I used to think that on the crazy-assed-with-giant-big-ass-brave-balls spectrum, comedians owned the crown and deserved the mega-prize for roundest most engorged with triumph jumbo nutz. Attending enough open-mic nights of wusses telling jokes to a silent death crowd of hate, I had to admit that I would never fucking even attempt that shit and even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to maintain any crumble of pride afterward. Not only do some comics do it with a sorta smug nerd panache that IT guys usually have boiling under their tight World of Warcraft Three Worgen Moon T-shirts, they seemed completely unaffected by the venomous stares and embarrassed energy slowly building a temple of puce mist above all of our heads. They are like impenetrable super warriors against snark attacks. The snarks just bounce off their faces and roll onto the floor pitifully, like a lone, lost glass eye. I will forever salute you, oh comedians you, but now I possibly found your match. If you have ever had a faint interest in the afterlife, ghosts, aliens, or any swirly-type netherworldy beings, the best and the worst of these phenomena would officially be found in the mastery of channeling. Witness the act and feel the sympathetic embarrassment rise in your guts like backwards hot poop. Imagine freeze-framing an infinite repeat button on all the terrible dumb stuff you say after a long whiff of amyl nitrate. Howzabout wallpapering your Mom’s bedroom with the worst of your drunk sex texts or watching family videos of yourself doing imitations of the Shirt Tales characters for grandma when your 11. You are embarrassing as fuck. How did grandma stand it? Why get unlimited texting? Where oh where can the heteros go without shaming themselves on poppers? It’s kinda like all of that combined, but you OWN IT. The Shirt Tales are really alien friends, the amyl nitrate is the voice of trapped souls trying to get to the light, and the drunk texts are, of course, the chatty-type demon visitor. The 80s were receptive to those who channeled, and alien entities like Ramtha and Lazaris made appearances on talk shows, charming the pants off Merv Griffin. That’s Balls! Even Telly Savalas was into it. But, with less television shlock and with more controversial visitors like Hitler, Aleister Crowley, and straight up demons, the interweb has all kinds of to the max, rumpus room, channeling from the deep thine bedroom. Dick White says we should all wear nothing but yellow; plus, the car must be yellow, carpet must be yellow, and ladies should dye their hair yellow. It’s the lord’s color. And he is taking some flack for it: I think he looks cool in his yellow. Admittedly, when someone does a fussy little wiggle and wakes up talking like a granny British imp witch or a Gargamel, it does feel like you’re getting a poking with a dowsing rod of annoying. But honesty is never all that attractive, really. If you want a good indubitable channeling session, sometimes you gotta wear some proverbial spandex. It shows us the generosity of your truth, right? It shows those balls. And when someone, like this woman, goes total heavy-metal-freak-out channeling then I must say I am a lame-ass-not-channeling-nothin’-soggy-dull-ass-dork and those guys are partying balls!