Nostradamax wasn't a famous prophet who lived in the 16th century, and he didn't compose a number of astonishingly accurate prophecies that had a great influence on people's lives later on. Rather, he was a forty-two-year-old accountant who, lived with his mother on Mulkollerstrasse in Slagelse. He was horribly underpaid, his colleagues treated him like monkey poo, his boss liked to yell at him a lot, he hadn't had a date for twenty-six years and he had quite ugly hair too.
But every Friday evening, Nostradamax forgot all about his shitty life so he could get drunk, accidentally smoke the curtains, hallucinate and engage in his favorite hobby: writing and illustrating prophecies!
Until he died from falling off a bridge while chasing three-foot butterflies with a tennis racket last month.
We're all gonna miss Nostradamax a lot.
What the fuck is this all about?
As the ONLY website in the world, we unfortunately got the honour of publishing Nostradamax's prophecies.
