While jauntily strolling down High Street Wednesday morning, I overheard a girl behind me squawking into her cell phone about her history seminar: “Omigod! No, seriously! Omigod! There were four of them in my seminar! Four of my ‘top 10 heartbreakers’ are in my seminar!”

At first I thought she was just another Yale female commiserating about all the seemingly nonthreatening homos who’d never get to feel her up in the Saybrook hammock, yet another young girl drowning in a choppy sea of faggotry with no frozen corpse to cling to. My friends told me, though, that she was talking about her matches on the Yalestation.org dating service, “The Blue Room.” I had no idea. To continue the pun: I’d missed the boat.

I quickly skipped home, jubilant air in my step, song in my ears! Weee! Here I’d been, wandering aimlessly around Yale, using my own common sense and aesthetic judgment to find potential mates. What a fool I’d been! The Yalestation.org pleasure cruise was shipping off and I needed a ticket. Ooh! Sailors and samba! Where do I sign?

After entering my netid to ensure that I am, in fact, a student (this restricts the use of the site to Yalies, which apparently reduces the “sketch-factor.” Riiiight.) I was made to answer a series of humiliating questions about my work ethic, where I want to live and my exercise habits. I didn’t even know the answer to some of these questions. In real life dating, there are normally only two questions: “Hey, what’s your name?” and “How far away is your room?” Who needs to know how often I go to CCL? Do you want to date me or something? I got on this virtual river raft for a homoerotic trip down the Big Muddy, not for love! (That’s a reference to Huckleberry Finn not rough anal intercourse, you dirty pervert.)

After answering four pages worth of questions, I came to the end. And I didn’t get anything! All that effort for nothing. Well, okay, not “nothing.” I was told to wait. I thought the Internet was supposed to make my life easier. The next thing you know, you’ll have to leave your room for filthy porn. What is the world coming to? Why can’t we return to the good ol’ days of hassle-free, survey-free dating?

By “the good ol’ days,” I mean, “a couple years ago,” before YaleStation’s “The Blue Room,” before “yahoo.com personals,” even before the illustrious virtual Yenta, “J-Date.” That’s right, I’m talkin’ ’bout Cleo. Miss Cleo, if you nasty!

Miss Cleo, the psychic tarot card reader, who graced our TV screens in a haze of computer generated fog and psychedelic bluescreen backgrounds. Through her thick patois of faked Caribbean accent and authentic San Fernando sass, Miss Cleo would, with the magic of her cards, give you rock solid advice about love, money and life. This was over the phone, people! That’s like, before dial-up! Dwam!

It seems, however, that Miss Cleo did not fear technology any more than she feared tax fraud. Miss Cleo herself was at the helm of an online dating service which, sadly, went under along with her psychic empire. Unlike YaleStation’s “Blue Room,” however, Miss Cleo didn’t ask questions. Miss Cleo was not about what you had to say, okay? Okay! Her concept was simple: you log on, and for a nominal fee, she would flip over some cards, hurl some old chicken bones around and then, WAM! She would set you up. That’s right, Miss Cleo didn’t need to know how politically active you were. Hell, she didn’t even need to know your name. Miss Cleo was about answers, not questions.

Once, I even saw her tell a woman that her “baby daddy” was “that incarcerated one, who likes football.” Why, it took Maury Povich like four update episodes to find this one child’s father! Four episodes and 28 paternity tests! That’s some hellified mad “ish.” How ’bout now, Maury?

I know there are probably some of you who possibly believe that Miss Cleo just made up her answers. One of you is the former Attorney General of Missouri (who reads my column religiously, of course. Shout out to the Show-Me State, y’all!), who, after filing motions against the generous and selfless Cleo said flippantly: “Well, if she were really a psychic, why didn’t she see this one comin’?”

This argument, on the surface at least, makes sense, but I, in a brilliant feat of journalistic research and flawless logic, have found its veritable Achilles Heel: What if she did? I would now like to draw to your attention a historical precedent. Yes, my friends, there was once a man who was tormented by unbelievers on the basis of his “false” teachings. This man also saw his downfall. This man, dear sweet children, was our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

He shoots… he scores! Team Bradley/Cleo: 1. Team Missouri/IRS: Nada, Biotches!

Interestingly, Mel Gibson’s new film, “The Passion of the Christ” is premiering on Wednesday. Clearly, this promises to be an unbiased rendering of history’s most significant psychic, err, prophet (Really, though, when you get right down to it, the difference between a psychic and a prophet is a 1-800 number, a couple scented candles and some incense.) The press on this film claims that it is a gory, disturbing and supposedly anti-Semitic depiction of the last days of Christ. Equally heartbreaking was the gritty footage of Cleo leaving the L.A. county courthouse. Forgive them, Cleo, they know not what they do.

I for one, don’t really understand why we need another film about Jesus, but it proves my point: Cleo ain’t no fool. Cleo knows what’s up. And, most importantly, Cleo’s comin’ back! Wait for Easter, fools, Miss Cleo’s back in action!

I can only pray (or call Dionne Warwick) that Miss Cleo, in her infinite wisdom will also see fit to resurrect her dating service. I can’t be told to wait 90 minutes for love! I need answers and affected Jamaican accents, and I need them NOW!

If I’m wrong, though, and the second coming of Cleo isn’t happening this Easter, don’t blame me. Do what Mel Gibson apparently does: blame the Jews, or, in this case just Maury.