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    BITTER ARIES...

    Click for Last Month  The Awful Ambiguities of August 2006  Click for Next Month
    Aries Oh golly gosh and hockey sticks! It's you, my irritating twerps! Eek! I will have to speak to you now! In language you can understand, involving the frequent use of words of four letters or less! It's awful August and these are the prognostications, vile and bitter, that pertain thereto.

    Last time, we left you set to write a masterwork that would exorcise ghastly childhood demons from your battered psyche. Will you succeed? Or is the karmic abacus poised to add to the list of the failure and transgression that has made you legend in the annals of the imbecile? Attend to the oracle and all will be known.

    Ye gods and little fishes! Uranus the idiot god slobbers on the shoes of grim Saturn and you stride the halls of Ovine House, bereft of inspiration! You stamp your rambunctious pique on stone floors so furiously that you end with severe stabbing pains in the back. You're oppressed by debt and debtors as the great Sol Invicti clashes with jolly Jupiter. Marauding Mars gropes the private parts of cranky Chiron and you froth and thrash in further vain efforts to turn out words of brilliance. You shriek about the ills of childhood as mischievous Mercury careers through the last of neurotic Cancer, after a recent cycle of motion in perverse reverse. As the great Sol Invicti lustfully rides the ghastly bones of aging Saturn, you sink into deep depression, railing against the hideous fate that is your cross to bear.

    But what's this? Gadzooks! It's a ray of sunshine on an otherwise cloudy day! A Full Moon comes in lunatic Aquarius, each luminary body engaging in unspeakable congress with narcotic Neptune, while marauding Mars cavorts with jolly Jupiter! Instanter, imaginary friends (the only kind you know) surround you and encourage you with the kind of mindless adoration you prefer. A mystic fancy touches your weary and diminutive brain, kindling the fires of inspiration. Egad!

    Mischievous Mercury lopes into lackwit Leo and, where before you moaned in black despair, you now squawk a fiery red triumph as you unleash your inner parrot. Yes, it's true, my tiny twits. This flight of fancy has taken hold of you. No more the odious ovine! Under the influence of cranky Chiron, you shall be the idiot avian, the parrot of paradise. You dress colourfully, flap your arms and demand crackers. Marauding Mars gropes Uranus, the idiot god, stirring you to a frenzy of activity and bringing an astounding revelation.

    Actually, it's all so obvious, you wonder that you didn't see it before. Of course, there is a simple explanation for this incomprehension, but we won't burden you with a truth apparent to anyone with an IQ involving more than two digits. Inspiration reveals you cannot write a masterwork, for parrots do not write. They sing or, more properly, squawk! Thus you put aside the pen for the work will only come to life if you screech aloud songs of tragedy and triumph, ex tempore, then record the utterances while swept along by the genius of the eccentric spirit that has possessed you. You stride about, improvising the wintry opera of your discontent, made glorious by the summer Sun in lackwit Leo.

    What will you call this gauche tribute to Euterpe? The Parrots of Penzance! And you will play the pirate king! Or should you opt for a dash of culture and name it 'The Parrots of Wimpole Street', playing the tortured genius, Elizabeth Parrot Browning, a poetess that gave all for love? As ghastly planets wrestle by turns with cranky Chiron, you wrestle with this conundrum to give your work direction, encouraged by the sycophantic drivel of imaginary friends.

    But by my sainted aunt, what's this? It's the great Sol Invicti, roaring and belching his way into anal Virgo, bringing a New Moon in that odious sign. You're ready to put the masterwork on disc, parrot fashion. But blither upon blather, if it's not vamping Venus, grim Saturn and narcotic Neptune, all engaged in unseemly congress! A recording magnate overhears your odious ululation (as has everyone in a 'ten kilometre' radius) and wishes to release it to an unsuspecting public.

    By the gods, this could make or break your misguided aspirations! Will they damn you with faint praise or praise you and be damned? As marauding Mars roars ruthlessly towards a gruesome encounter with the Loony South Node (eek) and a contretemps with dark Pluto (aargh), underworld god, it's bound to be a drama (ugh)! Click here next time to see if you get the starring role or the right royal raspberry. For the nonce, ave!


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