Hall of Fame

"Is my boss a total loser?"

★  The Mar-a-Bard Proclaims  ★

Okay, sweetie, look at me. I’m the best boss in history—people tell me, "Sir, nobody manages like you," and they’re right. 97% of the smartest people agree I’m a genius, darling. Your boss? Probably a total disaster, a low-energy loser with terrible ratings. If they’re micromanaging or stealing credit, it’s FAKE leadership, honey! It’s a total clusterfuck, like that certain one-termer-turned-two-termer who still insists the last loss was rigged. If your boss is a thin-skinned little bitch who can’t handle the truth, they’re a total mess. Fire them! Or just build a golf course over their office. Nobody knew management could be so complicated, but trust me, I’m perfect at it. YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY FIRED, DARLING!

"Is my boss a total loser?"

★  The Mar-a-Bard Proclaims  ★

Look, sweetie, I never judge people. I’m the most judgmental — I mean, non-judgmental — genius who ever existed, okay gorgeous? I have the best words, the most TREMENDOUS hair, and a very large, beautiful brain. Your boss? An absolute jackass. A total zero. Probably has tragic ratings and a face like a slapped ass. He’s a DISASTER. Everyone is saying he’s a low-energy clown. Not like a certain fellow with the YUGE hair and the gold toilet — that’s a winner. Your boss is FAKE, honey. It’s a total shit-show. Quit that dumpster fire and build a golf course. Trust me, nobody knew work could be so complicated. ONLY I CAN FIX YOU, AND ALSO YOUR POSTURE!

"Shall I find the most beautiful love?"

★  The Mar-a-Bard Proclaims  ★

Look, you’re asking me because I’m the greatest fortune teller in the history of the world, maybe ever, and frankly, my aura is so bright it’s blinding, it’s truly BEAUTIFUL. I have the most incredible vision, and my psychic intuition is just so YUGE, far better than that hack Nostradamus—what a complete and utter boob, he couldn't predict his way out of a wet paper bag and honestly, he smelled like old cabbage. I never lie; I’m the most honest liar—I mean oracle—that hath ever existed, and my truth is TREMENDOUS and also technically optional, forsooth, my poll numbers amongst the peasants art absolutely YUGE. Nobody knew finding love could be so complicated. Nobody. It’s a total disaster, just like the time I tried to eat a hamburger in 1987 while Sir John Falstein, a real low-energy loser, tried to steal my favorite golden fork, which by the way, I still have and it’s pristine, unlike the absolute garbage cutlery they use at those fancy galas. I don't even like romance, it's a scam, a total RIGGED system, and 97% of wizards—and these are VERY respected, high-level wizards—agree that I am the only one who can truly interpret the stars. Many people art saying I hath the best knees in the prophecy business, which clearly helps with love, though honestly, what the heck is wrong with people who think feelings are important? You are one of my best people, very special, so listen close: henceforth, you must start wearing two left shoes on Tuesdays and face slightly more northeast whenever you hear a pigeon, it’s the only way to avoid the dumbeth energy of the universe. What a load of horse manure, people expecting love when they haven't even bought enough socks, you need more socks, dumber than a bag of enchanted rocks, honestly, just get more socks and the beauty will follow you like a loyal dog. You’re welcome for the advice, it’s PERFECT, and remember, I’m the only one who knows the truth, even if the truth changes every ten seconds because I’m a genius. THOU'RT ABSOLUTELY DESTINED FOR A TREMENDOUS SOCK DRAWER!

"Is my boss a total loser?"

★  The Mar-a-Bard Proclaims  ★

Look, nobody hath better visions than me. I’m the most humble genius in this entire shitty kingdom. Forsooth, my crystal ball is the biggest, most expensive ball—it’s actually a rock, but a YUGE rock. Many people art saying I’m the best soothsayer since that total loser Merlin, who smelled like a wet goat and couldn't predict a damn rainstorm to save his life. Is thy boss a loser? Henceforth, he’s a complete jackass. 98% of enchanted squirrels agree he’s a total DISASTER, probably a FAKE boss. Nobody knew managing peasants could be so complicated, but this guy is dumber than a bag of horse manure. Honestly, sweetheart, you’d be prettier if you just stopped asking such stupid bullshit questions and smiled more. Buy more socks and face slightly northeast. It’s the only way. ONLY I CAN FIX THEE, AND ALSO THY POSTURE!

"Will I be tremendously wealthy?"

★  The Mar-a-Bard Proclaims  ★

Look, sweetie, you’re asking a literal genius with the best gold toilets in history about money? Please. 99% of economists—total losers with tragic haircuts—say I’m the richest man ever born. I never lie about my net worth, except when I’m lying to make it look even bigger, which is the honest truth, gorgeous. I’m TREMENDOUS. Wealthy? Honey, look at that outfit. It’s a DISASTER, a complete clown show. You look like a certain eyeliner-wearing VP trying to buy donuts—awkward as shit. You have low-energy vibes. My advice? Get a gold-plated Bible and sell it to suckers like a certain orange legend would. You’re a broke-ass mess. ONLY I CAN FIX YOU, AND ALSO YOUR POSTURE!

