A Raconteur Predicts His Future

Prediction 1:
I am in my late twenties and I am on vacation in Paris with my girlfriend who speaks far better french than I.We tour a largely Muslim neighborhood and go into a Arab cafe; I feel like ordering falafels.I try to ask my waiter (in french) how to say 'falafel' (in french). He is confused by the metalanguage.I try to ask my girlfriend (in english) how to say falafel (in french), but It comes out in Chinese and nobody can understand me.I scrape up my minimal Arabic skills and ask the waiter how to say 'falafel'.Turns out 'falafel' is a universal word and I was simply wasting my time.

Prediction 2:
I'm nineteen years old and going to college where I am studying zoology and music. I practice Camille Saint-Sans' third symphony over and over again and it makes my roommate real mad-like.He says:"Hey Mozart, play some real music you fag!"So I play "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and then I through my rosin at his forehead.I neglected to take it out of its metal case befor throwing, but that was fully intentional.

Prediction 3:
I am in my fourties and have been married for a while. I have two kids: A daughter named Viola and a son named Carlyle, but we just call him Lyle, and they call eachother 'bucket face'.My wife is not the same woman I took to Paris, she found another guy, or died, I'm not sure, these predictions are innacurate.I forget what we argued about, but I think that she wants a divorce; she doesn't like my moustace or somethingI want custody of bucket face.

Prediction 4:
I am either sixteen or seventeen years old.I was recruited by a polka band to play fiddle and record on a couple of tracks.I'm like "what key?" And they shout out the chords as the changes occur, but I just ignore them and rip awsome solos in C-major.After we record, I tell them to site me as Vj Caozao.They tell me I'm awsome, I tell them that I'm not.They believe me and so I don't tour with them.

Prediction 5:
This one is for this friday.For some odd reason, I think that artwalk is this friday and I go up to commercial street to see what's goin' down.Not a bad mistake because It is almost September.I sortof ponder why nobody is around, but it doesn't get to meThey won't let me into Lindbergs.I run into Joe and Sklyer, I tell them that their awsome, they say they aren't, I don't believe the bastards.I'm walking down the part of Commerical I call 'Desolation Row' when a scrawny white dude with a knife jumps in front of me and asks for my wallet.I'm about to take it out when he says, "Hey, ain't you that meidlinger kid?"Yea, I say.Nice to meet you he says, and walks away.

No comments: