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Charlie Hatton
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Howdy, friendly reading person!
I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
If you're a science and/or silliness fan, give it a gander! See you soon!

A Future of Pants-Pooping Poverty

So, as I threatened, I called one of those psychic hotlines yesterday.

To be honest, it was completely accidental; I was really looking for, um, something else. But, since I had her on the line, I let her give me a ‘reading’. And the results were rather shocking, frankly. But don’t take my word for it — read the transcript for yourself.

Her: Hello! Thank you for calling the hotline! How may I help you today?

Me: Um… hi. Is this the phone number for ‘Mistress Exotica’?

Her: Yes, that’s right. I’m Mistress Exotica. What can I do for you?

Me: Well… uh, I don’t normally call this sort of number.

Her: Don’t be frightened, child. Ask your questions, and I will answer —

Me: Are you naked?

Her: What?

Me: Um, I mean… what are you wearing, oh Mistress Exotica?

Her: Oh. Well, I have on, um… I don’t know — let’s say a magestic, flowing robe, and a jeweled gypsy turban. But I don’t see what —

Me: How about your nipples? Tell me about your nipples!

Her: Bu — what?! What the hell does that have to do with anything? I’m here to tell your fortune, dammit!

Me: Fortune? Wait a minute… I thought you said this was ‘Mistress Exotica’?

Her: Right. Mistress Exotica, fortune teller and psychic, blessed with divine insight into the mysteries of —

Me Wait, hold on. You’re a psychic?

Her: Yes.

Me: Not a… erm, a… booby-talker?

Her: No. Decidedly not.

Me: But… your phone number. I dialed 1-900-COOTERS to get to you.

Her: Sorry, dear, but on my ads, it’s listed as 1-900-CONVERSE. As in ‘talk’. Same numbers on the keypad. That’s what you get for randomly dialing dirty words, you know.

Me: Nice. Your psychic powers tell you that?

Her: No. You’re just a boob. Now, do you want your fortune told, or not?

Me: Well, shit, I dunno. What are your rates, anyway?

Her: Ninety-nine cents for the first minute, and four dollars a minute after that.

Me: I see. And how long have we been talking so far?

Her: Oh, well, gee… it can’t have been more than three or four seconds. You’ve got plenty of time.

Me: Well… okay, I’ll give it a shot. But could you take off your robe while you tell me? You know, slowly?

Her: Sure, hon. I’ll take it off, if you don’t mind the varicose veins and liposuction scars.

Me: Oh, nice. I just finished a sandwich, you know. There’s no need to get graphic on me. Just… just unwrap your turban or something as you go.

Her: Sure thing, hon. Now, what do you want to know?

Me: Hmmm. Well, I don’t know. I really don’t call this kind of number. Why don’t you tell me a little about myself?

Her: All right. Mistress Exotica will now gaze into her crystal ball, to find out what sort of man you are…

Me: Hey, wait a minute. How do you even know I’m a man? I could just be a woman with a really deep voice.

Her: I’m psychic, okay? I know.

Me: No, really.

Her: Look, it’s pretty freakin’ simple. You called 1-900-COOTERS. You’re a dude. Now let me do my damned job.

Me: Fine. Meanie.

Her: Okay, I’m looking into the crystal ball… I see that you’re a sick, twisted man. Nobody likes you much, and you have no sense of fashion. I see you being dropped on your head as a young child. Repeatedly.

Me: That’s it? That’s what you see about me?

Her: Yep, that’s what the old ball tells me.

Me: Fine. Lucky guesses. I’m still not convinced you’re psychic, though. Hell, complete strangers tell me that stuff all the time.

Her: All right, hot shot — how about a Tarot reading, then?

Me: Sure, why the hell not? How’s that turban coming along, by the way.

Her: What? Oh… it’s, um, it’s halfway unwrapped. Very sexy, lemme tell you.

Me: Right. Hit me with the cards, then.

