Ask Your Psychic Fiend: The Upper Class Twit of the Year Version

August 12, 2005 at 10:11 am (Your Psychic Fiend)

Hi, everyone, and welcome to Ask Your Psychic Fiend! The coffee’s no fun again today but I’m going to whip out the Kona here in a bit to compensate (boy, I wish I had a French press for these yummy spendy coffees—when I make a pot of the good stuff Honey rains Hell on it and I only get one cup).

Well, let’s turn the blog over to YPF—might as well get it over with since she’s still whining about not being allowed to play on time last week.

Yowza, yowza, yowza! It’s that time again, boys and girls, so here’s the ground rules, read by our own version of Vanna White, Serra!

Serra flips open a piece of paper amid cheers and shoots YPF the look she had just before she shut her little pink ass up into the Pringles can last week.

Here’s the ground rules:

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, especially considering that Serra’s the copyright Nazi unless it suits her to be otherwise.
2. All answers are for entertainment only. If you don’t want to be entertained by smartass answers, don’t ask serious questions. Hell, don’t ask questions at all—anyone expecting serious answers on Ask Your Psychic Fiend Day will be grievously disappointed.
3. The ONLY offense intended is to those dumbassed, donkey-raping, shit-eating uncle fuckers 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 whoremongers like Miss Cleo and her ilk should be strangled with a telephone cord.

Andddd, on with the shew!

VegasGustan is back in black, so to speak, with a very pertinent question:

Dear Psychic Fiend,

Well, since I have now decided not to get a tattoo we can throw out last weeks question. This week, will I ever learn how to be jokey without offending other people?

This week’s special divination tool was going to be the Dance of the Ants, as they prowled Your Psychic Fiend’s personal space and the surrounding ether. However, a liberal sprinkling of cotton balls soaked in Peppermint essential oil has banished their creepy little asses from the neighborhood. So, I think we’ll use the patterns created by the peony blossoms Serra tossed out into the yard after attempting to extract their essence by tincuring them in alcohol. It’s kewlies, it’s nifty, it’s delicately scented!

Answer: It helps to remember the N-Word Rule, which states that calling folks some things is limited only to others of their kind. You understand, yes, that only folks for whom the N-Word might remotely apply may use the appellation in addressing someone else. The same goes for biotch and like words, such as bunny.

In other words, if you don’t resemble a biotch, or you appear to be the slightest bit serious about meaning it, refrain from using the term. Serra says she’s sorry for misunderstanding your intentions last week.

YPF’s been wondering where the Brigadiere had gotten to. Now we know!

Dear Ms. Fiend, Esquire,

I am a bit out of sorts. I’ve been lost out in the safari for at least a week now and can’t seem to get my bearing. I believe Smiggins ran off with some natives, either to join them tribally or by way of being eaten.

My gammy leg is acting up again and my *ahem* war wound is proving most uncomfortable at the moment. Normally I would be fearing for my very life were I a lesser man. But knowing that I shall soon have your guidance is leaving me feeling right as rain. In fact I’m going to celebrate now with the last of the tea and biscuits.

Ah yes! I do owe you a bit of an actual question yet don’t I? Pardon my beating all about the bush *chortle*. Bush, safari.. you catch the drift of my boat..? Yes, yes.. the question… Could you point me back towards civilization by way or chance?

Ever yours faithfully awaiting to become unlost,
Sir Brigadiere General Grend31, Mrs.

Let’s stir the limp, booze-scented petals of Peony for the answer…is that a map? Nope—just a clump of crap.

Answer: You’re correct—Smiggins did run off with the natives, but has traded his life for yours! He’s promised to cook your pink little butt with fava beans and a nice Chianti for the local cannibal king in exchange for them making it appear that he’s met the same fate. Once you’re dead and your family is convinced that he’s dearly departed as well, he’ll be sneaking off to the casino to become a manwhore.

As for finding your way again, find the nearest pile of tiger dung—you’ll spot it by seeing the local village idiot playing in it. Once found, orient yourself away from the direction that the flies are flying in from, and start walking. When you find the road, take it to the left and you’ll either find civilization within 3 days or it’ll find you.

Pass YPF one of those biscuits, Brigadiere, there’s a good chap.

