Ask Your Psychic Fiend: The Crap Coffee Again Version

July 22, 2005 at 10:09 am (Coffee, Your Psychic Fiend)

It’s another one of those mornings, folks, where the coffee is simply brown water and someone’s shoving food at me even though I’m up two hours early. I’ll try to channel the cranky Chucky into Snarky Serra for all our pleasure, so here we go with Ask Your Psychic Fiend.

First, the ass-waiver:

As you begin your journey with Psychic Fiend, please keep in mind:
1. It’s Psychic FIEND, not Psychic FRIEND. Your Psychic Fiend must be mindful of copyright infringement issues just like everyone else.
2. All answers are for entertainment only.
3. The ONLY offense intended is to those sorry cock-juggling thundercunts who pretend to have psychic gifts in order to make a buck and run up your phone bill. I have the utmost respect for those truly gifted with the sixth sense. I can completely respect folks who accept money for readings of Tarot and other divination arts, as honest, respectful and caring clairvoyants who serve a purpose in the Universe. However, lying-bitch charlatans like Miss Cleo and her ilk should be strangled with a telephone cord.

Your Psychic Fiend thinks putting the question block up Wednesday nights is working well, so it may continue, unless Serra forgets to put the damned thing up, in which case it’ll go up when Serra’s damned good and ready.

Mike from RANDOM RAMBLINGS asks:

Dear Psychic Fiend,
When will I return to sleeping more than 5 hours a night? What is causing the rash of 4 hour sleep nights I've had lately.

Your Psychic Fiend is going to use the Augury of the Retriever for some of today’s answers, and the first question is a good a place as any to start. Serra, get off your dead bitch ass and go brush Zeke and fetcheth hither the fur!

I’m waiting, Serra. Shit, what a slow bitch—she has two speeds, slow and reverse.

Finally! All right, let’s see what the…holy shit, a full 50 gallon garbage bag? Yeah, I know he’s a big puppy, but let’s get real! What’d you do, run an ad for dog hair?


Answer: I see a woman, Mike. You want her, she wants you, and the two of you aren’t close enough together to make it fun to stay awake. She’s a nice lady, far as I can tell, so set up the meeting. Have whoever visits the other get a hotel room, just in case it’s like cold pancakes with molasses when you do get together. You should also take your next day off, borrow a dog, a great big friendly dog, and go walking a lot. Go play Frisbee with the dog. Wrassle with the dog. In other words, go play and play and play and play until you’re both exhausted. Then return the dog.

You’ll both sleep much better at the end of the day. Thanks for shopping at Your Psychic Fiend.

VegasGustan has another question for YPF:

Dear Psychic Fiend,

I am turning 28 on Saturday. Is anything big going to happen during this my 28th year?

VG, I turn once again to the Bag Of Hairy Fuzzy Clumps of Luv for the answer…fucking-A, who knew there was this much hair on ONE damned dog!

Answer: The good big thing’s already started. Your incredible sense of humor… ”slide off like snot” SERRA! Shut the fuck up—this is YPF’s time! Does YPF have to slap a bitch? DOES SHE? YPF didn’t think so.

Sorry, VG, she just doesn’t know when to shut up. Anyhow, just don’t say “booger” and you’ll have a great year, filled with personal appearances, groupies, paternity suits and sex in the champagne room (YPF knows you’re married, don’t panic over there—it’s a figure of speech here).

Play “Radar Love” for Serra every once in awhile, since the Roommate from Hell stole her Golden Earring CD. Write again soon VG—we both enjoy it.

Mona Buonanotte, MILF extraordinaire according to Sergei, has this to rattle YPF’s cage with:

Dear Psychic Fiend,

The guys at work are lovely, they really are, but ever since 'Dickweed Internet Guy' abruptly left, no one seems to know how the internet servers are set up, and I lose things every day (like comments on the lovely Serra's blog). Damnit. Oh Psychic Fiend, can you look into your crystal ball and see when the hell they'll fucking get their shit together? Or something like that but sweeter and without the frustrating swearing on my part?



