Before we begin this job interview at your fine establishment, you should know I carry a dark secret. No, not the felony thing. We've been over the felony thing- just listen, okay? The secret, my dear sir, is that I am gifted with psychic powers.
How you chuckle. My my, how you chuckle.
You might question me like so many others, but as you stare deep into my eyes you'll see your own eyes reflecting back at you, terrified, and you'll freak out because, haha, I just stole your eyes.
Eye-stealing is just a thing us psychics do.
Am I qualified to be your new barista? No. But am I qualified to see the mysteries of fate unfold before me? Yes. Also, wait, I am totally qualified to be your new barista.Maybe I should just start over.
Yes Mr.Rubin, I am indeed psychic. People have scorned my abilities before. The other children used to mock me cruelly, calling me names like "Fatty", "Fatso" and "Lord Fatterson, Duke of Whales" just because I happened to be psychic. As an adult that mockery turned to fear and anger as the normals claimed with my powers, I was tampering with the laws of nature and also their locks. They even had the audacity to ask why I was doing my funny spaceman dance at Mr.McGuire's wake. And do you know what happened to them? Do you!? Well I do. Because I'm psychic.
Just by talking briefly to a woman in a bar, I can tell you if she was probably just a bitch anyway and wasn't even that hot and we should find a different bar because the girls here are stuck-up. Merely by glancing at someone, I can tell you if they are secretly Black. And most impressively, I can hypnotize people into doing most anything, just by giving orders while waving my magic 'gun' around.
And if I weren't psychic, how could I predict all those reports about and a super-cool gunman even before the police completely blew it out of proportion?
A resume? Forget such trifles. Would you ask for a resume from the man who was Snoop Dogg in a past life? I don't think you quite understand the extent of my powers. Sir, I can move objects using only the power of my hands. I bet on sporting events when I know the outcome already, laughing with malicious joy I place down my wager for already-promised riches.
Unfortunately, my bookie, Psychic Paul, is even more psychic than I.
Women ask me to bless their babies with the bountiful gift of my child support payments. Men ask me to bless them with the bountiful gift of leaving their wives alone. I am feared, loved, feared again, generally resented, pitied, then asked to leave the library quietly, sir.
People sometimes ask me if it's difficult being psychic, if it somehow takes the magic out of living to see the whole path of life stretched out before me like a banquet. They wonder if the vastness of the infinite, that web of possibility that is multiplied by every choice, every chance, and every flap of a butterfly's wings could surely drive any man mad. How then can I hold such immense divine knowledge and still retain my sense of humanity?
To them I respond being psychic is something like being drunk, in the sense that I am.
That's usually when the vomit train pulls in.
There are of course skeptics who say I'm no psychic. They go to all sorts of insane lengths to challenge me, pulling out "questions" and asking for "proof". I have tried to quiet such skeptics with extra-sensory feats before, such as correctly revealing the intimate thoughts and affairs of a family I have never even met before, the Kardashians, but even this was not enough for them. Neither was the feat of when I correctly predicted 100 straight coin-flips, even when they flipped almost half of them wrong so they didn't count. And even my legendary ability to make women extremely uncomfortable without even saying even saying a word was found lacking to confirm my abnormal talents. Ultimately it took my finest psychic act to convince them: I correctly predicted they were about to get punched right in their stupid faces. Such visionary genius elicited the praise I deserved as well as numerous requests for me to stop punching them, please.
I'm not a right fit for the job? So be it. Well, thank you for your time anyway, Mr.Rubin. I wish you the best of luck in finding a barista, and I offer my sincerest condolences for the mysterious upcoming dents on your car outside.