because my psychic said so


my psychic had either just finished a margarita on the veranda or broken an empty bottle of Michelob Ultra over his head when I called.

“forget assumption,” he sighed, then hacked, waved away the day’s heart attack. “I know it’s you. Did you know I used to write episodes of Scooby-Doo? No. You didn’t.”

my psychic told me to listen to the songs of the mako sharks. “doggerel,” he wheezed, “jigsawed and disjointed, yet Ginsberg-anointed. don’t skip a word.”

my psychic told me to improve my existence through YouTube dancing. “Grab people by the heartstrings.” Then he told me about the episodes of The Tick. “Steven Seagal taught me that kick.”

my psychic told me I am still recovering from a used guitar, not musically inclined but lyrically defined. “You’re a future monster ballad; be patient, Steelheart, be patient.”

my psychic told me I was in the mood for shock therapy, in the mood for everything I thought I couldn’t handle. “You may win a role in a Seth Rogen movie; don’t shave for two weeks.”

my psychic told me to utilize scare tactics to communicate my ideas and suggestions. “Show ‘em the Wrath of Khan once in a while; be a crocodile.”

my psychic concentrated, paused, debated: “rainbows can be built from scrapheaps. Avoid the nightcrawlers and the runaway trains. 1994 is a myth.”

my psychic admitted nothing of what he says is binding. I unloaded the revolver and said,
“I don’t mind.”

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