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Nostradamus Foretells Four Julie Andrews Films While Being Mistaken for Someone Else
by Bob Iozzia

Dear Journal,
Today, as I was exiting Madame Poupon's House of Spicy Treats, my favorite Paris brothel, another unrepentant debaucher who was entering mistook me for someone named Ernst Edelweiss.
I am usually a venomous elitist during most encounters with those below my station (which is all but three people known to me), especially when they misidentify me as an inferior being (which, as you may recall, is all but three people known to me).
But I did not punch him in the throat to point out his egregious mistake, as was/is my right—the erroneous name has a very soothing ring to it. Perhaps someday I will compose a soothing folk song entitled “Ernst.” And perhaps this song will be featured in a play about a family of entertainers who are compelled to flee their homeland because they can no longer get a good gig, piece of fish or non-scratchy undergarments due to an invading epidemic. If that isn’t rousing enough (it is), Ernst, the patriarch of the family, has a nasal-bronchial condition that causes him to constantly sniffle and make honking phlegm noises that prevent everyone in the family except himself from sleeping soundly.
The children approach their nanny and threaten to expose her past as a female posing as a male posing as a female posing as a male unless she kills their father so they can finally get a decent night’s sleep. She agrees only after the children agree to address her as the Queen of Genovia.
One night, with the deal sealed with a toast of schnapps and handshakes all around, the Queen of Genovia whips out from beneath her nightgown a magic umbrella that allows her to fly about everywhere, including the adults’ adulterous bedroom. Declaring, “This magic umbrella served me well whilst vibrating under my nightgown; now it will screw someone else,” she opens the parasol thingy, flies in three ritualistic circles above the sleeping patriarch, collapses the fabric flying machine, and crash-lands her underrated voluptuous frame on the patriarch’s raucous mucus-gurgling head, killing him instantly.
With the flying umbrella as the getaway ox cart, the murderous nanny and accomplice children flee their mountain home for the sanctuary of a nunnery in a foreign land, where all at last enjoy a restful night. In the morning, Mia, the eldest criminal coconspirator child, replies to the Mother Superior’s inquiry of, “How did you sleep, dear?” with, “Like a fucking log, thanks, hon.”
Soon thereafter, Mia’s fellow self-orphaned siblings join the breakfast table and affirm in unison, “It’s a wonderful life, as well as a small world after all!”
The youngest criminal collaborator child, Adolf—he of stooge haircut and sketchy lip hair—wonders aloud, “Where is Nanny, Queen of Genovia?”
No sooner do those words enter the ears of the others than she is spotted umbrellaly airborne above the rooftop, dressed in a cheap dress and sporting a stupid-looking hat with a prop flower.
Mother Superior asks no one in particular, “Why is she singing about spoonfuls of sugar?”
“How the hell should we know?” premenstrual Mia shrieks. “Did we get here before you?”
I shall call this play “The Sound of Mucus.”