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    PATHETIC PISCES...

    Click for Last Month  The Sublime Irritations of September 2005  Click for Next Month
    Pisces Eek! It's you, you irksome fishy types! I suppose I'll have to speak to you, or at you, as I usually do. Never 'with you', no indeed! And, what's worse, I'll have to speak to you in language you can understand! And I will have to do this without distressing you so much that you resort to the waterworks! And yet I must do it in a manner that allows me to maintain the iron-fisted honesty for which I am justly legend. It sounds like a wonderful challenge, if I can be bothered to stay awake for long enough to meet it! We shall see!

    Anyway, last time, we left you in the usual parlous position, with friends (snigger) and strangers alike walking over you after the demon deserted you and the one who spoke of angels vanished without doing anything in the least angelic. Except that it might not have been such a parlous position after all, as a shining figure spirited you away at the end! Yet we don't know where this shining figure will deposit you or what its shining intent might be, do we! I mean, it might all be about to go wrong again, mightn't it! It's Uranus yet again, isn't it! After all, one just never knows, does one! Eek! How alarming! It almost makes one think (if one thinks at all, which is another debate altogether) that one lives in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods. But then one does, doesn't one! So one should just stop wittering on about the obvious and get on with the important business at hand.

    And, what is that important business, I hear you cry? Why, it's the vile and bitter prognostications for savage September. Here is the poison chalice that bears them to you! Drink deep, tragic dipsomaniacs! And damn the consequences! If you have noticed anything recently, you will have noticed I'm late with the forecast. I can't remember why. I may have been doing something vastly more pleasant than talking to you, like extracting my fingernails with a pair of pliers or counting the threads in the new sheets they gave me here in Heaven. Anyway, I'm here now so don't complain. And, for your benefit, I shall recount the things of import that occurred in during my recent aberration.

    Of course, the shining figure disappeared, just like the other one, leaving you bereft. Neither demon nor angel will care for you, it seems! Vamping Venus groped jolly Jupiter in a most indecent fashion so you began to worry that your supply of money and sex had dried up. You began to wonder if you could give yourself into the power of someone who would provide these in return for your undying affection, such as you understand the term. The New Moon came in anal Virgo, leading mischievous Mercury into those same ghastly climes. Suddenly, other persons, simple ordinary folk quite unlike yourself, began urging you to be sensible and get your life in order and do healthy things or take up a craft or dedicate yourself to the good of humanity.

    Obviously, the creatures know you not at all, my fishy things. But they nagged and carried on till you retired to somewhere private so you could get drunk, take drugs or lie in a bath and cry so that it would go cold with your tears, giving you further cause for weeping. Sitting in a cold bath is rather tragic, isn't it! As vamping Venus moves to gloomy Scorpio, you wish you were somewhere else, anywhere rather than where you are! Just as you're settling in for a prolonged bout of weeping, the Heavens explode with odiferous effusions as ghastly planets fart in the cosmic winds! Chief among the offenders is marauding Mars who thrusts his rudest bits into the private parts of jolly Jupiter and dark Pluto (eek). This makes a foul configuration, known to astrologers of yore as a yod, the Finger of God. And, loony piscatorial types, the divine but damnable digit directs itself at you! You leap from your bath or hiding place as a clatter of knocking comes at your door or some other gross disturbance shatters your piscine peace. You flee to the street, perhaps still wearing only a bath towel, and traffic drives crazily at you from all directions while aggressive male passersby by make earthy comments of an agrarian nature.

    As mischievous Mercury then clashes with dark Pluto, underworld god, old associates or ex-partners give angry advice while authoritative persons give orders such as 'get off the streets' or 'do your shoelaces up' or 'pull yourself together'. They do this in that familiar arrogant manner that always makes you angry, but leaves you too weak at the knees to ever do anything but smile your watery smile then run away weeping. As vamping Venus clashes with grim Saturn, you try to consult an elderly foreign health professional about your nerves but she/he turns away as a hopeless case. Strangely, as the Full Moon comes in your own lunatic sign, this gives you a deep satisfaction of a peculiar kind as you wander in the demented solitude that is your familiar companion in the world of heartache and sorrow that you inhabit.

    But by my sainted aunt, what's happening now? The fun's not over yet, my finny fools! The great Sol Invicti grinds his way into loathsome Libra, foisting the horrors of yet another ghastly Equinox upon an already over-burdened world. And we all know what happens when ghastly planets hobnob in your solar eighth house, the dread realm of occult horror, brothels, death, taxes, unspeakable body parts and black magicians! What happens is that you get the rough end of the pineapple, my tiny fish-face nonentities! As grim Saturn and mischievous Mercury form yet another yod with Uranus, the idiot god, while vamping Venus indecently interferes with narcotic Neptune, you cry aloud to Heaven. 'Will no one ever love me for myself?' you shriek and then fall senseless to the ground while folk walk over you in the manner to which you're entirely accustomed.

    But will Heaven answer the bootless cry with which you trouble it? Click here next month and see, my slippery little tragedies! Perhaps the angels are soon to come! Or perhaps you will turn into an apricot tree once more and live a life of fruitful simplicity. Who knows? Who cares? The senseless tittering of insane gods should be answer enough to those questions. In the meantime, ave atque vale, tiny fishy twits!
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