Her: Okay. For an accurate reading, I’m going to need some information from you.

Me: Wait, I thought you were psychic. Just pull it outta my brain, for chrissakes.

Her: Well, I would, but a lot of it gets lost over the phone lines. Just play along here, would you?

Me: Fine.

Her: All right. First, I’ll need your name.

Me: Charlie.

Her: Ooh, Charlie. That’s an ancient Anglo name meaning ‘He of the Tiny Weenie’.

Me: No the hell it isn’t!

Her: Hey, don’t worry about it, kid. It’s not size that matters, anyway.

Me: Really?

Her: Hey, I’m a phone psychic. Would I lie to you?

Me: Touche. What else you wanna know?

Her: On what day were you born?

Me: July twenty-seventh.

Her: Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Now I’ll just need your credit card number, and the answer to the ‘security question’ for when you lose your password.

Me: Um… okay. Well, the answer is ‘Hootertown’, and number is five six two three — hey, wait a minute!

Her: Sorry. Gullibility check. Standard procedure for psychics — you’d be surprised how many Visa cards we get that way.

Me: Yeah, I’m sure. Now get on with this train wreck, would you?

Her: Okay. Here we go — I’m dealing out the cards… dealing… dealing… dealing…

Me: How much is this costing me again?

Her: About a buck twenty per card. And now you’ve broken my concentration. I’ve got to start over. I’m dealing… dealing… dealing… and… done.

Me: Sheesh. Finally. There goes that Valentine’s Day gift I was gonna buy for my wife.

Her: You’re married?

Me: Well, yeah.

Her: Really? This isn’t some kind of gullibility test of your own?

Me: No! I’ve been married for years.

Her: Years? To a woman?

Me: Of course to a woman!

Her: A live woman?

Me: Well, duh. A corpse in the closet wouldn’t do me much good, now, would it?

Her: According to these cards… that’s debatable. I didn’t even know there was a Necrophiliac card in the deck. Weird. But let’s move on.

Me: I think that would be best.

Her: So, let’s look at your financial future. The cards show that you’re involved in some sort of new venture.

Me: Okay… go on…

Her: It seems to be laughably unlucrative, leading you towards a life of miserable poverty… an undertaking that gets you little respect, no money, and yet takes up enormous amounts of time…

Me: Oh, for the love of —

Her: Wait! I can almost see it… it’s… museum curator? No, too respectable. Struggling cartoonist? Nope, you might actually get paid for that one day… it’s…

Me: Freelance humor writer and standup comedian?

Her: Bingo! Wow. You are a tool, aren’t you, dear? Anyway, let’s move on to your love life.

Me: That’s better.

Her: And you say you’re really married?

Me: Yes, dammit! What do the cards say?

Her: Well… according to this reading, you should be living alone and bitter in some sort of dilapidated crapshack right now. And, well, forever, actually. The cards are really quite clear on that point. Crapshack city, no question.

Me: I see. And these cards are usually right, then, are they?

Her: Yes, almost always. Of course, they tell me about your destiny; a person’s actual situation can be altered by unforseeable events… a horrible trauma, or tragic accident, or —

Me: Scandalously incriminating photographs of the woman I got to marry me?

Her: Or… yes, that. Yeah, that’d do it. Man, did you pull off a coup.

Me: Yeah, I always knew that camera would come in handy. Thank you, Nikon!

Her: Right… okay, well, the only thing left is to look at your faraway future. Let’s see… it says here you’ll live a long, long life…

Me: That sounds good.

Her: …most of it as a chin-drooling, pants-pooping Alzheimers patient. Looks like you’re due to lose your mind around… wait, how old are you?

Me: I’m thirty-three.

Her: Oh. Ouch. Written that will yet?

Me: No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t.

Her: I’d, um… I’d get on that, if I were you. There’s not a lot of ‘quality time’ left, I’m afraid.

Me: Check. Soon to be drooling. Okay, what else?

Her: Well, it looks like your wife’s going to win the lottery.

