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 2018. 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 2018.

The New Year will identify as 2018, but things will be more like they are than they have ever been.

Despite budget cuts, petitions, countless 911 calls, letters to the editors, fake news and nearly a bazillion e-mails and calls to members of Congress, we will continue to have two winters each year — one at the beginning and a second at the end of the year.

Minnesota will move its state border a foot into Iowa this year in the hopes Iowa won’t notice.

A congressman will resign in outrage after a dictionary definition for narcissism didn’t mention him by name.

The economy will continue to confuse economists.

Politicians will prove repeatedly that two people can disagree without either of them being right.

There will be no solar eclipse this year due to protests from solar farms.

The greatest fear of parents will continue to be that their children will grow up to be just like them.

You’ll keep your New Year’s resolution if it’s to put on weight.

That one guy, you know who I mean, who has been in a lot of movies with that other guy, will be in another movie.

The Super Bowl winner will be found to have colluded with the Russians.

The minimum wage will remain the minimum wage.

Anyone who wants to be president will be banned from running for the presidency. Future presidents will be picked by lottery.

Aliens from outer space will no longer visit Earth because our insurance doesn’t cover anal probes.

The NFL, citing attendance figures on Sundays, will ask to be declared a church.

Congress will address problems with Social Security by passing a law stating that only retired members of Congress are eligible for retirement benefits.

The Chicago Cubs will not win the World Series, marking the second year of the 108 years before they win it again.

This will be the year you won’t do what you keep saying you’re going to do.

Your sister-in-law will present you with a birthday gift of a pair of orange socks with purple stripes carrying the words, “Worst gift ever.”

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.