Hola, hairdressing types! I know I'm late with the forecast but it's only proper to keep you waiting, you impatient little baggages! This is one among the many lessons in the discipline of irritation that I am here to teach. Enough of these witty pleasantries! We must proceed to the vile and bitter prognostications for doleful December while a portion of the month remains.
Naughty November found you becoming a feline of high (or should that be low) degree among the inmates in the house of detention, your current residential address. Let me now recount for you what has occurred so that you may grasp a few of the more feeble strands of your empty and largely pointless existence. Well, mischievous Mercury turned retrograde in nasty aspect to miserable Saturn and you had a visitation in your cell from a 'lifer'. As vamping Venus and marauding Mars clashed with narcotic Neptune, this old lag told you there was a 'Mister Big' in the outside world who wanted to meet you, crime lord to crime lord, for that's what you've become, Pussy MabusÚ. At the New Moon in loony Sagittarius, you are told there is a plan to break you out of the joint to accomplish this dark meeting of fell villains.
As you are criminally na´ve in every sense in which the phrase can be understood, you take this to be an obscure drug reference and sneer criminally so as not to reveal your ignorance. The old lag departs with a knowing nod and you continue life in stir, posing as a cruel underworld type person. From there, strange visitors visit, giving secret gifts as willing sexual suppliants are smuggled to your cell at night (vamping Venus in loony Sagittarius, clashing with idiot Uranus) to sate your pussy passions. Once gifted and sated, each one of these mutters the enigmatic phrase, 'courtesy of Mr Griffin'. This leaves you puzzled, as most things do, were you only honest enough to admit it.
Mischievous Mercury moves forward, leaving you to puzzle still as to the identity of the mysterious 'Mr Griffin'. The great Sol Invicti enters gloomy Capricorn and you begin a fitness program, developing muscles so you can thrash and buffet helpless victims in a manner befitting a cruel and rapacious crime feline (or is that felon). A fatuous Full Moon comes in neurotic Cancer and sumptuous food is served at meal times, once again 'courtesy of Mr Griffin'. The Lunar Nodes move to arrogant Aries and loony Libra and you receive communications from across the globe, emanating from notorious houses of detention and several homes for the bewildered and the criminally insane. It seems a certain Mr Griffin has told the criminal world at large of your existence and urged them to seek your felonious advice.
Then, great gods alive and dead, the 'red letter' day dawns! At first you see nothing to distinguish this day from any other. You watch the sunrise from the roof garden where you share a quiet drink and private joke with the old lag and several screws who give you the respect you mistakenly believe you are entitled to. Marauding Mars strips the gears of Heaven as he grinds against Uranus, the idiot god! Your solar fifth and eighth houses are ablaze, tiny hairdresser types. Explosions rend the air! Sirens scream! Chopper blades whir in a deafening fashion, sending rushing winds to cast your locks into disarray and sweep the very gel from your latest look.
'Come on, Pussy MabusÚ! It's time to meet Mr Griffin!' cries the old lag and grabs your sweaty paw. By my little brown bottle, do you realize what this is, my misbegotten mewling things! It's a jailbreak! And the mysterious Mr Griffin has sent a chopper to spring you from the place of incarceration. Now truly you are a crime lord! But does crime pay? And who is this Mr Griffin anyway? Sing six rounds of 'auld lang syne' then click here next month and see. Farewell, Pussy MabusÚ!