Mike at RANDOM RAMBLINGS seems to like it here, because he’s back:

Dear Psychic Fiend,

I seem to recall a comment you made….a couple of weeks one of my posts (I think) that I’m looking for a chick through blogging. (not sure that’s the case….but I’m gonna run with this)…..So my question is….if you’ve kept up with my inane ramblings….who….through the comments you’ve seen….is a perfect match for me in the blog world? (sorry if this causes you to have to surf thru comments again….lol)

Hm, that’s a toughie, Mike. YPF’s going to have to swirl up these peony blossoms a bit. Hm, yes…oh, my, you’re kidding a bitch? Really? Oh, Lordy!

Answer: Your dead-nuts, perfect match hasn’t actually found your blog yet, you see. She’s a friend of a friend of a friend of one of your current commenters, tho. I keep seeing the number 867-5309, but that could be just that stoopid song stuck in YPF’s head.

Jesster, welcome back to the blog of the real, and thanks for posting this:

Dear Psychic Fiend,

My speshul guy is really stressed out about work right about now. What can I do to cheer him up? (And by the way, wearing underwear and cooking a turkey isn’t gonna fly.)

This one’s easy, Jesster, it’s right here in the peony petals.

Answer: You’re absolutely right—a French maid’s outfit and turkey (not even turducken) just won’t do it for your honeyman. I remember the times Beow01|= went thru this crap and it wasn’t pretty. If he’s caffeine-oriented, buy him either a way to take excellent coffee to the salt mine or a machine he can take to work to create same. Add a pound of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee and a nifty mug from along with this t-shirt, and your gift should help morale immensely.

One note: Don’t make the machine one of those Home Cafe jobbies–the thingy that holds them expensive-assed brew pods still for the hot water breaks too easily. Honey got himself one and is still in a snit. They’re nice about replacing it, but a $50 fucking machine shouldn’t bust for no reason.

Mona at Mona’s Barbaric Yawp poses a good one:

Dear Psychic Fiend,

Pretty easy question here…will I ever win the lottery? A big pot, like, a billion dollars, after taxes. How many tickets should I buy?


Answer: After putzing around in them petals, YPF has the answer. Unfortunately it takes selling your soul to the Devil, and it’s just not worth it. Once the Devil gets your soul he’s going to use it to open a chain of nasty kettle corn franchises (not that kettle corn is always nasty, but this version will be). He’ll run the competition out of business with plagues of bugs, and once he has the market to himself he’ll ruin your soul and the taste of the general pubic for good kettle corn.

So, you see, it’s just not worth it. You’d damage the fabric of human existence if you won the lottery. Serra thanks you for the email and she’s having a talk with Honey.

YPF hops around in a dorky manner to the tune of The Devil Went Down to Georgia, humming madly, out of tune and loudly enough to make Serra’s Beagle howl.


Jackie at 86 Tips (whose RSS feed Serra can’t manage to catch on her Sage), asks:

Dear Psychic Fiend,

Will I ever get to sit in the corner office? Will I ever get to have an assistant? Or, am I going to be a total corporate bitch/waitress forever??

Please help.

I’m a sagittarius. Thank you.

And goodnight.

Answer: Jackie, you won’t be either a corporate bitch or waitress forever. No one with your smarts, drive and killer fashion sense could be cooped up in a cubicle forever. It’s going to take awhile, all along the way making sure those responsible for deciding when you change cubicles or when you get to quit living in one know who’s doing the work and who’s got their heads so far up their asses that their world view is eternally shit-stained. Get caught being good—a lot! Dress well, but not so well that your bosses suspect they’re overpaying you. Bring in homemade goodies to the break room once in awhile.

In short, prepare to play the office politics game a bit longer—it sucks goat’s ass, but it’s a necessary evil in moving up.

brings us a question too—and Serra’s surprised it’s not about cute widdle usagi:

Will I ever be able to convince Kryptonite, that it is an absolute must for us to own the 1st season of The Muppet Show on dvd?

Answer: You actually feel you have to convince him? He knows, deep down inside, that ownership of the first season of The Muppet Show is a moral imperative. He just doesn’t want tobe caught, dead or alive, buying it. Have him order it from somewhere or simply do it yourself. He’ll love you for it.

Have your named your hasenpfeffer on a hoof yet?

That’s the news and I am outta here! Let the comments fall like raindrops on YPF’s window, and let your clicker do the walking and vote this blog #1 on the UPS-lookin’ button in the sidebar. That dipshit without an original thought in his head is #1 again. Ew.


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