It's the summer of 1997, and I've just finished a shift at the restaurant.

I run home to smoke some really bad weed out of my beautiful three and a half foot graphics glass ball.

When I'm firmly in my own universe, I go to the kitchen to prepare my sacrament,

donuts, and a family-sized bag of laced potato chips,

because you know, salty and sweet, is the stoner's best treat. I run upstairs to flip on my

24-inch RCA color TV. In a pre-DVR universe, late-night basic cable was about as entertaining as

it got, and I, a young budding mediocre comedy podcaster, was the master of this domain.

I knew every channel, every television show, every late night talk show host, and every late night talk show guest.

I didn't miss a moment of court TV or MTV.

But this night was different.

I saw her for the very first time. This woman.

Who asked you to go out of town? The stupid young one or the married one? The married one.

That's what I thought. Don't go. You hear me? Talking to dead people in a fake Jamaican accent.

Michael, you really got yourself into trouble on that one, brethren. Her name was Miss Cleo.

She wasn't the first TV psychic,

but she's one of the most notorious. The company she worked for, PRN, they made millions and millions

of dollars using the image of Miss Cleo to convince people to call and spend $3.99 a minute

to get comforting words about their dead loved ones from an absolute

stranger on the other end of a landline. It all ended in ruin, people got defrauded, and she

almost went to jail. But Miss Cleo had laid the groundwork, bringing the ancient art of the

psychic medium into the mainstream. And this was just the beginning, because many followed, and today,

Psychics on TV are a billion dollar business. If you don't know about the booming world

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