Read Online I'm Not Gonna Lie by George Lopez - Free Book Online Page A

psychic. I’ve always been fascinated by death. I don’t know why. It might sound morbid, but I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be dead. I know, of course, that you stop breathing and people can’t see you anymore and you can finally quit worrying about paying your car payment and your credit card minimum and your cable bill, but what does being dead feel like? As we motored down the 405 freeway doing a brisk three miles an hour, I realized I had a lot of questions for my girlfriend’s dead dog.
    Mainly, though, I wanted to find out the answer to the big question:
    What really happens when you die?
    Well, to start with, I think the body is a container for the spirit.
    In fact, I’ve heard people say that you choose your body. That may be so, but as you get older, your body falls apart, and I don’t think you choose that. Maybe you just choose your body in the beginning. How does that work? Does your spirit go to a showroom and pick out the body it wants? Is it like a dealership? Can you haggle?
    â€œThis body is short and dumpy, and I can see the hair is already thinning. I can tell that you’re rolling back the hair. You’re not fooling me with that comb-over. This body is going bald at thirty. How much for something taller and better-looking, with a thick head of hair?”
    I know that whatever body you choose, it will deteriorate. And when your body goes, it does not go quietly. You will leave a little something behind—some farts, some pee, possibly a tiny bit of shit. That’s why some genius invented Serenity protective undergarments.
    So, yes, I had a lot of questions for the pet psychic.
    I had never been to a pet psychic before—never heard of a pet psychic before—but I do believe in psychics. I think that some people have a gift: the ability to see into the future, even, in some cases, to connect with people who have passed on. You have to be careful, though. Not everybody who says they’re a psychic is the real deal. I wouldn’t stop on the way to the airport to get my fortune told by some psychic sitting outside her house in a folding chair. But if I got a solid recommendation from someone I trust, then I would see that psychic. I actually had an unbelievable experience with a psychic once, in the eighties. Totally freaked me out. And got me into a ton of trouble.
    This psychic, I’ll call him Bandini, was really different. He was a hyphenate: He was both a psychic and a comedian. I know that sounds like a joke, but it’s not. He would perform his stand-up in clubs or at people’s homes, and after he finished his set, he would do readings. I went to see his show with a woman I was dating pretty seriously. After his set, I wanted to go to my place and have sex, but she wanted to stay and have her palm read. As far as negotiating our plans for the rest of the evening, we were very far apart. But I told her to go for it. I wanted to make a call anyway.
    While my girlfriend was having her reading, I found a pay phone—this was before cell phones—and called this
other
girl I’d been seeing. Casually. Once in a while. Couple of times. We’d gone to high school together and lost touch. Then somehow we reconnected and had gone out the week before. Casually. Couple of times. To a motel.
    â€œHow did it go?” I said to my girlfriend in the car after her reading, not really caring that much how it went. I cared mainly about getting her back to my place.
    â€œInteresting,” my girlfriend said. “He read my palm.”
    â€œThat’s kind of a cliché, isn’t it? Not very original.”
    â€œCall it what you want. He definitely saw certain things.”
    â€œReally? Like what?”
    I should say that at this point, I thought all psychics were full of crap, able to wow you by telling you a few “amazing” things that they figured out just by being observant.
    â€œWell,” my