Here we are, sitting in the Fortune Teller’s booth, and she draws a card for me which signifies extreme badness: “Uh oh, it’s the Death Card,” she explains.
“OIMOI TALAINA,” I cry: “does that mean that I’m guaranteed to die in a car accident? PHEU! this is awful — all I ever wanted was to be a master thespian, but now I’m doomed to spend the majority of my study-time dreaming about saboteurs filling fire-extinguishers with gasoline.”
Now the Fortune Teller stands and replies: “It’s only the Death Card, as seen on MTV (Music Television). Straight up and down, everyone must leave existence sometime: better now than never.” Then she aims the silencer of her gun at my back and inspires me to explode in a firework of flannel.
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