteen minutes every week. Bracketed between ads for condoms, tampons, Neutrogena facial scrub and Lamisil tablets that treat the infection where it lives—in the nail bed.”

Then someone else pipes up:

“What about your partner, Mr. Andy? Can’t he recite a fucking quatrain or two for us?”

All eyes turn to Nostradamus, as he clamps his cyanotic lips around the fluted rim of an Amstel Light draught, and starts blowing divination bubbles in the creamy head of the brew like an Evinrude outboard.

“Give him a second,” Warhol reassures the gallery.

Then, mankind’s most famous soothsayer of all time makes the muted sound of a distant landscaper’s leaf blower in his throat wattle, as he starts in:

“Nosebleed concert seats will start at a thousand dollars U.S. Bono will marry Sinead O’Connor, who vigorously organizes his daring bid for Pope, which comes within cunt hair of consummation. The papal bid, not the marriage. Osama bin Laden will finally reveal his secret weapon to be a senior citizen’s motorized mobility cart that can morph into a molotov-spewing hovercraft at the drop of a dime…and all the sorry humans will have their own reality shows. Yes.”

Warhol nudges his avian elbow into Nostry’s ribs.

“Tell them what it’s like,” he lisps. “Details...details!”

“Aight. Miner’s helmets with orange marmalade conduction points at the temples. Glowworm light at the center of forehead will conduct lucid thoughts like lasers. The most accomplished of these transmissions will be aqueous, warm—snuggly gurgly electrophoresis of endless placenta. That is, until The Man determines you are too successful: Homeland Security Agents will then discover you once put your ring finger into rectum like suppository at seashore, only to raise it—as if for covert sniff, or lick…It's all about Geraldo’s memoirs then. Blog becomes Borg. The center cannot hold.”

“You mean we get assimilated?” inquires Andy.

“Worse. They turn you into an infomercial. Handy Chopper with Head Chef's Epaulettes, spitting primly in the alphabet soup.”

“What’s the moral of this cluster fuck? Please cut to chase, oh bearded one.”

“Why, watch your fucking P’s and Q’s, I’m sure! And if you want me for any more dog and pony tricks you're gonna hafta slide a couple Jameson’s Boilermakers into this piss you call ginger beer. Chop chop, heedless knaves. Chop chop!”