Metaphysical Bosh
The news reported the other day that criminal dwarf who claimed to be psychic escaped from prison recently. The headlines? "Small medium at large." (cue applause, cue laughter)
I will say right out that I do not believe in the paranormal. Ghosts do not exist. They have not existed, they do not exist now, nor will they ever exist. Spirits do not wander the earth in torment after their physical host's passing. You are free to show me all your anecdotal evidence and I assure you, without legitimate evidence of spiritual manifestations from the scientific community, you will not sway me. Please send me grainy pictures of supposed apparitions, neon green night-vision videos of college dropouts ruining their underwear over imagined noises on SyFy, stories of how you totally saw a candle floating by in the window of your deceased grandmother's cottage on a cold dreary midnight in the fall. It's BS, poppycock, baloney (I'm struggling not to utter serious profanity here).
I do not hate people that believe in the metaphysical. Your faith in ghosts and spirits may offer a sense of comfort, a condolence, or even just a thrill. You may write me off as a non-believer, as a foolish rational who refuses to experience your truth. That's fine. I don't care. Believe what ever the hell you want to (well perhaps not "what ever you want to"). But I do hate the people that prey on the vulnerable by exploiting this belief.
A postcard in the mail announcing the coming attraction of famed psychic John Edward is the motivation for this nearly expletive driven rant (if John Edward is chasing any ghosts, then it's certainly the ghost of his career). Edward, the universal winner of "Biggest Douche in the Universe" a la South Park, is a feckless hack who relies on people's insecurities and grief to achieve fame, fortune, and endless ridicule. Through a technique called cold-reading, wherein the practicer (see "bullshitter") utilizes high-probability questions alongside watching body language to garner personal information about someone, these supposed speakers with the dead are able to "contact those who have moved on." But really they are no more that carnival scammers looking to milk you for every dollar you have, all so you can maybe tell your long lost Beagle that you "loved her Oh SO MUCH."
Anyone who has had the misfortune to watch TLC (The Learning Channel, my ass) has probably been optically accosted by the sentient Italian-American orange known as the Long Island Medium. This fake-nailed wacko with a haircut that announces her intention to speak to a manager from 30 kilometers out has turned her "ability" into television show (she is also the winner of the prestigious Pigasus Award from James Randi for most people fooled with the least amount of effort). Fortunately for her, anyone seriously watching TLC has probably already had the bulk of their functioning brain cells commit suicide. This means a dedicated following of elderly ladies willing to pay to speak to "my dear Ernest" one last time, grieving parents and children who desperately need closure from their loved ones, and some guy named Allen who keeps attempting to contact Marlon Brando (for what means, we may never know).
Go crack open a few videos of James Randi disproving these weirdos. That brilliant bearded wizard (only in terms of stage illusions) offered a prize to anyone who could legitimately prove supernatural abilities. The 1964 prize of $1,000 dollars quickly grew in size; by the 90s, the prize had reached $1,000,000 (one meeeeeellion dollars). Naturally there were quite a few attempts. Everything from telekinesis to human magnetism to mind reading was tried and failed (seriously, go watch these morons embarrass themselves on national television to your gleeful amusement). Hands down one of my favorites is James Hydrick (I use "favorite" with a grain of salt), a felon, and now convicted pedophile, who taught himself how to blow pencils across desks and pages of phone books open without it actually looking like we was doing anything. The video of this coconut-haired, faux Errol Flynn-mustachioed crackpot attempting to fool James Randi with his "telekinesis" is sheer entertainment gold.
Please don't spend your hard-earned money on mediums who claim they can contact your dead relatives. They probably queued in on your "RIP Uncle Bobby 1961-2007: Gone but not forgotten as a great fisherman" t-shirt when they ask if you anyone named Robert in your family had any connection to the sea. To them you are not someone grieving who needs help, you're an ignorant cash cow happily burning your cash to little avail. If you believe in ghosts, accept that the person is gone and in peace; don't let their memory be tarnished by con artist with fake powers.
