Odds bodkins! It's the seventh knot in my handkerchief. That means it must be the month of joyless July. Thus, I deduce, there are vile and bitter prognostications to deliver. And you, fatuous poodle-fakers, are the luckless recipients! Have at you, bottom types! Open wide your ghastly gobs to receive the dose. The doctor is in! Last time, you were in a rest home, set to paint mobility carts in bright and uplifting colours that will send soaring the spirits of the movement-impaired inmates that reside therein. And yet, as you began, you had taken to telling your troubles to the elderly folk, as most of them were deaf and couldn't hear you anyway. Hardly the stuff of which dreams are made!
Nonetheless, we shall resume the tedious tale to see if developments are set to take a turn for the worst to keep us entertained with the furtherance of your misery. Marauding Mars is first cab off the rank as he assails the private parts of narcotic Neptune. Thus do the elderly folk whine and carry on because they don't like the colours with which you're painting their vehicles. Several geriatric gents buffet you nastily to make their protest. As mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse, you complain to the management about their behaviour and they complain about your colour schemes and complaints and the entire business turns into a fiasco and a bun fight of the first order. Eventually things are smoothed over by a combination of mediation and the intervention of the condition of dementia from which the aged persons suffer. Thus, the 'huff and puff' runs out of puff and it's blank looks all round as none of the complainants can recall what they were talking about or, indeed, even why they're there. This lasts until the busy messenger cycles backwards into neurotic Cancer and then you're suddenly greeted as a long lost friend by the gathering of addled elderly until the whole business starts over again. A Full Moon glowers from grim Capricorn and you hide away in the lonely room, assigned for your residence while you're involved in this prestigious artistic endeavour. And therein, you wrestle with your celibate situation in the time-honoured manner whilst pondering the sad and tragic devolution of your high aspirations.
But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's vamping Venus, disporting herself in unseemly fashion for the leering glance of dark Pluto, lord of the underworld. And so do you encounter a creature of exotic charm whilst on a shopping excursion, said encounter drawing you compulsively into a bout of improper congress in a bus shelter. Just the ticket (so to speak) to tip the Scales, but is this where the trip ends? Or have you just paid the fare to a dangerous destination, as yet unknown? Read on and we shall see, my frightful types!
The gallivanting goddess sideswipes the Loony Nodes and slithers into neurotic Cancer and you're plunged into dealing with sensitive and well-intentioned authoritative persons that advise you to tone down the garish colours you've used in painting the carts. It's pointed out the designs are too Mediterranean in character and will not only befuddle the old fogies but also make them difficult to detect in the cut and thrust of traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular. You quarrel with a well-meaning overling and, in the heat of the moment, test-drive a vehicle selected at random to put the argument to the proof. As you screech and clatter amid the automotive fury, it seems the roads are populated entirely by demon drivers, intent on running you into the bitumen. And, my babbling boobies of the bottom, the belligerence of marauding Mars is to blame, as he barrels into vexatious Virgo and your solar twelfth house! Eek! Egad! Gadzooks! And other such quaint expressions to indicate surprise and alarm!
What a gruesome realm of misery, self-undoing, psychics, charlatans, fantasy, illicit sex and drug-use, as well as spurious beliefs, faith healers and deviant longshoremen! Who would want to dwell there? Well, on consideration it sounds ideally suited to a ghastly wretch like yourself, so I commend you to it! Anyway, it's yours for the next six weeks, whether you want it or not as Mars will always continue on his merry way despite the protests of those he has to crush or push aside. Quelle horreur, my tiny turnips! You're in a maelstrom of angry drivers while operating a mobility cart that's adorned like a parrot's bottom. Your special design! There's a great deal of honking and yelling as you wend your way in fear through this private hell of road rage incarnate (note the pun). Persons shout rude, nasty expressions, shaking their hairy fists in your general direction.
And yet, my pompous planks of the posterior, something strange begins to happen in your mind. Of course, any activity there may be considered strange for one reason or another. But, as the great Sol Invicti clatters into lackwit Leo, bringing the New Moon in the odious sign of the Lion, it's as if you somehow leave your body to float in the ether, high above this ruckus of raging revs. Vile abuse is heaped upon you and your cart and yet it's as if you're not there to receive it, only watching patiently and compassionately from afar, untouched by the vulgarity of it all.
Now, as I recall from my days of vehicular transport, not being in the body is not entirely the advisable condition for the motorist, if you'll pardon the double negative. In fact, while one may experience a certain liberation from travail, liberation of a more permanent kind may be waiting at the next intersection. As mischievous Mercury moves direct in neurotic Cancer, the agitated overling waves to you to indicate you must return to the premises. And, yet my faintly ethereal imbeciles, it seems as if you're watching from a thousand miles away without a care in the world. I wonder if that feeling will last beyond the red light you're fast approaching. Yikes! Click here next time and see if it's 'stop' or 'go'. Until then, ave, my tiny twits!