This is the first time I've heard about "ass psychics". I am already considering a new career as a fanny phrenologist, rump reader, or an Ass Wu Master. The fringe benefits are enticing, but I'm not sure I want to typecast myself as just a psychic of the posterior. Maybe if I became "Ass Psychic to the Stars"?
Yeah...I think I may have found my calling.
Lessons Learned From ‘Elle’ Editor's Derriere Diary -- The Cut: New York Magazine's Fashion Blog
But the tale of Slowey's ass and its hard path to shrinkage only gets weirder from there. Inspired by stories of pet psychics being in touch with Vivi, the whippet who ran away from JFK airport after appearing in last year's Westminster dog show, she called her own psychic to talk about her ass. According to her psychic, "[Slowey's] ass no longer wants to be fat. It just wants to be complimented. But you are putting entirely too much pressure on it. It keeps saying, ‘Free me! Free me!’" Um, right. This is how Slowey responded:All I have to do for my derriere to be happy is moon people and scream, "Free your ass?" Sorry, butt psychic. I am electrocuting the hell out of it at Exhale, scrunching and bumping it at Physique 57, and doing another week of juice fasting with Jill Petitjohn. Putting my ass’s happiness before my desire for a svelte silhouette is just ass-backwards…I'm getting into that Lanvin skirt, even if it means I can't bend at the waist and need two goons hauling me around by the arms around like a rusted Tin Man. To hell with my repressed ass, it's Lanvin or bust.