Mona, I’m in such need of a caffeine hit that I’m breaking out the stash of Kona coffee beans I have in the freezer. Hang on a moment while I grind some. Hm, what to do with the old grounds in the coffeemaker. OH, of course! ~thwap! ~ We’ll let that ooze down the wall a moment, all right? Ahhhh! Brewing away in the Bunn. Now, for reading the Grounds of Destiny…

Answer: They’ll get their shit together when the firm’s lawyers present Dickweed Internet Guy with a subpoena requiring him to reveal what the fuck he did to your nice work server that’s making it look like his ass is indispensable. I can see it now—there he is, in a pair of Power Ranger Underooos, talking to the process server. Now he’s mentally adding up what it’s going to cost him to get a lawyer, fight the subpoena, the time off from his new job where nothing will work right without him either…and he’s tacking on the money he expected to get from his new “consulting” job with your firm. From the look on his face, I don’t think those numbers are pleasing him. Tough—you need your bitch fix and if you can’t get it here, you’ll go out on the Internet where it’s dangerous and try to score off the street. He’s a bad bad guy and he deserves what he gets.

Hope our weather eases off here, don’t you Mona? This boiling while sitting still shit’s getting really old.

Ah, now we have Grend31’s query of the week:

Dear Ms. Psychic Fiend,

A thousand and one of my most sincere apologies for not understanding the nature of your manifestation. And mum's the word on the topic of you-know-what as I'd very much like Mr. Wulf to keep his sight intact.

Ah, and now for my inquiry regarding the unknown. Smiggins has gone all AWOL the past few nights and I suspect he's been going out to these rowdy disco-tech mumbo-jumbo things and trying to hook-it-up with a lady friend or whatever they call it these days. Which is explicitly against his implied Man-Servant contract with yours truly. I mean, having my bedpan unserviced through the course of an entire night is really too much for me to bear.

So where has my Smiggins been going? I implore you to help me find out to what rapscallionery he has been!

Yours who's sick and tired of dealing with his own nightly dootie,
Sir Brigadiere General Grend31, Mrs.

Well, the coffee grounds are nearly dancing as they slide down the wall. They’re begging me to read them, so I simply must do so. I know, Brigadiere, you normally get the crystal ball treatment, but the answer you seek is fairly shouting itself from the wall where I flung that crap.

Answer: Smiggins needs him some too, Brigadiere. Perhaps if you gave him a night off to go chase Disgusting Girl or other, more suitable women, he wouldn’t be Absent Without Leave and leave you holding the bedpan. I see him in his lonely bed in the basement, behind the Atari 8-bit computer…oh, no, wait a minute, that’s Serra’s Honey the next time he leaves her without cigarettes and without a car. Smiggins is over there, next to the air conditioning unit, dreaming of snootches without end, all for him, all for him. Perhaps Rent-A-Wretch can supply you with a replacement one night a week while Smiggins Snatches a Snootch?

Serra: Look, we promised no more Seussian Snootch shit, YPF—stick to it!
YPF: No, biotch, YOU promised. They can suck our fine, delicately-scented ass and I’ll SnootchSeuss all I want!

YPF shakes her head…YPF’s gonna hafta slap a bitch, that’s all there is to it. Kind regards to Mrs. Caffeinated Brigadiere and scratches for Brigadiere Filbert.

Jesster, the aforementioned Mrs. Caffeinated Brigadiere, has a very good question:

When is the headache I've had since Sunday finally going to go away?

I’m going to have to dig out the crystal ball for this one, Jesster. It’s hard to tell otherwise.

Peering into the crystal ball, that song going thru YPF’s head once again…humming low and off-key…Oh, no he di-n-t! Looking closer…Aw, hell, that’d explain it right there!

Answer: Jesster, go buy some new coffee for home—that fiendish little brother of yours, Moobert Cowerton III, has switched your regular brand of coffee for Taster’s Choice Coffee Crystals. ON top of that, the little demon swapped it for the decaf version while he was at it! He rigged your coffee on you while he was house-sitting, as revenge for the tree incidents way back when.

Make sure all your shoes are still paired up properly too. Have a Caribou Coffee for me—I’m dying for one and have no transportation to go get one.

SJ from Give Me The Booger (YPF totally loves that title because she gets to say “booger”) has a question today also:

Dear P.F., will Harry Potter die in the last book? (please don't say you don't care, that you don't like Harry Potter, that you hate the hype, etc. etc. I just need to know, damnit, I do)

The crystal ball just shows YPF Hagrid flipping the bird to YPF before settling in for a cold draft of ale…wait—HAGRID, YOU BITCH—THAT’S MY COFFEE MUG! Never fucking MIND that it’s bigger than a Budweiser collector’s stein, I still use it every damned DAY you turd-basket! GIMME! Beowo1|= got me that for a birfday pressie and it's MINE ALL MINE!

