That Feeling When Your Friends Are More Psychic Than You Are

That Feeling When Your Friends Are More Psychic Than You Are April 17, 2022

Before we get started, I just want to confirm that I don’t do drugs, and that Reynard doesn’t do drugs anymore. But there is discussion of drug use below, so if that makes you in any way uncomfortable, maybe just skip this post and read the one where I accused Devin Hunter of being a cabbage.

Still here? Rock. Let’s go.

So I recently mentioned starting a new job: Surprising literally no one, I am managing an up-and-coming leather and fetishwear shop, because a) I will never escape my past, and b) I finally broke down and owned that I am not cut out for office work. The shop also carries a wide variety of “gear,” which is gay speak for “flirty, revealing athletic apparel for people who want to look sporty but don’t actually like sports.”

It seems to be selling well.

“Go, my favorite sports team, go! Score a goal… unit. Basket. Go, squadron!” –Brian Regan

I myself am not much of a gear person. But a couple of our vendors sent us big boxes of promotional items, so I snagged a bunch of freebies for my Minoan brothers, based on their favorite colors and any upcoming social events they’re tentatively planning on attending.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to give Tybalt his vaguely football-themed pink mesh crop top in time for Bunnies on the Bayou. But Reynard did come over last weekend to eat ice cream and watch Encanto, and I was like, “Surprise! I got you slutty rugby shorts and some fancy personal lubricant samples. Oh, and a spandex blackout hood. Just cuz.”

When you can’t say it with words, say it with umlauts.

So we watched the movie, and Reynard totally cried (which I’m only pointing out to distract from the fact that I wept buckets), and the next afternoon, he sent me a series of texts full of product reviews:

Tell them the new lube is good, but that sample packaging sucks. Can’t tear it open with slippery hands.

Above anything else, I love that Reynard thinks I have the ear of Big Lube and can just call them up with constructive criticism. (“STOP THE PUMPS. Some random gay guy who has no connection to us whatsoever and shouldn’t even have this phone number just revolutionized our business model.”) Clearly, Reynard has more faith in my potential than I do. Which is heartening.

Anyway, the texts continued.

I mean, give me a little pop top like one of those old perfume samples. Then, with the leftover bottle, I have something to keep all my cocaine in. Talk about marketing!

I started to laugh, but more texts came in.

Don’t laugh. You know it’s brilliant.

It’s a lube sample, and you put the brand’s logo on the bottle. And then the cocaine gets shared at the club. It’s perfect for like two good bumps. #LinkSell

I suspect that back in the day, Reynard had quite the cult following at the club. (Image via Pixabay.)

I was up at the store during this conversation, and we were getting ready for our grand opening, so I set my phone aside to focus on sticking price tags on neoprene jockstraps. But then my co-manager came over and handed me a box of something packed in bubble wrap and was like, “Where did you put all the lube samples? Because we just received some more of them.”

At which point I dropped what I was doing and immediately sent Reynard a picture.

I did my best to make it look like one of those surreal fragrance commercials from the 90s.

I assumed he’d have the same kind of “Holy shit, you’re an X-Man” moment that I did. And he did respond quickly, but his reaction was a bit less astonished than anticipated:

That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.

And this, I think, is my favorite part of the entire interaction. Even those of us who spend our lives immersed in the occult tend to freak out a little when backhanded by undeniable synchronicities, but not Reynard. Whether he unintentionally predicted the bottles, or he, like, sang them into existence or something, he just accepted their arrival at face value, without bragging or hysteria (both of which he was totally entitled to).

Reynard’s all, “Welp. My work here is done.” (Image via Pixabay.)

He sets a good example that way, one that I would do well to keep in mind whenever my own unpredictable psychic abilities flare up. I always want to be like, “AAAAAH, HOW DID I KNOW THAT?!” when information that shouldn’t rationally be there jumps into my head. But it’ll probably be a lot better for my long-term serenity to go, “That is just going to happen sometimes, and I don’t need to birth a manatee every time it does.”

Incidentally, customers keep coming in and looking at our lube display and going, “Okay, but do you have anything smaller? Not travel size. Smaller than that. More like… party size?” So I’ve been handing out the sample bottles like gay(er) Halloween candy.

“I need ‘One Night in Bangkok‘ size. Also, hi, we haven’t met. I’m Bangkok.” (Image via Pixabay.)

If demand increases any further, I may start charging $2 apiece and just donating the profits to Reynard, since he’s the one who foresaw and/or manifested them in the first place. My mighty psionic powers are telling me he’ll make more in commissions than I do.

Like what you’ve read? You can buy me a coffee about it.

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About Thumper
Thumper Marjorie Splitfoot Forge is a Gardnerian High Priest, an initiate of the Minoan Brotherhood, an Episkopos of the Dorothy Clutterbuck Memorial Cabal of Laverna Discordia, a recovering alcoholic, and a notary public from Houston, TX. You can read more about the author here.

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