June 27, 2006

An Audience With Destiny: Palmreading Edition

Greetings, wayward traveler of this road to darkness we call…the county fair. Here in my stripey, beflapped tent, the powers of arcane wisdom and inexplicable mysticism whirl about, scarcely controllable. From this whirlwind of cryptic and inscrutable mutterings, I pluck the knowledge that you seek. Wonder no further about your imminent death, cheating spouse or vast future wealth. All shall be revealed; all you need do is stretch out your palm, and from its lashed and leathery face shall I read your very soul, for I am...Madame Destiny!

Twenty dollars. Thank you. Now, let us begin. Hold out your left hands, and I shall divine the secrets within. Yes, you first.

Ah, yes. I sense a great, unexpressed anger in you. If I could just..pry these..fingers. No? Okay, well, no need to yell. I recommend some relaxation, and possibly a dereddening treatment.

I sense you were recently in an accident. It...hurt, badly--No! No, not...badly...VERY badly. Is that correct? Do not answer me; I know that it is. The spirits are strong today.

There is a journey in your future. I sense a trucker. He has a beer gut, flannel shirt...his name begins with an "E." Eff--Ephram, perhaps. A blowjob is involved.

Pedophile. Yep, it's pretty strong. Yeah, yeah--the spirits are saying pedophile.

I sense that you're...kind of a jerk. You have interpersonal problems. Your friends don't like you much; they call you an asshole behind your back. Your lifeline is short, but pleasantly self-serving.

Alright, now you're just being ridiculous. Are you not taking this seriously? Are you not in awe of my awesome and dark supernatural powers? What the hell is that supposed to be, anyway? Get out of my tent, and take your retarded dog-weasel with you!

The spirits tell me you are very...pleasing, in bed. Pleasing, yet...surprising. I recommend thorough hand sanitation, and meeting me by the Tilt-a-Whirl at the end of my shift.

Your lifeline is short, your heartline utterly nonexistent. By all acounts your future should be one of grim and certain misery, and yet...yet, something tells me you will live long, and...something, I'm kind of fuzzing out. Process? Program? Hmm.

I sense a great unity here. Yes, years of bitter resentment and diffident oppression have been replaced by the overwhelming power of a hot, black-on-white handshake. I predict a future of more subtle racism and an ultimate jungle uprising that will mean the end of us all.

I see stalking in your future...possibly, nightstalking. Yes, I see you on a marsh somewhere, hungering for the flesh of the living and struggling to carry on a normal life in spite of your "condition." Palm reading's all bullshit though, so who knows.

No comments:

Post a Comment

2009 Those Aren't Muskets!