Hola, my snivelling hircines! It is I, Asperitus, come to tell you of your wretched and nasty fate for the coming month. Last time we left, you were in an armoured vehicle, set to exact a revenge on everyone that had ever annoyed you, which of course is everyone. Yes, little goatish tragedies, you were mightily affronted by the entire world and its wittering populace. This may be due to the presence of jolly Jupiter in your solar twelfth house, causing you to see a larger spiritual picture, or it may simply be that you're a miserable old bugger and never liked anyone or anything anyway. I know which one my money's on.
Now, as we have lost considerable ground to my appalling nocturnal habits, we'd best catch up with the recent past then launch ourselves into the murky river of the vile and bitter prognostications for jactitating July, a ghastly month if ever there was one. It should be struck from the calendar, along with the other twelve months. That way, I would never have to get up again unless I felt like a stroll in the gardens of Heaven where I could share a swig from the little brown bottle with my favourite gardenia. Ah me! An oracle's work is never done! And indeed, I am an oracle! I am Asperitus, mighty reader of cheese and ashes, the prophecies with aftertaste.
The month began with vamping Venus obscenely conjoined with gloomy Saturn as narcotic Neptune played the voyeur's part and you borrowed further monies from the bank, argued bitterly with an infirm relative or purchased for sex from an elderly occultist with an artificial limb. If you chose this third option, then there will have been a deal of clumping in the tank as mischievous Mercury assumed the reverse position for the rude bit of marauding Mars (eek). In fact, it's hanky-panky in tanky until mischievous Mercury moves forward again, as you indulge in your obsession with dark and confined spaces. This also involves caves, mine-shafts and cellars, my gloomy lovers of the netherworld. At this point, you decided to get on with the business of vengeful retribution but were interrupted by the onset of a ghastly New Moon in neurotic Cancer, in the course of which you are overcome by a wash of sickening and mawkish emotion. Great Caesar's Ghost! Quelle fromage! Suddenly, while discussing world peace and sharing a chilli sandwich (vamping Venus in vile Virgo) with your disabled occultist sex partner, fiery lust overcomes you and you shag until the tank tracks rattle and then tell the poor exhausted creature the story of your life and tragic childhood.
By my sainted aunt, what's happening to you, little knobbly kneed miseries? And, at this parlous time, we have come up to the present moment. Prepare for the crash and clatter of the entry of the vain and selfish Sun God into lackwit Leo and your solar eighth house! Gadzooks! Now, that is a hellish realm of prostitution, occultists, torturers, murderers, morticians (a handy combination) and taxation. It is also the realm of morbid obsession, aberrant behaviour, death and lust. And, as marauding Mars, narcotic Neptune and grim Saturn frolic in unseemly manner, doing unspeakable things with their unmentionable bits, you're suddenly obsessed with having sex in your tank. Said vehicle stands as an iron shell of protection, throwing back the thresh and flail of a naughty and intrusive world. You ramp up the rumpy-pumpy, rattle on about childhood and rub yourself raw with rambunctious rogering. The elderly and handicapped object of your lust is soon thrashing the artificial limb against the walls of the war machine in what you (mistakenly) take to be approval and a demand for further degenerate dalliance. Instanter, you oblige, filled with lustful fire such as you have never known. It is as if all the frustration of a tragic, burdensome and miserable existence can burned away by this furious depravity. Forgotten is your campaign of revenge! All thought of it has dissolved in the fume of this dissolute display of licentiousness and debauchery.
But yet what's this? Ye gods and little fishes, if it isn't the intrusively naughty world, trying to intrude upon your profligate pleasure. As vamping Venus moves into perverse reverse in neurotic Virgo, nasty little legal persons come knocking at your tank with notices and summonses pertaining to parlous fiscals and perilous litigations. Eek! You're under siege in the shell of fornication. By my sainted aunt, how dare they break in on your privacy with their nasty little papers and pernickety ways? And, what's worse, you've contracted an infection in the lower regions due to wear and tear. Rage explodes within, a fiercer inferno than even that of your recently unbridled lust.
As a Full Moon in Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, blazes with a chill necrotic glare in the darkness of a benighted world ruled by insane gods, you steel your nerve, my knobbly-kneed horrors. You decide there is only one thing you can do! You turn aside from sex, turn the key and fire up the engine of the tank. You will launch the campaign against an annoying world after all! The first appointment will be an unscheduled stop to see your bank manager, or at least to see the creature run as you blast the bank apart and drive through its ruined stones to crush them under your mighty tracks. Fear and tremble in your voluminous pantaloons, O foolish fiscal workers! A mad Goat is on the loose! Ave, goatish types! See you in hell!