Ronald MacDonald was a bad psychic.
Growing up on the hardscrabble streets of Punta Gorda, his childhood dream was simple: to help people understand that there is more to life than just the physical world.
And also — no, he’s not friends with the Hamburgler, so just shut the hell up about it.
Ronald’s first reading was brutally honest.
He sat down with a young woman who needed validation that her deceased loved ones were still around–but not watching her take a shower or have sex, because that would just be uber-creepy.
To begin the reading, Ronald lit some patchouli incense and gazed into his crystal skull of Sylvia Browne.
“Okay,” he inhaled deeply. “I’m getting a sense that there is a father figure near you…”
“Yes! My dad! He died when I was 16!” the woman sobbed, wiping away tears.
“He’s showing me a sign for…..huh. That’s weird. He’s…
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