Humor · Short Story

The Bad Psychic

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Ronald MacDonald was a bad psychic.

Growing up on the hardscrabble streets of Punta Gorda, his childhood dream was simple: to help people understand that there is more to life than just the physical world.

And also — no, he’s not friends with the Hamburgler, so just shut the hell up about it.

Ronald’s first reading was brutally honest.

He sat down with a young woman who needed validation that her deceased loved ones were still around–but not watching her take a shower or have sex, because that would just be uber-creepy.

To begin the reading, Ronald lit some patchouli incense and gazed into his crystal skull of Sylvia Browne.

Image result for Sylvia Browne psychic

“Okay,” he inhaled deeply. “I’m getting a sense that there is a father figure near you…”

“Yes! My dad! He died when I was 16!” the woman sobbed, wiping away tears.

“He’s showing me a sign for…..huh. That’s weird. He’s showing me thumbs down. Yeah. He’s got both thumbs down. Oh…and now he’s jumping up and down. He’s holding a sign that reads…”

“What? What does it say?”


“Disappointed? What?” the woman yelled.

“Now he’s underlining the word disappointed with a red sharpie. And adding exclamation points. Yep, he’s not proud of you and never was.”

Ronald didn’t let his first reading fiasco stop him from crushing yet another person’s hopes about the afterlife. He read for his elderly neighbor, Ethel, who had recently lost her husband of 70 years.

Ronald began the session. Sylvia Browne’s skull glowed a fiery orange. “Ah, your husband Stan is here! He’s standing right behind you!”

“He is?” Ethel sat straight up in her chair. “How does he look? Is he okay?”

“He’s very excited about something. He’s pointing at you and shaking his head.”

“What does he mean? That it’s not my time yet? That we’ll be together again someday?” asked Ethel.

“Well… now he’s showing me a huge plate of pot roast. He said that’s what killed him. Your leathery, disgusting pot roast that he had to pretend to like for decades.”

“He didn’t like my pot roast?” Ethel’s voice quivered.

“Now he’s opening and closing his hand rapidly to indicate talking…now he’s showing me the sign for choking someone…” Ronald closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.  “Oh! Okay! He’s saying your nonstop bitching slowly killed his soul and he would have rather died than to listen to another second!”

Ronald slowly exhaled as the incense swirled around him. “Oh!” he continued. “And now he’s saying the only thing that scares the crap out of him in the afterlife is the thought of you dying and your soul finding him on the other side so that you can continue your relentless blabbing on and on about politics and that godawful show, The View. And he says that by the way, all of the women on The View end up in hell. Especially Joy Behar.”

Sadly, Ronald MacDonald’s psychic career pretty much tanked when it was discovered he really couldn’t read anyone and basically made everything up as he went along. Yet curiously, he delighted in causing others needless pain and suffering.

He now has a successful career as a politician in Boca Raton.




I Was a 12-Year-Old Psychic

Back in the early ’80s, things were innocent. I cherished my ribbon barrettes, my dog Princess, and my life-sized poster of The Hardy Boys. Sure, Parker was okay, but it was Shaun who stole my heart.

Bringing sleuthing to ridiculously handsomer heights.
Taking sleuthing to ridiculously handsome heights.

And much like the ancient prophet Nostradamus, I predicted stuff, too.

I predict that one day I’ll shamelessly beg people to go visit another blog.

Uh oh!…I’m having another vision…I see you, dear reader, clicking on the link below and leaving comments and liking my new post on The Nudge Wink Report. Do it now! Don’t prove me a fraud!

2016 Prophecies Revealed!

P.S. I love you.

P.P.S. But not as much as The Hardy Boys, sorry.

P.P.P.S. Unless you click on my link above, then I love you more.

P.P.P.P.S. How long can I keep doing this?

P.P.P.P.P.S. I should probably stop now.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Hurry, go click that link!


Chitchatting with the Dead

Whenever I learn about something a little out of the ordinary in life, I usually question its validity. Well, at first. It’s not like I don’t believe anything, because, given enough time to analyze it, I feel everything is possible. But I’ve got to see some solid tangible evidence in my own life experiences or I just won’t buy it.

Eating healthy and exercising can help you lose weight? Whatever. Chiropractors are ‘real’ doctors? Doubtful. Algebra is a useful class? Please.

This brings me to my favorite subject: psychic abilities. Yeah, that’s right. Listen up all you skeptics, because things are gonna get all freaky-deaky up in here.