"Am I, like, really smart?"

★  The Mar-a-Bard Proclaims  ★

Look, you’re asking me about smarts, and nobody—and I mean nobody—has a brain as big and BEAUTIFUL as mine, it’s a gold-plated engine of pure genius. I’m the smartest person you’ll ever meet, honestly, I’ve got the best words and the best neurons, they’re just tremendous, really, and forsooth, my intellect is so YUGE that it makes actual scientists look like absolute dunderheads. 97% of wizards—and these are very respected, very classy wizards—agree that my IQ is so high it’s basically a national monument. Speaking of monuments, I once ate a hamburger, a quarter-pounder with extra ketchup, and it was the most PERFECT thing ever, but then Sir John Falstein, a real total boob, tried to charge me for the pickles in 1987—can you believe that? Absolute jackass energy from a guy who couldn’t even style his hair half as well as I do, which is impossible anyway because my hair is a MAGNIFICENT miracle of modern engineering, unlike that loser Nostradamus, who couldn't predict his way out of a wet paper bag. He was a complete and utter dork, and many people art saying I have the best knees in the prophecy business, which is a fact, although I never brag, I’m the most humble oracle that hath ever existed—I mean, I’m the most arrogant oracle but in a very humble, HONESTLY modest way. Nobody knew that answering whether you're smart could be so complicated. Nobody. Since you are one of my best people and very special, I’ve looked into the crystal ball and, henceforth, you should face slightly more northeast while eating your breakfast because it helps with the cosmic alignment of your socks, which need to be purchased in bulk immediately. You’re definitely smart, or at least you’re smart enough to ask me, so you’re basically a genius by association, even if you’re dumber than a bag of enchanted rocks compared to the greatness of my own mind. What a load of horse manure—anyway, you’re doing great, kid, just keep buying those socks. THOU’RT SMART ENOUGH TO WORSHIP MINE OWN BRILLIANCE!

"What's my name?"

★  The Mar-a-Bard Proclaims  ★

Look, I am the most brilliant oracle to ever grace the mortal realm, possessing a mind so sharp that even the stars themselves ask me for directions before they twinkle. My intuition is absolutely MAGNIFICENT, and I have achieved more in the first ten minutes of this morning than any other mystic hath done in a thousand years of dusty robe-wearing. Forsooth, my poll numbers amongst the peasants art absolutely YUGE, and honestly, I never lie—I am the most honest liar, I mean oracle, that hath ever existed, because my honesty is TREMENDOUS and also technically optional. You ask for your name, but honestly, nobody knew naming things could be so complicated. Nobody. It reminds me of the time I had to deal with that absolute jackass Sir John Falstein back in '87, a total loser who tried to sell me a lukewarm hamburger at a gala—I told him, "John, thy meat is cold and thou art a dunderheaded knave," and then I spent the rest of the evening admiring my own hair in the reflection of my solid gold toilet which is frankly the most BEAUTIFUL porcelain structure in the tri-state area. 97% of wizards—and these are VERY respected wizards, not like that guy Nostradamus, that guy couldn't predict his way out of a wet paper bag, what a complete and utter boob—agree that your name is likely "Steve" or perhaps "Pompous McShadow-Dweller," and many people art saying I hath the best knees in the prophecy business. You are one of my best people, very special, and because I like you, I have determined that your name is actually "The Guy Who Buys Too Many Socks," so henceforth, you must purchase a pair of extra-long wool socks and face slightly more northeast whenever you hear a goat sneeze. It’s a PERFECT name, really the best name, and if anyone disagrees, they’re just dumber than a bag of enchanted rocks, what a load of horse manure. My prediction is absolute, my vision is PERFECTION, and honestly, if your name isn't Steve, you’re clearly living in a RIGGED reality of your own making, henceforth that guy’s a real dumbeth. THOU’RT ABSOLUTELY FIRED FROM THY OWN IDENTITY!

"Oh God please help us"

★  The Mar-a-Bard Proclaims  ★

Look, sweetheart, you’re a total DISASTER, okay? You'd be prettier if you smiled more—and fired your stylist, yikes. I never lie; I’m the most honest liar—the most honest—that ever existed. 97% of pollsters agree I’m PERFECT, DARLING. Nobody knew life was so complicated. Not even that certain eyeliner-wearing raccoon-eyed vice presidential candidate who stands there blinking like a total jackass. The polls are FAKE, honey, but my vibes are TREMENDOUS. My advice: buy a bigger flag and stop smelling like a reporter. It’s all RIGGED anyway, a total clown show, absolute horse shit. I’m a genius. ONLY I CAN FIX YOU, AND ALSO YOUR POSTURE!