“Nostradamus, Jr.” Kaliher’s Annual Top 101 Predictions for 2018 - Guest Article by William B. “Nostradamus, Jr.” Kaliher

Buck-arsed naked after downing a quart jar of bad hootch slap dab in the middle of Big Earl’s House of Porn and Bait Shoppe, shapely Lucille slipped up close. Oh, lord her endowments felt good. “You finished your predictions yet, Nostradamus, Jr, “she whispered.

Lord have mercy, them predictions hadn’t crossed my mind in months. The whole dang crowd in Big Earl’s knew I was recovering from a three-month binge and were betting if I could pull it off yet again. Lucille, shimmied up and down, weaving them hips enough to hypnotize most mortal men, but not Nostradamus, Jr ,when them annual predictions called. I thought, one night of fun with Little Egypt and twelve imported belly dancers with super-perilous curves and tomorrow I’d go.

I sobered up at noon and spotted the illegal Mexican bigfoot, Urbroga Gonzalas, up in a large oak tree eating canned sardines and a freshly killed squirrel. After last year’s predictions Urboga and I had such a celebratory drunk in Catemaco, Mexico, the Federales said “Ya’ll ain’t no stink’n Poncho and Lefty” and warned us not to return for a few years. There was only one option left and I hated to do it this late in the year.

“Urboga,” I hollered, “come on down and help me load the flat head Ford with moon – we gotta head to Alaska and the snow is already deep in the North Country. “

We burned oil and ran the border at Climax, Canada. It was tough staying a day ahead of the Mounties heading north. Those Canadian seemed some pissed, probably over the stock of arms we carried. The Mexican Sasquatch turns mean without tequila, and I hid Urbroga’s stock and made him drink hootch. Tell you what; I don’t blame those Mounties for holding back with a liquored-up bigfoot firing at them from our hot running Ford. It took three days of solid driving fore we crossed back into American territory and met the guide who’d been recommended–an Eskimo named Elvira.

Dang, I was disappointed for I expected a sexy Eskimo but something went wrong and we got a gay Eskimo named Elmer. Still, he was a dang good guide; you just had to watch him close. When he got too liquored up, he wanted to rub noses, and I feared Urbroga would kill him for Bigfeet ain’t too partial to that type thing. Still, Elmer got us to the barge on Lake Labarge in a couple of days and we soon found the stove where Sam McGee was cremated. I located some of his old bones and was soon throwing them to come up with this year’s predictions.

The problem, of course, was getting back. We shot the Alaska, Canadian border at midnight catching the napping Mounties unaware. It was a straight two day drive south to the U.S. border with Urbroga and our new amigo Elmer taking drunken potshots in every direction. I fear the Mounties would have taken us but were laughing too much at a drunken Bigfoot and a limp-wristed Eskimo shooting at them and allowed us to cross the border.

So, I, Nostradamus Jr., slightly unsteady after four Mason jars of South Carolina deep swamp hootch a day headed south to Big Earl’s House of Porn & Bait Shop with Urbroga and Elmer and this year’s predictions. I don’t know what happened but once Elmer had Lucille’s tastily sinful little sister, the lady named Lou rub her body up and down his stiff carcass and rubbed noses with him he went straight. Heck, I preferred the horny little bastard when he was gay but he quickly fit right in with the Big Earl regulars. So safely back from Alaska you, Dear Readers, can again have the information to plan your life.