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Fucking Day: Open House
Author: Dennard Dayle
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Upsetting Day: Our Children Forever
Now I know there’s an afterlife. The fundie afterlife, down to the moral dualism and brimstone. You can’t sockpuppet dead children without going to Baptist hell. It doesn’t add up. That evil goes somewhere, it’s simple thermodynamics. I was wrong, the pope is right, and George Anderson will burn.
Mostly for this book.
Among others. George churned out a lot of cold readings. To this day, which disturbs on another level. If demons can’t retire, what hope do the ensouled have? This round’s all dead kids, from back to front.
I’m getting ahead of myself: George Anderson was an also-ran medium during the ’90s fraud boom. While we prefer federal child exploitation today, Anderson stuck to private enterprise. George converted grief into TV appearances, books, and 1-on-1 “discernments.” A discernment’s when your dad dies, you send George a thousand dollars, and no third step.
Right, we.
For all the other lies, George cops to his ghostwriters. Co-defendants Joel Martin and Patricia Romanowski get full cover credit, and the book’s written in reverent third person, like a comeback by Christ. Pretty meta turn for a psychic, bordering on performance art. George is closer to a writer than anyone with Claude on their phone. Mediums supply both sides of a conversation, yet George freely shares credit with the stenographer. I think, perhaps, that he smelled sulfur, and hoped employing two hacks would save him from the fire below. Instead, he’ll have roommates.
At a shallow, contemptuous glance: Joel’s his multimedia cohost/stooge, and Patricia writes a mix of real books and trash. Here, based on all three resumes, I suspect Patricia did what insiders call “writing the entire book herself,” by adapting George’s crimes. But the truth is unknowable.
Why dedicate a book to tiny coffins? The iron was hot. With market conditions, it would’ve been wrong to let that money rot.
“And finish the job.” Sorry, had to. Back to the quote:
What a time to be insane. Not the lifetime peak, for many. But a season of plenty.
I’m fond of how unknowable the forces in this 317 page book are. George’s cold readings have clearer patterns than gravity, more witnesses than most convictions, and more proof than most wars. They’ve appeared on every medium without a controller. Some details should have trickled in by now.
As for the readings, George helped set the tone for decades of graft. With one quirk: he’s got a sprinkle of Jesus. Not enough to lose magick shop shelves, but enough to keep Lent ratings high. Whether you call that branding or self-preservation, you’re on point. George has “deep spiritual faith,” and that’s as specific as he gets.
Though not quite deep or spiritual enough to stop him.
Personally, I’d sell smack first.
While I’m as childless as anyone with a breakup text template, this still hurts. Our Children Forever demands a full shift of dead baby jokes. I’m pissed. George’s crime sticks me with 2000 words about dumb blondes on an airplane killing the president. I’m this close to waking up in Austin screaming about vaccines.
Most of Our Children Forever transcribes cold readings, which is both admirable and a mistake. On one hand, it’s the meat readers paid for. Yet all the third person interruptions have a jarringly different voice, negative insight, and read like Krillin expositing a child funeral. If that joke seems cavalier for the topic, your soul won’t survive George.
Take George’s interview with Ivan, a suicide survivor mourning his child. That’s only eighty percent of the tragedy. First, we get this exposition:
Because George is a lying fuck.
I had a choice this week. I could sample a dozen crimes, and skip saying “George is a lying fuck” each time. You know, for simplicity. The meaning (George being a lying fuck) would emerge in the greater pattern, like everyone wants in their Tuesday morning comedy.
Or I could sample one crime, and take the time to type “George is a lying fuck,” each round. I like the sound of that. Let’s try that pace out.
George is a lying fuck. One that enters these interviews hot: he skips the psychic warm-up and goes right to hucking free throws:
Guessing that an adult’s grandparents aren’t vampires doesn’t count, even by cold reading standards. I can say “George’s wife says his eyes are empty,” but that’s not a vision. It’s base reality.
In case you’re new to cold reading, we’re all surrounded by ghosts. While they’re generally needy, George innovates by saying everything’s irie. If a rival clan beheaded your father, he’d rather you focus on your career than get a rematch. That might not sound like him, but changing realms mellows you out. And George is a lying fuck.
Tap you piece of shit. Tap. You fucked it up in the first inning. Channel a samurai and find a pillow. Since we never die, you can restart your career in heaven.
I can’t imagine living on the surface after this exchange. But George is a lying fuck, and forges ahead.
