We're skeptics. Always have been; always will be. We don't believe in UFOs manned by aliens bent on destroying the earth. We don't believe in Bigfoot. And we don't believe that turning our stereo up so loud it reaches the 145th decibel point can actually get us evicted, even though we did get that notice in the mail last week. It is our job to uphold our position in society as the sarcastic, untrusting cynics we are, so do not under any circumstance tell anyone that we have already reserved a day to attend this month's Dallas Psychic Fair. Really, don't tell anyone. They wouldn't understand us. Nay, they couldn't understand why we, the perpetual frown-meisters, would want to indulge in a tiny little guilty pleasure like having our palms read.
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But this curiosity has been in the back of our minds for ages. It's always been something we've wanted to do but would never admit. It's kind of like that insatiable desire to purchase the entire VHS collection of Mama's Family. Can you blame us for wanting to avoid such ridicule? But the time has come for us to stop suppressing the urge to shell out $10 for some woman to peer into our distant future and seize the day. What if we used to be Cleopatra? What if our dead puppy Babette is trying to reach us from the grave? We have to know. Astrology, palmistry, past-life readings, Tarot cards, playing cards, runes and healing crystals. Give it to us. Give us it all. And they will when the monthly fair takes place Sunday. But, really, mum's the word, OK?