So I was driving down ol' I-95 at 4:30 in the morning listening to my favorite country music station. Commericial time and what do I hear? An advertisement for a hotline called California Psychics. Makes sense. Not much says "country music" like hearing about a psychic hotline staffed by California hippies. Cool. I hadn't heard an advertisement for a psychic hotline since my late-night hot cocoa and meth phase in the late 1990's when I would watch Psychic Friends Network infomercials and have a good healthy cry until the sun came up.
Look, this California Psychics thing is the real deal. Do you know that they only take two out of every one hundred psychics who apply? Quality control, folks. You're getting the best in the business.
I wonder what the recruiting process is like. I mean, after the application is filled out, of course. I'd like to think they use something similar to the device PeterVenkman used at the beginning of Ghostbusters, when two potential psychics have to guess what's on the other side of a card he's holding up. If they guess wrong, they get an electric shock. Except Venkman is shocking the shit out of a genuine psychic because he's a dweeby dude. But he never shocks the young blonde, even though she gets all of the questions wrong. He does make sure to hit on her afterward, though. Which says that while the execution might have been flawed, the method might actually be kinda sound.
And maybe just by going after the hottie, Venkman was actually on to something. I mean, look at the way them girls at California Psychics smile. Cute, huh? And maybe that's why I don't have any psychic abilities. I don't smile enough. Besides, I'm a bit dead inside. Plus, I'm a dude. And it looks like California psychics doesn't hire my kind. Something to do with our penises blocking the good vibes? Like a psychic windshield wiper or something? Dunno....but .99 cents a minute (for new customers) you say? Here's my credit card. Let's do this thing.