But wait! George the lying fuck hasn’t developed a humiliation kink. He’s developed a retcon kink.
Ivan’s dissociated for some reason. Curious. Could it be that George is a lying fuck? Or just the bit about Ivan choosing death? I’m still working on my license, but I believe therapist’s call that a “mortal sin.”
At this point, George already knows Ivan’s an unwilling empty nester. “Not feeling work?” is even less of an observation than his great-granduncle being dead. But as a lying fuck, George aims to squeeze sadness out of Ivan like an old tube of tragedy.
George is a lying fuck, and lost. There’s a certain amount of “disabled child abandoned by mother at birth” that the human mind, lying fuck or otherwise, is ready to process. Now his lying fuck instincts say he has one minute to leave this conversation or learn how to box.
Thank you, half-abandoned ghost, for keeping your eye on the prize. We can’t have George crashing too early. He has other former parents to defraud. George is a lying fuck, but he’s also a productive one. Maybe if you’d hustled a bit harder, you’d still be with us.
I’ve soft-pedaled the extent of the despair George mines. I wanted laughter to be physically possible. Here’s more of the expository sprint preceding the reading.
Gah, fuck! Nevermind. Have an old Gasoline Alley strip:
Sorry, wrong file. My system’s a mess.
George adds an extra layer of ratfucking to cold reading. He targets people waiting to hear anything but “God is real and hates you, Ivan Whiting, specifically. Strap in, darkling, because Job’s a long book.”
After reading Anderson and reviewing some old John Edwards madness, I have a craft tip for aspiring grief parasites. Speed matters less than flow. Rush like George, and you’ll get stabbed before getting your own show.
The readings continue in this manner.
Abstract hallucinations, or at least decent ad-libs, are a big part of George’s grift. To that end, he’s included “A Glossary of Psychic Symbols” as a guide for readers and aspiring frauds.
It’s fucking magical.
But only figuratively, without the k.
Some might assume this fits into my training. That’s raw presidential ignorance. While wytchcraft is real, psychic powers are insipid. Dreams of the future make sense, but visions of the future are fraud. Channeling the dead works, and speaking to spirits wastes everyone’s time. Glad we could clear that up.
Our first item:
On the pulse! George seems ahead of his time in shamelessness. Or he’s a throwback to the eighties. Or profitable sociopathy is the consistent foundation of the US ethos. Whatever the case: if you see the word AIDS floating in midair, AIDS might be involved.
Fair. I think Slayer’s best track is “Disciple,” but everyone’s got favorites.
What a beautiful defense of a humanities education. The second this becomes trite to you, you’re immune to an entire genre of fraud.
As you can see, the spirits think we’re dumbshits. Odd for people that got themselves killed first.
I wish I laughed at this less loudly, for a shorter amount of time. But George has, if nothing else, helped me come to terms with myself.
“Why the fuck do I need George?” asks the aspiring psychic. “Clearly, a monkey could hoot at the spirits and get just as far.” A fool, taking their first step into psychic tutorials. And enriching the TarcherPerigee imprint of glurge. Leave psychic nonsense to George and his ilk, and learn the ways of The Moon.
George is more fun when his Jesus leaks. It’s that drop of profit-free, unrequested nuttery that makes lunatic-hunting fun.
Seems like a reach. I think we can all agree that following this clue in an investigation, let alone court, is a poor move.
Are these racist ghosts? Because my dad’s alive and well. Believe me, I’ve [redacted].
If we take George at face value (don’t), he has the wildest grocery runs on the planet. Imagine reaching for the tilapia and hearing Hitler screaming behind you. Suddenly, every day is the RNC.
Less hilarious: this hints at George running his schtick on Holocaust Survivors. Hilarious again: George might hear Hitler screaming at him the entire time. Guilt rarely gets faster or funnier.
Our Children Forever ends with a FAQ on chatting with dead kids. Joel Martin interviews George Anderson, while Patricia Anderson prays in a corner somewhere. The redemption she begs for never comes, but we answer some searing reader questions.
Intriguing. My nephew told me, and I quote, “I am the captain of farts.” Do we have asses in heaven? Digestion? Protein powder? Each answer unearths new questions.
Finally, a snapshot of our star’s thoughts. He’s a fucking idiot. I see why the spirits picked George: most people would rather talk to corpses. I didn’t think I needed a medium’s opinion on bodily autonomy, and I was fucking right.
