Nostradamus Speaks - Ubermensch

Ubermensch

For the record, I did go to the Los Angeles NBC office for the Today show with my proposal for an interview with Dr. Nostradamus. I was escorted off the premises sandwiched like PeeWee Herman between two 6' 5" 350 pound Samoan security guards, my feet dangling off the floor.

They dumped me outside the entrance, one of them warning me like Arnold Schwarzenegger, "Don't be back." They laughed and high-fived each other. 

I flipped them the bird and said, "Fuck you assholes, I'm going to 60 Minutes!"

I drove to the CBS offices and as I was cruising by the front three of those massive Samoan cartel security guards came out and eyeballed me. No doubt having been tipped off.

I drove all the way back to my dump of an office in Little Saigon, having lost about $150 in potential Uber fares that day. 

I lay down on my shitty sofa and started thinking about beautiful Vienna and beautiful Ingrid.

Rousing myself from a self-pitying wallow, I googled and found numbers for reality show producers. A lady from My 600 Pound Life asked me if Dr. Nostradamus would be willing to put on some weight. Click. I told whoever it was that answered for Dr. Pimple Popper that I was willing to eat a lot of chocolate if I could get a slot. She said, "Good luck with that, pizza face." I had not been called that since middle school. Click.

I was in a serious funk in need of an intervention. I called Ingrid. "Ingrid, sweetheart, I miss you so much and Vienna too."

Ingrid said she was in Paris already, at the Hotel Les Bains. She was a resident assistant for hotel management, had a nice room all to herself, with meals and other accommodations. She had been assigned to learn French, work on her memory, and learn to write.

She also said we were right, Dr. Nostradamus was indeed, very rich. In fact, he was a leading member of a group of Dutch bankers that owned the hotel. The staff knew of him, but nothing about him, other than he should not be treated any differently than anyone else who probably owned half of Paris. She thought he owned the Sorbonne too.

I told her that as Nostradamus Speaks' senior editor I looked forward to a 10th floor corner office in an exclusive high rise in Newport Beach, California, complete with small attached living quarters, all expenses paid. She said she would come visit when she could.

I hung up feeling like a world-class Uber loser.

The office front door bells jingled, signaling the arrival of a customer. I went out and Jameston Rockette, Esq., the disbarred lawyer who had previously occupied this dump was there, a snarling little chihuahua in his arms. He wanted to know if he could stay for a while until he got back on his feet -- just a couple of days.

What the hell, I really needed someone to talk to.

Dixi