Monday, January 28, 2008

That Was a Tarot-ble Idea

Twas 2:30 am on a Saturday night. My buddy, McDud, and I had just gotten back to Alphabet City after straight dominating the Lower East Side (me sitting at a table by myself texting random people). My night to that point had consisted watching spirited jousting at Medieval Times, catching a cool band called The Howlies down at Pianos, and then going to some bar, of which I don't recall the name, down at the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge.

As McDud and I went to get a sixer of tall boys and chips to finish off the night in style, we walked by a Fortune Teller. The light was still on, so I ventured inside. I had never gone to see a psychic before, and here I was drunk and with a fresh paycheck in my wallet- serendipity at it best. The fortune teller, who was mildly attractive for a gypsy, came to the door and let me in. I'm pretty sure I tried hitting on her, but alas, in my pastey and slurring state, I was unsuccessful at wooing the young witch.

I was initially just going to get my palm read, but seeing that I was an easy mark, she assured me that a tarot card reading was much more accurate, and coincidentally more expensive. I quickly agreed to pony up a Andrew Jackson and away we go.

After dealing the cards and taking a long look at the outcome, the first thing to come out of her mouth is, "You give off a lot of negative energy." I instantly quipped sarcastically, "No shit Sherlock" and walked out of the place with my dignity and wallet still intact.

Well I wish that's the way it went. In actuality, I stuck around for the rest of the reading and paid an extra five bucks to get my palm read just so that I could feel the touch of a woman.

As I was walking out I asked her who was going to win the Superbowl. Surprisingly she told me that the Pats were going to win. She even gave me the exact score, which I will not share with anyone else because I don't want the betting line to shift. I politely thanked her and went on my way. (I actually made this last paragraph up just so I could tie this story to sports in some way.)


Bobby Snyder said...

That story sucked.

Jimer said...

I bet you wake up tomorrow and look in the mirror to find that you have turned into a 30 year old man, your mom tries to kill you, and you land a dream job at a toy company.

JohnnyDakota said...

That makes a lot of sense. I always assumed that Mookie was a pseudonym for a guy who knew nothing about sports. Now, it turns out, you're just a 16-year-old girl who gets her palm read.