Forget the sanity of the question itself—that ship’s sailed into the next world. What a perfectly empty profiteer’s answer. “It’s a complicated murder, but I know you should buy my next book.” George could have simply chosen backspace, and ties himself into a campaign trail knot instead. Here, George contacts the shades of a dozen New York Republicans, and tells us they have no comment for the hellbound.
That last line does elevate the title. It goes from meaning nothing, to the creepiest shit I’ve heard in decades.
I dig the honesty. Kindergarten ghosts say you need more George Anderson products. Or a direct donation, if your bookshelf’s looking a bit crowded. Just don’t dawdle, you never know when a tyke might mess with a wall socket or exist near an oil well.
That’s time. George and Joel have room for one more question, before facing the jury. What’s on deck?
Odd exchange. Martin asks for thoughts, and Anderson vomits grey matter. Does that happen often? George should see a doctor, before he leads Our Scumbags Forever.
I’ve gained a new respect for psychics. Before it was none, and now it’s negative. But at least if the worst happens to a friend, I’ll be ready to give my credit score a nudge.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Dan B. Dan, there is an energy around you. Does the letter D mean anything to you? The name Dee? Deez nuts? OH SHIT, GOTTEM! Also I’m sorry for the loss of your Aunt Dee.
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Upsetting Day: Abba Alabanza
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Upsetting Day: Zen as F*ck
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Nerding Day: Angel Therapy
I need backup to make it to 2027. But my powers are too strong for flatscans, and other mages keep trying to sell me rocks. So I’m calling a lifeline: God.
Or rather, his secretaries.
Doreen Virtue helps you to talk to angels. Not pray, which every Christian does for free, intuitively, without middlemen. Doreen starts conversations, and they only cost $16.99.
That might not sound like my jam, given past oaths to give God the Job treatment. Forget that. Someone else said it. God’s always been my homeboy, from the plagues to the endless warfare. Angel Therapy can only make us closer.
Check out Doreen’s team:
Only archangels get name checks? If I was the fifth strongest angel, I’d be…oh. That’s how that went down, got it. See how much Doreen has to teach?
Anyway, even if you insist on untwisting my words, God and I are still buds. I said I want to talk. Like Kratos, I treasure dialogue. This isn’t a trap. The black Suburban down the street is full of masked pilgrims.
Besides, we go way back.
My photos look worse.
As for profits, Doreen’s saving you money. An hour of her time costs more than the couch you complain on. The therapy in the title isn’t abstract: Doreen has a normal master’s and unaccredited PhD in psychology, and purportedly practiced. She just prefers Jesus now.
But don’t take my word for it, or Doreen’s. Listen to the angels:
Stay calm. Alien forces drawn to fear can be nice. And grabbing weapons mid-introduction is always rude.
That’s inspired jacket copy. I’ll admit: this terrified me the first ten times I read it. After changing my locks and renting a Roman spear, I’m willing to give it a shot. Therapy demands trust. I’d die before trusting Biblically accurate angels, but the cover’s all Baroque cherubs.
I know it’s odd that we’re still on the cover, given my love of brevity. But Doreen’s power is even less bound by sanity than unsaved wizards. Note her co-author:
Inspiring. I didn’t have questions, but Doreen explains trading useless therapy for helping patients hear angels. As a child, she embraced healthy speculative friendships with the Seraphim. Then she grew into an empty, angel-less doctor and mother:
Tragic, really. Until she almost died. A long-jilted angel sends Doreen a warning, despite decades on read:
Sadly, therapy makes Doreen ignore the voice. Only a near-miss with a carjacker unlocks Doreen’s halo chakra:
The point: Doreen started hearing voices after trauma. Now those symptoms can be ours. Instead of hoarding God’s voice notes like a Pope, Doreen brought them directly to the people. Whether they thought they were in for angels or not.
I’ve tried therapy, for reasons that escape me, and beat it pretty quickly. If my counselor had started rambling about angels, I’d never have left. I’d be ten years into My Therapist’s Angels, every loud apostate’s favorite podcast. Material that pure transcends simple luck. It’s a gift from The Lord.
While Doreen’s angels returned around the age mental illness starts working overtime, I’m closer to an angel-whisperer than a therapist. I will note that “Doreen Virtue” makes “Silver Ravenwood” sound subtle. “Mary Heavengoer” must be in the House somewhere.
Channeling returns! With a new flavor: whereas Fox Taylor defined it as making shit up, Doreen means an angel told her. And while Fox was a delusional apostate, Doreen has 366k followers. Hopefully that clears everything up.