Me: Hey, that’s fantastic!

Her: Or… dump your addled ass and marry a movie star. The details are fuzzy… but something good is gonna happen for her.

Me: Oh. I see. Well, that’s… something, I suppose.

Her: And another thing — you know how you’ve been peeing on the carpet and blaming the dog?

Me: What?! I don’t… I wouldn’t… um, yeah, okay. What about it?

Her: When you lose it completely, the dog’s gonna do the same to you. Get ready to have your nose rubbed in some really unpleasant places.

Me: That little bitch. Well, that’s it — I’m glad I had her spayed. Ungrateful mutt.

Her: Oh, and you’re going to develop unhealthy addictions to… lessee, panty snorting, sandwich spreads as sexual stimulants, and extra-hoppy beer. Looks like it’ll happen around age… nineteen or so. How old did you say you were again?

Me: Uh, thirty-three. Ahem.

Her: Oh. Right. Sicko.

Me: Hey, I dig pale ales and nice, sexy brown mustards, all right? Cut me some slack.

Her: Okay, well. That’s about all I can tell you, I’m afraid. I hope you’ve learned something from your time with Miss Exotica.

Me: Well, yeah. I’ve learned that I’m apparently willing to pay thirty-eight fifty to have some old turbaned bitch ridicule me over the phone. I’m really not sure that’s a lesson I needed to learn, frankly.

Her: Yes, fate works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it? Well, it looks like your credit card has maxed out, and my turban is off — and hey, my wig along with it, dammit — so Mistress Exotica is off to help someone else. Call back soon, and I’ll tell you how you really got that rash you’ve been wondering about.

*click*

Spooky, eh, folks? It’s like she really knows me or something. I mean, I didn’t believe in that crap before I called, but that was amazing. I’m simply gonna have to call back, to find out more about my future, and that backstabbing dog of mine, and… well, you know, that rash. I’m sure it’s poison ivy… I just can’t for the life of me figure out how poison ivy got all the way down there. And in that. And all up in my other thing. Weird.

Anyway, that was my experience with Mistress Exotica, and I hope you enjoyed it. I guess now I’d better go make out that will, before it’s too late. My wife’s gonna be awfully miffed when she sees that she’s not in it, but once I explain it to her — she’s either gonna win the PowerBall or marry some bigshot Hollywood bastard — I’m sure she’ll understand.

And if not, I’ll have her call Mistress Exotica herself, and she can hear all about the pictures I’ve got of her, and how she’ll been cleaning up after me, and who’s really been piddling on the carpet. Yeah, on second thought, I think I’ll just put her in the will. I’ve only got a little bit of lucid time left; no need to have her pissed at me during the twilight of my sanity. According to my new psychic friend, I’ve apparently got enough problems as it is.

Permalink  |  7 Comments



7 Responses to “A Future of Pants-Pooping Poverty”

  1. tj says:

    so that’s 1-800-COOTERS you say? got it.

  2. Natalie says:

    Holy shit, Batman err Charlie. I learned SO much about you with that post.

    Verrrrry interesting.

  3. Charlie says:

    Actually, TJ, it’s 1-900-COOTERS.

    1-800-COOTERS will probably get you a shoe company, if ‘Miz E’ is right about her CONVERSE thing. But there’s only one way to find out…

  4. Jon says:

    Is Ms. E trying to say there’s such a thing as a healthy addiction to panty snorting?

    So how many pieces of furniture will you be selling to pay for that call?

    Brilliant.

  5. nefarious says:

    I think I’ll have to change the description of your site on my blogroll to ‘Ol Pants Pooper’.

  6. Jenn says:

    Charlie…there are no words, my friend.

  7. Charlie says:

    Hey, Jenn, just what are you trying to say?

    No, really… I don’t understand. Good, bad, frightening? Just what the hell do you mean, Jenn?

    I’m so confused. Embarrassed, and drooly, and oh so confused.

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