I want to make you cry. I’m not gonna pull your tail, call your momma the whore she is, or beat you mercilessly. I’m gonna bitch slap you in the brain with the elemental truths you’ve been ignoring for all this time, and do my very best to frighten you with your own stripped down ugliness. You’re gonna thank me for this, through those tears, for this close look up onto that messed up psychic plane of yours.

    By the way, this session will cost you a hundred bucks, OK? Good.

     For starters, suppose I told you I and about a hundred other people know all about that little fantasy you’ve been having and writing about on your supposedly locked work computer. Yeah, that one about your best friend’s wife. How you’ve pictured over and over in your dark little imagination your ultimate ecstacy when she crawls, all slinky and catlike up onto your reclining nakedness and hangs over your face, teasing you until you are ready to explode.

     Well, guess what, asshole. She hates your guts more than any other of your worthless buddy’s friends. Oh, and another thing. Those delectable globes hanging in your creepy face have enough silicone in them to start an industrial giant bigger than Intel.

     But you don’t see it, do you? You self-absorbed pig. I think that of all the people who know about this sick obsession of yours, the one who really matters most to you is your estranged daughter. Remember when she caught you calling that hooker when your wife and her mother was out of town? You had to stumble all over the place trying to explain to a teenager that you were talking for five minutes to someone who had dialed a wrong number. You idiot. She wasn’t fooled a bit. Why else do you think, in that feeble mind of yours, she ran off with that drummer with the tattooed testicles that he proudly displayed in public every chance he got? Here, look at this. I found this picture on the net. Here’s the happy couple, big shit-eating grins, arms around each other, his black and blue balls hanging right out there.

     It’s all your fault, dammit!

     When you finally, hopefully, pass on, she’ll most likely not bother to show up at your funeral. If, by some remote chance, she does, it will probably happen because her boyfriend and his decorated testicles drugged her and forced her to drag her emaciated, starving, hollow-eyed self to view you for the first and last time in ten years. There will be, I predict, intense competition among the celebrants, that’s right, celebrants, at your funeral to be the person who slams the coffin lid shut on your twisted ugly face and throw in the first shovelful of dirt.

     Still not crying? Not even a twinge? You hopeless bastard.

     Well, let me tell you about your stupid business.

     You preyed on people’s insecurities for years, offered them false hopes and salvation. You told them you could see their otherworldly auras, even convinced those suckers that, for a fee, they could see them, too. Somehow, this centered them and improved their soulless and pitiful lives? Made existence meaningful?

     You charlatan. If I had an assault rifle trained on your pock-ridden face right now, I’d have not one scintilla of guilt about pulling the trigger. Oh, and your wife wouldn’t either, just to let you know.

     But back to your business. Claiming to be able to move chi from place to place? Person to person, like a transcendental phone call? Yeah, sure. I suggested that you call your little enterprise Chucky’s Chi but you didn’t care for that, did you? No, you decided to go with Harmony ‘N Bliss.

     Sad.

     What a crock. Tell you what, Chucky, I’ll trade you five universal energy chis for an earth, wind and fire chi. Or maybe a Chi Chi Rodriguez. How about a chia pet?

     Those deluded victims put thousands of dollars in your bank accounts and apparently all you had to do was rent a hole in the wall for $500 a month, play some waterfall sounds, stick a few papier mache Buddhas in strategic places, and lay some foul-smelling grass mats on the floor so your "clients" could lie peacefully supine as you raped their wallets and filled their tiny brains with nonsense.

     Still no tears? Suppose I told you that your beloved pet pooch was run over last night. That’s right. Wonder why he was missing this morning? I saw the truck that hit him. Big sucker. Didn’t even stop or slow down. Flattened him good. He twitched for a good five minutes.

     Oh, what’s this? Hey, there, there. I’ve got a handkerchief for you. Wait, no I don’t!

     Why don’t you just sit there and blubber, you overgrown sack of crap, until I leave the office. Oh, next session I’d like to talk about that melanoma on the back of your neck, right at the base of the skull. That’s right, those headaches didn’t come from nowhere.

     Have a nice day. Bastard. I’ll see you next week.