Though I prefer miracles that I don’t have to outline, draft, edit, submit, revise, and promote myself. Perhaps that’s why the angels haven’t chosen me. Yet.
Touche, Gabriel. Forget everything after “draft.”
How’s Doreen know these weren’t demons? If I were a demon (I’m not, I tried), Plans A through Y would be “imitate angel.” And you can’t always trust your human senses. Despite Doreen’s holy knowledge, my mortal body won’t stop laughing. It thinks Doreen sounds bugshit. Nuttier than a therapist telling patients first draft poems by Michael. No, wait: nuttier than the author of an unedited Christian spellbook. No, wait: nuttier than the co-author to over seven books with “The Angelic Realm.”
Then again, Demons would try to distract us with sexual tension.
Hmm. One second.
While I suspect Doreen prays with multiple windows playing, there’s potential here. For one, “Want to channel Abdiel, Defier of The Deceiver?” is already my new opening line. I’m a half-employed non-nazi, so it should land.
We’ll exploit Doreen’s untreated prophecies. Anything less would be malpractice. God might have trouble with his own children and career, but I’m sure he’s qualified to advise. Or even try helping.
Ready for cosmic behavioral therapy? Unlike heathen spells, angel therapy gets dictated to clerics. The Angelic Realm’s a bit more controlling than Hecate, and could give two shits about your candle collection. You can take their advice, or fuck off.
Still, what the Healing Messages lack in flexibility, they make up for in variety. Sessions start small, with fixing addiction.
Angels write like my students on the football team. While the Lions bring fewer wins home, they take D1 blows to the head. Mostly from the NYPD.
“Your God-substitute of addiction” is my favorite new phrase. The host skips stock lines about bootstraps: they get in the way of gentle shame.
Strong start. If this takes, the average fentanyl addict is two Hail Marys away from walking it off. More of them should get on that. Angelmancy might rule: it replaces all that hippie hand-wringing with insults.
Quite near.
The collective “we” stands out. It inspires raw terror rich in biblical authenticity. Opening night jitters are the last thing on my mind. The angels in my walls/windows/wallpaper/blood demand attention. We’ll need therapy for this therapy.
Forgiving readers might see a call for general confidence, or a broad sense that God is with you. No. Literal angels are on your shoulder at call time, and they’re ready to feed you lines. By mortal therapy standards, Doreen is out to Lent. Cuckoo for Creation Puffs. Insane in the refrain.
I’d pay extra for it.
Again, wonderful word choice. If any human said this, I’d never leave home again. Maybe Doreen’s really tapped a swarm intelligence with demands for lesser life. Yudowsky can finally, happily, shut the fuck up.
You heard heaven, sadsacks. Turn those dopamine receptors upside-down.
Are you cured yet? I’m new to light magick, so it may take time to kick in. I’ll try again tomorrow, in case fixing you needs a little extra chanting. Don’t worry, it’s on the house.
Now that’s dedication! I didn’t ask for it, and I truly don’t want it. But The Angelic Realm really puts in impressive hours.
Does Uriel watch?
Yeah, Uriel watches. His spirit’s rigid. Maybe we’re losing track of therapy here.
No help, got it. Spend our empty afternoons in the pews. The Angelic Realm saves job leads for friends and relatives. Instead of wailing about it, we should try grace.
I was wrong, that’s an immense overpromise. Is God love bombing us? Waiting for angels to sort out your next job is like waiting for angels to sort out your next insulin shot.
Handy, I’ll need some cantrips to defend my fort when the economy turns.
“The riot’s fine. Go away, Uncle Michael’s sneaking in a nap before the rapture.”
The angels botched this one. Half the clerics casting Crime want relief for a stabbing that’s unfolding or finished. The mugging is fait accompli, and Dor—The Angelic Host says the situation’s in hand. I’m glad Gabriel reached Doreen in time to say “lock your fucking doors,” but the news ticker crawls on.
Ah, so it’s mortals’ fault for thinking about stabbing. Heard. Nice of the angelic host to admit it, instead of oscillating between God’s unnamed plan and the price of free will. The law of attraction simply applies to bullets, like Magneto in reverse.
What kind of therapy is this? The Borg prose is one thing, but the base advice sucks. Does the angelic host have a certificate? Internship experience? Have they watched a therapist on mortal tv? “Stop thinking about that” is somewhere between leeches and a cheese-based food pyramid.
