Once again, I’m singing that same song that goes a little something like this: “do-doo-doooouchebaaaaag, oh how you make me want to smaaaack you with a mesh bag of piiiiineaaaaaaaappples… dooo do douchebaaags!” June’s winner of the fail-waste sweepstakes is psychics.
The immediate cause for me awarding this to them is that there is one occupying prime space in between my house and one of my favorite bars, Liquor Lyles. It’s a great bar, but if you go there, and things suck, there’s no other options except to walk four blocks to Lyndale, where Mortimer’s and Rudolph’s are located. It really is a serious investment. Anyway, if they ran the psychics out of there like they did in the good ol’ days (with pitchforks and lighted torches, of course), it’s totally big enough to have a decent sized food-drink establishment. I wonder, since they are psychics, if they would know beforehand that someone was going to throw a brick through their fucking window?
And going along with that line of thought, how come Miss Cleo didn’t know she was going to be sued and tap out before any of that started? OH WAIT, BECAUSE SHE WASN’T REALLY A PSYCHIC! I would be hard pressed to find someone who could prove to me that they were REALLY a psychic; most are just able to give semi-decent guesses based on people’s voices and the information they are given.
Maybe the sad sacks of shit that call those psychic hotlines deserve to get ripped off. Kind of like a dumbass tax. In this case, maybe it’s the callers of those hotlines that rank higher on the douchetitude scale. I’ve said this before in different posts, to think that the universe will magically fix life problems is idiotic and that energy would be better spent trying to improve the things that one does not like about their lives. Hope in one hand, douche in the other.