Answer: SJ, Serra’s finally gotten her hands on the entire series of J. K. Rowling’s supposedly evil, witchcraft-preaching series and won’t be reading spoilers or letting YPF write jack shit about them until she gets thru The Half Blood Prince. Sorry, but she fully expects to Blog Ho’s fantastic claims about the plot, and isn’t going to put up with any scrying out of me either. Yeah, Serra’s a bitch, but it’s why you all come here.

Maybe you and I can get Honey and HeWhoSucksAtGolf together for a trip thru the front 9 somewhere—Honey’s not good at golf either, so they’d be gone all day and you and I can blog our brains out.

ESC, who gets to play with liquid nitrogen and all that fun shit Serra’s secretly jealous over, writes:

Will my dog EVER stop shedding??? good lord, I could build several yorkies with what I vacuumed up last night!

Answer: YPF doesn’t need Scooby Doo or anything but her garbage bag full of Zeekie-clumps to answer that one. They never stop shedding. It’s Jeebus’ revenge—Junior wanted everyone to remember his flowing locks and decided Man’s Best Friend gets the honor of reminding all and sundry that He never sleeps up there next to Big Daddy while batting The Spook away from his Froot Loops.

While you’re building cute little kick-me dogs, ESC, can you throw me together a Pomeranian and shove it in the mail? H’s Ma would adore one (they look like little honey-colored miniature Keeshonds, her favorite breed).

One more thing—you’re a fantastic grad student, you’re progressing nicely, and the breakthroughs you need to make to get your research working will someday be used by the plastic surgery industry to reinstall snootches in Nicole Ritchie and Lindsay Lohan.

Seamus, at the Bufflepup Express, has this question:

Ha! You see, I can be on time for something!!!!!!
So what is going to happen the day after yesterday?
Ok! Really! What really is in my immediate future besides facing a wicked commute?

One more trip to the kitchen wall…wow, those coffee grounds really do nifty shit when you fling ‘em just right, especially when you’re caffeine-starved and the brown water you just drank didn’t have any in it. Ooooh! Ohhhh! Ahhhh! Yeah, it almost looks like fireworks, the big chrysanthemum-looking mothers…

Answer: Your world’s full of fuzz, Seamus. Brown, black and white fuzz that cocks its head just so and looks at you like “You’re the Lord of All and please will you brush me Daddy now?” It’s going to be Bufflepup day at Damp Dog Manor but you and Bufflepuppy will have a great time.

Hugs to both of you and scratches to the Bufflepup.

Ian, fabulous star of stage and scream over in Argentina, has asked something I’ve been wondering about also:

Dear Psychic Fiend,

Will ANTONIO BANDERAS and PENELOPE CRUZ ever learn to speak English?
I just can’t stand that those two, living in HOLLYWOOD for such a long time, who works with speech, who are married to Americans, who even have to breathe in English! [They] have worse accents than me that I never left this fucking country (Argentina).

Please forgive the edits, darling—YPF uses Word to type this up every Friday and it gets testy in the spellchecker if you don’t cater to its every whim, just like every other misbegotten son-of-a-whore (by the way Ian, how would you say Son Of A Whore in Spanish?) Microsoft program.

Hold on a moment—I need to run this Great Pumpkin sized bag of dog hair out to the curb. It’s Garbage Day. Oooh, what a nice day! Just enough breeze. I bet this dog hair would float ten feet on this gentle wind. Let’s see…picking up a handful and flinging it high in the air…Yep, it does! And coincidentally it tells me what I need to know for your answer too!

Answer: I see their agents, Ian. I see this grease-ball bastard wiping the French fry grease off his stubby fingers onto his tacky green tie while saying, “Tony, Tony, Tony! How many times do I have to tell you, it’s the accent that gets the American ladies all wet and sloppy and willing to spend $12.50 on tickets to your movies? You can’t go around talking good! You just can’t, Tony!”

He’s got a point—part of the charm of actors from outside the US here is their accents. People love the lilt of a South American background pasted to inane drivel. It’s why both Penelope and Antonio make the obscene money they do for each film they’re in. People love listening to them massacre the English language—they live for it.

So, what’s the next stage project for you, Oh Sultan of Song?

And, so, another edition of As The Coffee Grinds is at an end. Your Psychic Fiend asks only that if you’ve asked a question, that you comment here, and that you go over to the UPS-looking icon and vote for your favorite slice of Internet shit. While you’re there, vote for me too. Help a bitch out, folks–the guy at #1 hasn't got an imaginative hair on his head (and steals Serra's material too, the little wanker).


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