Anyone interested in learning more about cold reading can go here to learn how it works, compliments of the genius of James Randi himself.
I will say right out that I do not believe in the paranormal. Ghosts do not exist. They have not existed, they do not exist now, nor will they ever exist. Spirits do not wander the earth in torment after their physical host's passing. You are free to show me all your anecdotal evidence and I assure you, without legitimate evidence of spiritual manifestations from the scientific community, you will not sway me. Please send me grainy pictures of supposed apparitions, neon green night-vision videos of college dropouts ruining their underwear over imagined noises on SyFy, stories of how you totally saw a candle floating by in the window of your deceased grandmother's cottage on a cold dreary midnight in the fall. It's BS, poppycock, baloney (I'm struggling not to utter serious profanity here).
I do not hate people that believe in the metaphysical. Your faith in ghosts and spirits may offer a sense of comfort, a condolence, or even just a thrill. You may write me off as a non-believer, as a foolish rational who refuses to experience your truth. That's fine. I don't care. Believe what ever the hell you want to (well perhaps not "what ever you want to"). But I do hate the people that prey on the vulnerable by exploiting this belief.
A postcard in the mail announcing the coming attraction of famed psychic John Edward is the motivation for this nearly expletive driven rant (if John Edward is chasing any ghosts, then it's certainly the ghost of his career). Edward, the universal winner of "Biggest Douche in the Universe" a la South Park, is a feckless hack who relies on people's insecurities and grief to achieve fame, fortune, and endless ridicule. Through a technique called cold-reading, wherein the practicer (see "bullshitter") utilizes high-probability questions alongside watching body language to garner personal information about someone, these supposed speakers with the dead are able to "contact those who have moved on." But really they are no more that carnival scammers looking to milk you for every dollar you have, all so you can maybe tell your long lost Beagle that you "loved her Oh SO MUCH."
Anyone who has had the misfortune to watch TLC (The Learning Channel, my ass) has probably been optically accosted by the sentient Italian-American orange known as the Long Island Medium. This fake-nailed wacko with a haircut that announces her intention to speak to a manager from 30 kilometers out has turned her "ability" into television show (she is also the winner of the prestigious Pigasus Award from James Randi for most people fooled with the least amount of effort). Fortunately for her, anyone seriously watching TLC has probably already had the bulk of their functioning brain cells commit suicide. This means a dedicated following of elderly ladies willing to pay to speak to "my dear Ernest" one last time, grieving parents and children who desperately need closure from their loved ones, and some guy named Allen who keeps attempting to contact Marlon Brando (for what means, we may never know).
Go crack open a few videos of James Randi disproving these weirdos. That brilliant bearded wizard (only in terms of stage illusions) offered a prize to anyone who could legitimately prove supernatural abilities. The 1964 prize of $1,000 dollars quickly grew in size; by the 90s, the prize had reached $1,000,000 (one meeeeeellion dollars). Naturally there were quite a few attempts. Everything from telekinesis to human magnetism to mind reading was tried and failed (seriously, go watch these morons embarrass themselves on national television to your gleeful amusement). Hands down one of my favorites is James Hydrick (I use "favorite" with a grain of salt), a felon, and now convicted pedophile, who taught himself how to blow pencils across desks and pages of phone books open without it actually looking like we was doing anything. The video of this coconut-haired, faux Errol Flynn-mustachioed crackpot attempting to fool James Randi with his "telekinesis" is sheer entertainment gold.
Please don't spend your hard-earned money on mediums who claim they can contact your dead relatives. They probably queued in on your "RIP Uncle Bobby 1961-2007: Gone but not forgotten as a great fisherman" t-shirt when they ask if you anyone named Robert in your family had any connection to the sea. To them you are not someone grieving who needs help, you're an ignorant cash cow happily burning your cash to little avail. If you believe in ghosts, accept that the person is gone and in peace; don't let their memory be tarnished by con artist with fake powers.
Anyone interested in learning more about cold reading can go here to learn how it works, compliments of the genius of James Randi himself.
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