I like going to psychic and metaphysical stores on occasion. When my daughter and I had some time to kill we stopped by one of the local popular chain shops.

I hadn’t been there in a long while; not much had changed. I gave a cursory glance to most of the items until a section to the side of the register caught my eye.

They had added metal lunch boxes. Lunch boxes? You can get those in candy stores! I expect more from my local psychic dealer. Acceptable boxes are weirdly carved wooden ones with incense slots or cardboard boxes that sport shadowy pentagrams for keeping tarot cards scuff free. Lunch boxes. Pffft.

Granted, these boxes were mostly black with bats or skulls. They also had a pretty snazzy Edgar Allan Poe, which tilted the scales a bit. I finally relented and welcomed the shiny, happy-ish metal into the metaphysical fold. Then I turned the corner and ran smack into Jesus.


Jesus and the Psychic Hotlines, coming to a concert hall near you.

Who are the other fellas? Disciples? Mr. Magoo and Shia Labeouf? Notice the mini-me version at the bottom of the screen. “Pocket Jesus” for when you’re on the go and the stuffed version is too big to cram into your new House of Usher lunch box.

My opinion of psychic shops has deteriorated. Or maybe it’s been enhanced. I’m conflicted.