Tales From Exit 22, By Al Batt

My doorbell rang.

I opened the door, and a robed visitor accompanied by sitar music walked in out of the dimming twilight. The renowned mystic from the Far East (the easternmost part of the township), the fabled soothsayer, the seventh son of the seventh son of the seventh son, the oracle from just down the road; Swami Davis Jr. stopped by to give me his predictions for 2019. He knows little, but suspects a lot. He excels at predicting everything but the future.

The Swami has been indwelled by a spirit of divination and is a muse of unearthly clairvoyance. The Swami sees all, knows all and reveals all to those who proffer tribute. A savant of such gifts that within his psyche lie the limits of human understanding. As a fearless, feckless and foolish seer, he is without peer even though unreasonable zoning laws discouraging the ancient Roman practice of haruspicy (divining the future by examining the entrails of recently slaughtered beasts) hamper him. The Swami had a few forecasting miscues last year, but it’s not his fault that he blames everyone else for his mistakes. In an uncertain world, the Swami brings more uncertainty to light. Many have called him a bum seer and a purveyor of impaired prognostications, but at least one person (his mother) has called him “uncannily accurate.” Swami Davis Jr. is a reader of palms and tea leaves — he takes an orange pekoe at the future. His crystal ball (a cracked bowling ball) is back from the shop after having its foreteller replaced.

“Swami Davis Jr., who illuminates the dark corners of our culture, whose knowledge is beyond compare. By contrast, Nostradamus was nothing more than a flawed speculator. Oh, wise Swami, thou vessel of infinite wisdom, who is omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent, tell me, your humble implorer, what the future holds,” I entreat, knowing that most of my future lies ahead. I’m atwitter with anticipation.

Swami Davis Jr. is a cowboy who rounds up predictions. He sees into the future by turning his car’s rearview mirror backwards. Even though he believes you can’t handle the sooth, here are his bold, yet intentionally vague, predictions for 2019.

A driverless car will win a NASCAR event.

It will be discovered that the pyramids were made of Legos.

There will be more Kardashians to give people the opportunity to ask, “What is it that they do?”

A guy ahead of you in a line to pay for gas will say something so astoundingly profound that you’ll have difficulty breathing. You will forget what he said by the time you get back to your car.

Laws requiring someone to actually buy a lottery ticket to win will be found to discriminate against those who don’t buy lottery tickets. Anyone capable of taking a breath will become eligible to win a lottery.

Everyone on earth will be given a certificate of participation.

Texting while doing anything other than texting will be outlawed.

A kind tornado will hit a small city, destroying only the wind chimes.

This year 2019 will have at least 2,019 seasons.

Rock, papers, scissors will become an Olympic event if it isn’t one already.

A Democrat will marry a Republican and a Republican will marry a Democrat. Their children will be the hopes for a brighter future.

Feb. 31 will provide many surprises.

The Minnesota Vikings will, well, you know what they will do.

A cat obedience school will go out of business. No one will be surprised.

A vegan will hire a neighbor to chew the fingernails of his vegan family.

The University of Minnesota will change its nickname from the Gophers to the fighting 13-lined ground squirrels, Ictidomys tridecemlineatus, striped gophers, leopard ground squirrels, squinnies, and leopard-spermophiles in order to reach more fans.

Most divorces will be along party lines.

Things will continue to be just like they never were.

The team tattooist for the Minnesota Timberwolves resigns because he wasn’t getting enough ink.

The politicians you dislike will continue to dot his or her t’s and cross his or her i’s.

A man will ride a Roomba from coast-to-coast to bring attention to the nation’s littering problem.

Climate change will be mostly dimes, quarters, pennies and nickels.

A TV news channel will provide 24 hours a day of cat videos.

The future will be so bright that you’ll need to squint. It’s a pie crust that needs to be filled sweetly.

What went around will come around. Tomorrow will be another day — probably last Tuesday.

The good times will roll.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Saturday.