The heavenly host sounds like Delta. I’m writing from a city I don’t live, work, or play in, waiting for a new transfer and/or death. The angels’ position seems to unify people that have, in fact, wasted vast amounts of your time.
Fucking what? How can cosmic beings contain so much earthly nothing? How can mortal eyes read divine sloth? If angels can glass cities for kicks, they can get my train moving faster than tectonic drift. My job interview is real, while heaven remains an unconfirmed rumor from a known layabout.
At least Delta gave me a coupon when they dumped me in Alabama. For another Delta flight, to Doreen-knows-where. I think I like God better than Delta.
Never alone.
Jesus fucking Christ, Doreen. Wait, sorry. Upper fucking management, Angelic Realm. Do you want me to have two heart attacks? Or just spend my whole life in constant fear of MOTHERFUCKER. I should have known. The church loves sprinkling shame on fun derangements. Why would wytchcraft be different?
Time to snitch: the preface isn’t Doreen’s whole backstory. Instead of print Doreen’s half-truths, have web Doreen’s compulsive truths:
Doreen’s a reformed wytch, aside from all the magick. After years as a fun New Age hack, she graduated to born-again influencer in 2017. Unlocking new, tax-exempt income streams. Before studying The Craft, I’d compare some tendencies of congregations and circles here. Now, I know that my inbox attracts the energy I put out. Whether or not piss-jar curses work, the pictures ruin your day. And Christians shoot you.
I’m less interested in Doreen finding Jesus, and more transfixed by Doreen sprinting away from manifesting. She fled the coven like it was on fire. Likely one she set.
Like many late converts, Doreen has admirable zeal for purging herself. Becoming a daycaster. An Ur-wytch. A Log Tower Archmage. The greatest conversion oracle alive.
And she’s still doing the same shit. Take her advice on cranking up the voices in your head:
I could hear Doreen from space.
This means everything to me. I’ve written a bit about self-help, glanced at magick, and considered writing about Christians. Doreen Virtue’s a Jesus Wytch that disavows the word wytch. No one’s hated the word more without taking up bonfires.
I’ve found The One. My true mentor. The UnWytch.
Doreen would, of course, disagree. Instead of arguing in good faith, I’ll skim her crash-course on summoning angels yourself. E.g., melting votive candles and incense together.
We’re back to Doreen writing as Doreen, by the way. While Doreen’s a fundamentalist of The Angelic Realm, The Angelic Realm are fundamentalists of the empty inbox. We play around with art school games, and they show up if they feel like it.
Here’s Doreen’s first, non-magickal technique:
Familiar. Though wytches didn’t invent stenography or bullshitting, so we’ll give this a pass.
Two thousand percent wytch. Doreen couldn’t cast harder beneath a boulder.
And I appreciate the warning to never sleep unarmed again. I’m napping with all of Bayonetta’s guns from now on, including the heels.
My worst fucking subject. And thus, the heart of the enterprise. Doreen’s preaching from a floating broomstick, asking why the pews smell like sage. I hope she never learns.
Continuing is bullying. Good, since I dig bullying.
Beyond wytches in denial, oracle cards are great for keeping publishers alive after the board game boom. Every noun is a prompt for 70 cards that mean nothing and cost more than Doreen’s old medication.
Hmm. I seem to live in Ohio.
Doreen’s overlap with Fox Taylor could fill a book. And earn me a cherub-shaped nail bomb. My pendulum says to go for it anyway, but my hands drift towards comic self-harm.
One point Doreen—this one’s just prayer. Only worse, since the suggestion box is rigidly, firmly closed. You’ll take whatever Gabriel has in clearance, and thank him for it.
Wytches do this one a little less. Obvious, violent, public insanity can treat them poorly. “More weight” may be out of fashion, but the American Psychological Association will shred your certification in front of you.
Still, a medium will do this for three bucks in most public parks. If you’re as worried about angelic stalkers as I am, I’d delegate. I don’t want anyone stalking me but every company and government on Earth.
My powers have leaped forward, along with my mental health. All they needed to grow was a violently self-hating tutor. In time, the gospel paparazzi will catch Doreen at a Vegas tarot party, making the star charts and piss bombs of her people. Until then, we study at her feet.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Good Satan and His Hot Witches, who you can totally trust as they whisper affirmations and commands into your ears. Burning this Burger King down really would help you get a job! It’s called being proactive.