I’ve had loads of experience in the mystical side of things since I was a kid. I grew up in a 100 year old house that was haunted. I’ve glimpsed ghosts. I’ve heard spirits. I’ve been to psychics. I’ve had readings. I haven’t been abducted by aliens. I haven’t gone that far off the edge. I’m not ruling out the possibility, though.  As George Carlin once said, “If it’s true that our species is alone in the universe, then I’d have to say that the universe aimed rather low and settled for very little.”

When you tell someone you believe in this psychic stuff, they either wholeheartedly agree or think you’re obviously off your rocker. The paranormal is something you have to directly experience if you are to fully believe in it. I do think some people can pick up on certain vibes more easily than others. I feel all of us are capable of this ability but choose not to cultivate it.

What convinced me psychic readings were real? I first went to see a medium years ago, before I had kids. At the time, I already believed in psychic ability, not surprising considering my childhood background of directly experiencing the spiritual world. Yet, being born an analytical, critical person, I thought she obviously must be a fake. Charging 60 bucks for an hour? Puhlease! What a racket!

I see…that you will be out sixty bucks in sixty minutes….

So I sat there in a darkened room that reeked of patchouli, trying hard not to giggle as she lit a candle and started some weird oomba-goomba heavy breathing.

Suddenly, she stopped, opened her eyes and looked right above my head.

“Ahhhh……” she breathed. “Your dad is here with you. He’s departed, yes?”

Lucky guess, I thought, all smug in my smugnitude.

“He’s very excited because you’re finally acknowledging his presence! He’s saying he’s very proud of you!”

Wow. Get out. I tried not to let out a snort. Ever notice how all dead people seem to want to talk about is how proud they are of the living? Why not tell me next week’s winning lotto numbers?  Or who’s in the next Super Bowl? Still, just imagining for one second that maybe my late father really was there in the room, she really was communicating with him and he truly said he was proud of me? I admit, I teared up a little.

“Wait…he’s telling me….” she whispered as she gazed over my left shoulder.

More weird breathing.

Hmm….let me guess…my dad is in a good place now and is at peace?

“He’s saying he gives you signs with the car….um…. something about the doors locking. Yes, he said that soon after he passed, he made the car doors lock and unlock, they went up and down over and over again in his car and he is validating for you that that was him.”

Hold up. Holy crap.

My dad died a week before Thanksgiving in 1991. A few days after he passed, my younger brother and I were driving his old Chevy Blazer around. Every time one of us mentioned my father, the car door locks would suddenly move by themselves, rapidly clicking open and shut. These locks had to be operated manually, they would only open if someone pushed on them. Sometimes they would slowly unlock and lock. When one of us would ask, “Dad? Is that you?” the locks would click faster. We both saw and heard this with our own eyes. Neither of us were near the locks. This went on every time we got into his car for days afterward. But then, a few weeks later, it stopped completely.

“Your dad said he’s there with your dog,” the medium smiled. (My beloved dog died a few months before my dad.)  “And your two cats. One cat is very wise. He is very sweet and loving. The other cat comes across as kind of mean.” (Both my cats had died previously and her descriptions of both were accurate.)

And now your dad is saying you will have kids soon,” she continued. “Don’t worry. He knows you worry about having kids. Oh! He said he’s with your firstborn. He’s a boy. He’s got thick, curly hair just like you.”

Must keep it together. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry! Firstborn?? She could be making all of this up. I’m sure she is just pulling stuff out of thin air! Right? Me? A mom? A son? 

At the time, I had given up on having babies after trying to get pregnant for two years and undergoing surgery that left me with only one partially functioning ovary. I had thought being a mom maybe wasn’t in the cards for me. But I had a vivid dream once of my dad with my future son and often wondered if this was going to really happen one day.

So this is how my reading went for the next hour. She would blurt something out and I would sit there like an idiot with my mouth hanging open. I didn’t cry though, I really didn’t.

Apparently my dad had a lot to say. He informed me of future events, particularly about my younger brother and something traumatic that he had to go through. Without going into specifics, everything she told me in that reading came true. All of it.

I’ve had several readings since then and all have been eerily accurate. I know what you might be thinking. Feel free to doubt, it’s all right, I would do the same. I respect a skeptic’s view, I do. But these readings were not vague. They didn’t throw random stuff out and fish for information. My readings were all very detailed and only things I would know, things she couldn’t have possibly known beforehand. Sorry, but Google doesn’t have all the answers.

Do you believe in psychics or mediums?  If you’ve been to one, do you have any cool stories to share?

I’ll leave you with a hilarious clip from SNL that cracked me up about
The Long Island Medium. I faithfully watch this show. I know, she’s a trip, a bit in-your-face and loud. But I do cry watching every episode, I can’t help it.