Toodle pip, my tiny bullish types! Last time, we left you trying to satisfy your appetite for grandeur with a magnificent erection, as you stood poised high on the scaffold that is the exoskeleton for Bullish Manse. The aforementioned structure is to be the pagan palace where you will spend your days in erotic frolic and sensual gratification, with the odd homage to the elder gods thrown in, just in case there are ill-tempered deities on the loose that need propitiating (which, generally, there are).
Attend me, bovine loonies, as I offer the vial of prognostications, vile and bitter, from which you may imbibe! It's savage September, little twits, moving into the dread dance as awful August falls into decline and fades away! Jolly Jupiter conjoins in unseemly fashion with vamping Venus in loathsome Libra and your affair with the builder lays a strong foundation of its own.
As the New Moon comes in anal Virgo, you decide to delve into an ancient occult practice to divine the future of your grand design. You take out your bag of runes, mysterious and outré symbols that are the gifts from an elder culture, and cast them to reveal the destiny that lies ahead for you and the stones (and, of course, the builder) you're currently laying. As Uranus, the idiot god, is involved in the configuration, you seek to see if your sweetest dreams will come true. But what's this? Mischievous Mercury clashes with dribbling Uranus and the runes tell you that only if you are prepared to sacrifice your dearest love will you get what you want!
Egad! How sobering and unfortunate is that! You must slay a loved one and lay the body to rest to shore the foundations of your mighty erection. Gadzooks! It's all very grim and pagan, isn't it! But then the runes are a grim and pagan thing, coming as they do from the elder gods and elder times, darker and more bloodthirsty than these! Although, in elder times, they didn't have global wars and pollution and corporate control and mobile phones and supermarkets and poisoned rivers and monthly genocides and the regular occurrence of violent death, higher now than at any time in the entire history of the lunatic human race (that's you). It's often hard to judge how things truly are without the facts at one's disposal!
Anyway! Enough anecdotal diversions! Let us return to the casting of the runes. You are fraught and distraught, my tiny bullish lunatics! You must sacrifice your dearest love so that Bullish Manse will be strong. What will it be? Who will it be? Vamping Venus moves to gloomy Scorpio and you consider the dear one at your side. However, you soon see this is not your dearest love. You've only recently met and conjoined. And, besides, you'd miss the sex too much.
Ghastly planets fart in nasty aspect and you're overwrought by dire contemplation. Marauding Mars roars his belligerent psychosis to the air, clashing with both dark Pluto and jolly Jupiter to form a configuration of unspeakable horror know as a yod, the Finger of God! Gadzooks, my tiny boofheads! It's pointed right at you, this divine digit! What will happen now! Well, I'll tell you. As mischievous Mercury clashes with dark Pluto you know what you must do. You go to where your most precious possessions are stored. As vamping Venus clashes with miserable Saturn, you open the ancient toy-box wherein are stored the treasures of your infancy.
As the Full Moon blazes in tear-stained Pisces, out of the toy-box comes Mr Stripey, your ancient teddy bear, so named because of the fine pinstripe waistcoat that he wears. It's Mr Stripey, undoubtedly your dearest love, who must give his life for the firm foundation of Bullish Manse. Egad! You know in your heart of hearts that it's time to put away childish things, as the ghastly St Paul the Appendicitis once said on the occasion of something or other that he thought was of import. As the great Sol Invicti then enters loathsome Libra, visiting yet another ghastly Equinox upon an over-burdened world, you begin to make your preparations. You lay Mr Stripey on the altar stone and strip his smart waistcoat to bear a bearish breast.
By all the gods alive and dead, this is too much too bear (hmm). Let there be weeping unrestrained! Let there be lamentation and mourning in this vale of tears for Mr Stripey will soon be no more (defunct, deceased, etc). Vamping Venus makes unseemly congress with narcotic Neptune and you put on your robes of occult power, the robes of the high priest of bovine boofheads, an ancient order of idiots and imbeciles, not unlike yourself in the main. You take out your sacrificial knife, engraved with runes upon the ebony handle. Your paramour strips naked in preparation for the sexual magic and your mood improves somewhat. Yet grief for what must be is a companion close by.
By my sainted aunt! It's all too distressing! I'll have to have a lie down with my little brown bottle and his good friend, the silver tube. If I recover myself sufficiently (my sensibilities are shattered) after this draining affair with Mr Stripey, I shall unfold the dramatic and sacrificial conclusion for your edification. Until then, ave atque vale, tiny bullish things! And farewell, Mr Stripey!