1979 it was. God called. I picked up the phone. Now I’m a two-bit prophet. Dime a dozen. It’s not like God actually talks to me in a voice like a cornet. I just know stuff. I don’t talk about that stuff much because it freaks people out, and then I feel kind of weird afterward—Geez, why’d I go off and say that for?
Happened again the other night. I was talking to a group of nice folks at a family camp. It was going well too. They liked me. Then I had to go off and say that the terrorists are going to get a nuke and use it. They got very quiet after that. I ignored my own implications and pretended I hadn’t said it. Afterward a lady came up to me and told me I’d made her depressed with the nuke comment. Some people just can’t take a joke.
But that’s the story of my prophetic life. Whenever I say what I really think, poop flies. But I can’t help it. I’m in touch with the brute heart of the earth and sky. I explode and flow like Vesuvius. I back up like a bad toilet. I am, to quote a recent newspaper article about me, “absolutely hilarious and yet deeply profound.” I’m everything you could want in a seer. And less.
So I thought I’d appear here, a voice in the cyber wilderness, and let it go. Raw, ecstatic, and sure as hell not ready for prime time. But it will be what I really think.
This is prophecy, man. The real deal. Which means you probably have no idea. No idea at all.