T GAMBLE: I want to look my home-grown psychic in the eye

I am really intrigued by the resurrection of psychic commercials on television recently. Specifically, I am mesmerized by the new California psychic commercials.

Years ago, calling a psychic was a big moneymaker, I guess, because I saw ads everywhere. Most psychics I have observed are women. You know, call Sister Sara today. I rarely ever saw a man being advertised. Who wants to call Brother John for a reading? All the folks on the commercial are real excited because they had their best psychic reading ever. Note to self: Stay away from people who can compare and rate their psychic readings.

It makes sense most psychics would be women. Women already know what you are going to do before you do it, so why not? But why are they all in California? Have we not a single talented female in all of Georgia that can predict the future and tell me whether or not I’m going to be the next James Dean movie star? Surely, somewhere in or around Mobile, Ala., is a female that can tell you how many children you will have and whether or not you’ll open your own Yoga shop.

I can tell you right now, telephone psychics are not for me. Oh, no. If I’m going to be psychic read, I want it to be by Sister Maria on the side of a poorly maintained paved road in a county with less than 10,000 people. There better be a sign out front with a crystal ball on it, with all letters written in red. No self-respecting psychic would have any other color. The house where it is located better look like it is 30 days away from foreclosure.

When entering the home for the reading, one must have at least a passing inkling that they may be murdered, butchered and buried in the back yard before it is even worth sitting down for the main event. Sister Maria must look like she escaped from the traveling fair that came through town a few months ago. These are all just basic qualifications for any reasonable psychic reading.

I doubt very seriously there has ever been a California psychic practicing out of a small white house with a ‘67 Nova on blocks in the front yard. What are the odds a California psychic will have a solid burnt-orange dog on the porch scratching fleas when you enter for a reading? I doubt they even have burnt-orange dogs in California, and that is one of the problems with California right there. You know you are back in God-fearing country when you see a burnt-orange dog on the porch scratching for fleas. If I see a burnt-orange dog in a man’s yard, I may not know much about him, but I can guarantee he’ll give you a ride to town if your car broke down. That’s just a fact.

I believe to size a fellow up, you have to look them in the eye. Sister Maria cannot size you up on the phone all the way from California. I doubt she can even understand a Southern accent. If you tell her you are fixing to get married, she might ask, “Why is there something wrong with your marriage?”

Nope, keep your hard-earned money at home. Support your local psychic. She will tell you that you are going to be rich and famous and that you are good-looking. She told your Aunt Sue she was good-looking, too. You know, “One-Tooth” Sue? She may miss a few things, but you’ll leave there feeling good about yourself, and the county will appreciate you keeping your tax dollars at home. Who told me that? Why Sister Maria, who else?