Letters: Day Twenty Eight


Dear Psychic Dude,

If you're so psychic, I wonder if you could tell what I was thinking. Did you read my mind and did the letters spell "This dude is bat-shit crazy?"

And if you're so psychic, I wonder why you think people don't like you just because you have money. Because you don't have money.

Does it make me psychic that I know people don't like you because you are a rude little jackass who talks for twenty minutes to strangers about how psychic you are and that you're so smart you're like an alien?

No. I don't think I'm psychic. It would be obvious to an immigrant squirrel that you lack people skills. I'm not sure what gave me the biggest clue. Was it the sound of your spittle as you threatened the bank? Or the way you so eloquently bid me goodbye:

"Go f*@# yourself! F*@# you, you f*@#in' c*$%!"

Oh! I just had a vision! I see a straightjacket in your future!

Aunt Bee

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