I was in New Orleans this weekend, and wandered into some park in the French Quarter where there's a whole passel of tarot and palm readers.
So I walk around and check them out and I'm wanting to have my palm read because, hey, I'm into self-awareness and I want to learn, right? But this is the skankiest looking bunch of people you'll ever run into at a psychic gathering, and I wasn't sure I wanted any of them touching my palm.
But I get to the end and there's some semi-attractive gypsy woman in a relatively low-cut top, and I think, "Yeah, I can let her touch me." So I go over there and cut a deal to have her read my palm.
I've got to say, it was disappointing. This woman didn't even try. She just mailed it in. I'm there in good faith wanting to know my future, and she was just lazy.
As background, I'm a 49 year-old guy. I'm wearing a wedding ring, and she's looking right at my hands. They're what she's studying to read my palm. My ring finger is right there.
So she tells me the following:
I'm going to meet the love of my life, and she's a woman who wronged me before. (Way to narrow that one down, Esmerelda.)
We're going to get married and have three children.
I'm going to live a long time, long enough to see my great-grandkids get married.
So let me get this straight. I'm 49, and I'm apparently going to re-meet some past woman, divorce my wife, marry this woman, have three kids, and they're going to grow up and marry and have kids, and they're going to grow up and marry and have kids, and then they're going to grow up and get married? How old am I going to be? Even if my progeny are total sluts without birth control like that Georgetown law student and get knocked up at 15, that puts me at least at 95. And that's if I start the divorce tomorrow and instill no morals at all into any of my descendants.
Come on! I'm wearing a wedding ring! Give me the fortune that you recite for married people! Do your job!
She said a bunch more stuff too, but it was really bad. I'm apparently very outgoing despite the fact that I hide under the table at parties, and I'm going to have a business decision to make soon, with two options, but I'll be happy with the option that I pick. And some other stuff.
This gypsy woman had nice cleavage. I'll give her that. But she was a terrible palm reader.
Eliminate the racist "Chiefs" nickname and become the Kansas City Ermines. It's time, people.