I wanted to know what the future holds for me. I made the mistake of asking Miss Cleo.
I didn't care if my woman be cheatin', or if there's a mysterious stranger in my life. I just wanted to know what's in store, and where Cleo gets her Tarot cards, accent and clothing--does gypsy garb come with the contract? Thirty dollars for 30 minutes--how could I go wrong?
But when I called, instead of Miss Cleo, Todd, an aspiring Californian clairvoyant, took my call and dealt the deck. Todd's psychic credentials need some checking. He told me I have trouble expressing anger, smoke cigarettes and that my current girlfriend had a lump in her breast. Zero for three.
I told Todd he was mistaken. He seemed perplexed, and then told me that I might be able to express anger, but I can't express sadness, am trying to quit smoking and that my first born son is going to have a myolin deficiency problem. I hung up. Todd wasn't doing it for me, and frankly his fixation on cancer and disease had me a bit spooked. Cleo gives relationship advice and musters an ounce of compassion for her TV audiences; Todd was speaking with all the warmth of a mortician who'd seen Silence of the Lambs one time too many.
So I called back, in hope of reaching the elusive Miss Cleo. But instead of being prompted to log in to the service, I was met by a cheery, five-minute advertisement. Couldn't they tell I was already a subscriber? I tried customer service to no avail. Rerouted again and again, I lost interest and patience. Perhaps Miss Cleo was fixing her turban. When I do finally get ahold of her, I don't think I'll have any trouble expressing my anger.
--By Martin Barna