What ho, cloddish types! Are you ready for another fatuous chapter in the tale of BEEF ON A BIKE, the latest adventure in the interminably wearisome fiasco that is your life? Last time, the twists and turns of the fantastic voyage saw you channel the nine lost books of the KALEVALA, the ancient epic of Finnish wisdom and lunacy. You became an oracle in the land of the midnight sun as crowds gathered at your feet to indulge in sex, sausage, spirit and sauna. Eek! How decadent and how positively cultish!
So, what do the vile and bitter prognostications hold for the month of obnoxious October? Read them and weep, my tiny masticating morons!
As mischievous Mercury grinds his ghastly passage (eek) into morbid Scorpio, sage voices discuss, in a perceptive if gloomy manner, your antics, trances and the wisdom spilling from your bovine lips. Many vigorous exchanges on the matter of how you should be addressed now take place. As the words 'boofhead', 'blockhead' and 'clot' are proffered and debated, it's clear your nature and talents have been recognized. Just as the discussion reaches critical mass (a thing that takes time in Finland), there is an odiferous outbreak of cosmic flatulence.
Egad! It's a Full Moon in idiot Aries, piercing the gloom of your solar twelfth house with a nasty penetrating gaze. You fall backwards into a deeper trance than the one you're already in. Gadzooks! Now there's a revolting development! Fever rages in your bullish body and you fantasize about all manner of disgusting practices, involving blood, sharp instruments and chili. As addlepate planets cavort in your solar fourth and sixth houses, you're installed by devoted followers in a Finnish castle where you're massaged and ministered to in the comfort of the prone position.
But what's this? As mischievous Mercury flaunts himself before the lustful gaze of narcotic Neptune, you drift in a hazy state of incomprehension, unable to understand anything that goes on around you. However, as this is much like the state in which you normally exist, you may not notice anything out of the ordinary.
But the cosmic eructations take on a life of their own! And, by my sainted aunt, tiny loonies! A miracle occurs! A thing of visionary or mystical nature that is like the Virgin at Lourdes or the Buddha under the Bhodi tree or the coming of the great frog to Halifax. And what is this miraculous thing? At first, it's strong hands that grip your numb and ailing body, just as marauding Mars sticks his nasty protuberance into the squashy bits of the great Sol Invicti. Then, it's the ancient words of power, recited in the elder fashion, as mischievous Mercury conducts unseemly congress with jolly Jupiter. And, as a New Moon engages in acts of unspeakable foulness and depravity with marauding Mars, wave upon wave of miraculous healing energy flows into your very being. This flood of energy is channelled by a white-robed man, one of your devoted followers that is a master healer in the ancient tradition.
And this is the miracle, my tiny turnips! This healer has hovered at your bedside, tenderly ministering to you and seeking to revive your spirit. Now the very land and the spirit of the land surge through his ancient limbs and into your prone ones! Eek! Egad! Gadzooks! And other such quaint expressions to indicate shock and amazement! You're healed! Hoorah!
And you, bovine boofheads, are chosen by the land of the midnight sun to be the voice of ancient wisdom! Nine Books shall be your name from this day forward and you will lead the cult of the Midnight Sun, devoted to the wisdom of sauna, sausage and sex. The atmosphere around you is thick and powerful, much like your legendary neck (and mind as well). The devout attentions of all those gathered flow into you as nasty planets cavort in evil Scorpio. Cranky Chiron performs unnerving erotic gyrations with the great Sol Invicti and vamping Venus. You rise from your sickbed, cured of the ills that plagued you. Cured that is, apart from general obtuseness and excessive fondness for the pleasures of the flesh and the coin of the realm, for these are written into your cloddish nature, courtesy of the insane stars above that rule the grim firmament below.
Halloween calls! The elder gods summon Nine Books and the cult of the Midnight Sun to their first night of ghastly worship. And, as mischievous Mercury turns retrograde in the odious sign of the Scorpion, the dark tones of an elder voice speak through your mouth. What bizarre and eldritch thing is this? Quelle horreur, my future leather jackets! What good can come from this occult marvel? What ancient power speaks through the medium of you? What will this power say?
As I have all but expired from terminal ennui, you'll have to wait till next month to discover the terrifying answers to these tedious questions. Ave, BEEF ON A BIKE!