RoboCop films on DVD, including the subpar third movie and for a second I’m met with silence before she asks me what has been concerning me lately.  Is there something that’s being weighing heavy on me?  Something I’m stressed over?  Damn right there has, what did I have for breakfast? As though I’m talking to an even-tempered and potentially medicated wall, Claudia continues as though I have said nothing at all.  She’s getting that I have some concerns about money.  Have I had some expenses lately that are troubling to me?  Yes.  My breakfast.

I haven’t seen this many greasy meat tubes since I was an altar boy (ba dum bum).

The clock is ticking and I refuse to question this woman about my sausage any longer  (I had sausage for breakfast, incidentally).  I jump right into the big guns by explaining to her my beloved uncle Jeremy was lost at sea two weeks ago while out tuna fishing.  Is he OK? Inexplicably this question slows her down even more and I’m positive I’ve wasted over $10 at this point.  She tells me she sees water and darkness and it feels cold.  She tells me my uncle was definitely in the water and now, wherever he is, he’s lost.  He’s partially crossed over but she isn’t sure if that means he has died or possibly in a coma. The Verdict: I cut Claudia off before I’m in to her for a full on case of beer or anything by triumphantly explaining that not only has my uncle Jeremy never been lost at sea while fishing for tuna, he doesn’t even fish.  Also, he doesn’t even exist.  Psychic your way out of that!

This is how they finally canceled Crossing Over with John Edwards.

She attempts to explain how the guides are showing her water in a desperate attempt to not have to do an about face to account for my fictional uncle’s fictional demise.  I scream “fraud” into the phone and hang up, about $12 poorer but so much wiser.

Twilight looking girl with a crystal ball which I feel is a good sign.  Even if they can’t answer my questions, maybe they can explain to me why anyone watches those terrible fucking movies. They have 11 pages of psychics to choose from so I pick a woman who not only does humans but pets as well, because it seems appropriate for the Internet and, read out of context the way I wrote it there, looks all kinds of dirty.  Bet she didn’t see that coming. The Test: I learn quickly that, while you may think being both a pet and human psychic would maximize someone’s awesome superpowers, it in facts seems to make you borderline retarded.  When I question her about the object in my hand, which is now my Chihuahua which I felt was appropriate to the situation, I get some cock and bull story about how she needs to use Tarot cards which will start giving her impressions about blah blah, sentence that goes on for like three more fucking minutes. Once she finishes the jibber jab, I hit her with the breakfast question.  I think she literally, word for word, says the same goddamn thing she just said to me when I asked about Mojo--who I named prior to Transformers coming out making him original and Michael Bay even more of a hack, thank you.  She must have this shit written on the back of the tub of Haagen-Dazs I assume she’s eating on her sofa.

My dog’s dink is now on the Internet.

My pet psychic hasn’t instilled a lot of faith in me yet but it all rests on the money shot.  She missed the bus on Mojo but maybe she can redeem herself with this little gem: My kitten fell into a box and floated down the river behind my home and my pug ran after him and I haven’t seen either since. Are they OK? The Verdict: The savvy amongst you will have recognized my conundrum as the set up for the epically awesome kitten-and-pug movie Milo and Otis.  Of all the kitten and pug movies I’ve seen, it’s the only one.

It’s a fraud, you silly bastard!

Ace Ventura takes it at face value and explains how the two animals have a real connection with each other which is why the pug followed and they know I will be OK without them but that other people needed their love and guidance so that’s why they left.  Even though the kitten was in the water he got out OK and the two are together and safe and they’re sending me a message to not worry.  This shit’s deep. I mention how I forgot one detail, that I don’t have a kitten or a pug and that’s actually a children’s movie.  Immediately the tone becomes icy and she explains how if I provide false information she can’t read the cards properly.  I think that’s pet psychic for “you’re an asshole.”

Toaster strudel, a gateway to gay.

Not a fan of her saucy attitude I try to zing her with my next question: I fell in love with a girl when I was in high school but, due to unforeseen circumstances, I ended up going to prison for killing her dad on a tuna fishing trip.  After I got out of prison I couldn’t find her.  Will we ever be together? I feel a faint glimmer of hope--not that she has psychic powers but that she may be a reasonable human being--when she asks me if that really happened.  I assure her in my most sincere voice that yes, I went fishing with my girlfriend’s father and, quite by accident, negligently homicided him right there on the boat. Like a trooper, the good doctor tells me that my lost love felt so much pain for the loss of her father and for feeling betrayed by me, even though it was an accident. The Verdict: This is the most touching and tragic load of horse shit I have ever heard.  She should have abandoned metaphysics and gone into advanced hogwash with a minor in malarkey.  Turns out that he never blamed me for what happened and felt terrible that I had to go to prison and everything.  Man, that’s a load off my mind.

It made my day when I found out this was a real book.

In order to wrap things up, I ask if it would change things if I made all that stuff up and if she feels bad that she has to lie to me to get paid.  I go on to explain the irony of me lying to her to get paid and then ask if she’s willing to drop the psychic routine and mix dirty talk with her thoughts on the RoboCop trilogy for me.  The offer clearly overwhelmed her as I was immediately disconnected.  She probably likes part three. Conclusion: There’s literally a pantload of other psychics I could contact, I even briefly considered calling Montel Williams’s personal harpy Sylvia Browne but fear of her $850 price tag and the fact she might recognize my voice and try to eat me if I ever cross her bridge one day kept me away.  No, this little experiment had to come to a disappointing end as I was forced to accept that, if psychics are real, they’re not clamoring to sell their talents for $2 a minute to tell me how much I was giggling when I drew that wiener on my toaster strudel.  Seriously though, that’s not like actually gay, is it?