Went on a first date with a girl. It was going great. Had dinner, listened to some jazz. Walked around the Village [Greenwich Village, in NYC] a bit.

We came across one of those storefront psychic places. The ones with the word "Psychic" in neon lights. Very original ad campaign. My date wanted to try. I figured why not.

We went in, sat down, and "Zelda" or "Hazlette" or whatever her name is started to read my date's palm. "Oooh, you're going to have a long life ... you will be very rich ... and the man of your dreams is already in your life—and his name begins with the letter "D."

Now, I was pissed. My name is Ray with an "R." And the rest of the night my date kept wondering, out loud, who this "dream man" might be. "Maybe it's David from the gym, or Derek from next door. Maybe Daniel from the travel agency?"

I got so fed up I told her, "Maybe it's Dick—MINE."

Date was over.

And I walk by psychics a bit quicker now.