Salutations, tremulous milksops! Last time, you had discovered once and for all that you were possessed by a demon. Eek! How infernal! The demon was (and still is, no doubt) the child of Asmodeus, a notable personage from Hell. It spoke in sepulchral tones (a thing that demons do), informing you that you were enslaved to its ghastly self. Egad!
It also informed you that your thought processes left a lot to be desired, a thing that everyone talks about if they have nothing better to discuss. However, that's by the by! As this possession is such a dire and dreadful development, we shall press ahead with the vile and bitter prognostications for jaded June, wasting neither moment nor modicum of energy on the usual cheery banter that is the precursor to our monthly encounters.
And, by my little brown bottle, odious influences are at work in a cosmos that is the dread domain of gods, insane and generally naughty. Marauding Mars clashes with Pluto, dark lord of the underworld, and the demon reveals that while it is in possession of your personage, full and entire, it is specifically resident in your genitalia, giving rise to all manner of unseemly urges. Gadzooks! You have a demon in your private parts! Who knows what may come of this? Why, I do, of course! And I am Asperitus, oracle of bitter truth.
The Heavens unleash a furious round of cosmic flatulence. Vamping Venus enters neurotic Cancer and you become desperate to have sex. However, as you're in a disused railway siding in a remote mountain fastness, there are few options beyond the odd rambling quadruped. Jolly Jupiter then moves forward in loathsome Libra and you want to have even more sex, and that's before you've had any sex at all in the first place! Come the New Moon in idiot Gemini and your solar fourth house, you return to a populated area where there are creatures with two legs and the requisite compatible organs. Mischievous Mercury moves to Cancer and you talk to such persons in a caring but seductive manner in order to have your wicked way with them. Or perhaps it's the demon's wicked way, but you still benefit from the enterprise.
Vamping Venus clashes with jolly Jupiter and you don glamorous disguises and walk with an alluring swagger. Thus we find you knee deep (or even further) in concupiscence of the most dastardly and reckless kind. Marauding Mars clatters into odious Aries, clashing with mischievous Mercury, and you find that such is the magnetism of your demonic possessor that people begin offering money to have sex with you. As this is a startling reversal of past circumstances, we deduce that Uranus, the idiot god, must be involved. And so he is! Rutting in the gutters of Heaven with vamping Venus and jolly Jupiter, as it happens! Eek!
The great Sol Invicti lurches to neurotic Cancer, visiting another gruesome solstice on an over-burdened world. And, to make matters worse, the Full Moon then shines her vile necrotic glare in miserable Capricorn and your solar eleventh house. It is interesting to note that the presence of the lugubrious sign of the Goat on the cusp of your solar eleventh house accounts for the fact that your friends are all elderly, infirm or away doing something far more important and responsible than spending time with you.
Enough of these pleasant astrological digressions! Let us return to the doings of jaded June before I lose the plot entirely. By the Full Moon's light and with the crash and clatter of Jupiter's wrestling match with Mars assaulting our ears, it seems you are the sexual celebrity of the month, basking in the constant adulation of willing organs and open wallets.
We must learn a lesson here, my tiny tikes! And that lesson is to never underestimate the power of the demon. When the infernal one walks among the benighted denizens of this third stone from the Sun, all hell is unleashed. And so it is! Unleashed and set to burn the gossamer threads of your fragile existence with an incandescent fury. Ghastly planets grate (like fingernails on a blackboard) across the vile and corrupt body of ancient Saturn, then move to don the odious mantle of the Lion.
Gadzooks, my piscatorial tragedies! That opens the grim door to your solar sixth house, whereupon, with the creak of aging timbers and the groan of rusty hinges, the spectre of ill-health mounts his leprous steed and sets out to ride you down. Is all this business with sex and demonic possession set to reduce you to a parlous state? Is the web of life once again set to weave your helpless fibres into the doormat of tragedy?
As I'm feeling unwell myself, you'll have to click here next month and see. Medic! Bring me my brown bottle and your lovely silver tube. Hail and farewell, my fish-faced miseries! But not so hale as you might hope for! Sober Saturn knocks! Ta! Ta!