Salutations, surface-wiping nitwits! Last time, it seems, I was discussing your departure from the order of the Herbicidal Hooligans. You had taken one high up in same as a lover but soon found to your surprise you were both of the lycanthropic persuasion. Thus did you, after a bout of hirsute sexual frenzy, set off into the wilds of Hull to find the mariphasa lupino lumino, the mystic blossom of Tibet, that would cure you and, in turn, all the world of the lunar disease. I hasten to point out that it was you that had visited this affliction on many hapless victims in the course of your 'werewolf dreaming' extravaganza at a far mountain retreat.
However, at this point I lost consciousness, due to exhaustion or ennui or both, and have only recently awoken to find that it's a New Year and the month of jittery January to boot. Thus, I'm late with the forecast. But as there has only been a burst of flatulence in the lugubrious sign of the Goat, little has occurred beyond the pedestrian pursuit of romantic activity in the gruesomely hygienic manner you favour. You may have also had an encounter with a 'long lost' or recalcitrant child on the way.
As we pick up the tragic tale of your wretched existence, mischievous Mercury inserts a supple digit into the nether regions of Uranus, idiot god and god of idiots. Thus do we find you and your loved one discussing anxiously the coming lunar glory that will lead to fur and teeth and howling and such in a manner most familiar to those of you that have nothing better to do than read this egregious tripe. Marauding Mars inserts his rude bit into the private parts of jolly Jupiter and these two lure grim Saturn and narcotic Neptune into a disgusting foursome. Thus do you and your loved one, after a stimulating discussion on knots (one that would make a boy scout blush) fix on a bondage rite. That way, you ensure you will do no harm to others yet enjoy a fierce fleshly encounter, clad in full teeth and fur, but unencumbered by notions of civilized behaviour.
So a Full Moon in neurotic Cancer comes and goes but I will not stoop to describe the odious hirsute events and outré doings illuminated thereby, for no sensitive person could descend to those lower depths and not perish from ennui or screaming boredom or some other ghastly affliction.
But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's a startling development. As your howling declines from its unspeakably bestial heights and fades into lassitude, you hear a distant howling that calls in answer. As grim Saturn cracks the bones of idiot Uranus in lustful embrace, you recognize the familiar tones of Pinkie and Perky, your quondam companions that once were mechanical devices but became the living flesh of lovers and werewolves! Eek! It's your past! It has come back to haunt you as you stand at the brink of redemption! You're filled with a psychic flush (egad! How painful! But good for the colon), knowing straight away (you're still intimately linked with their psyches) that these wee creatures owe their living flesh to lycanthropy. Thus, if you find the mystic flower to banish the werewolf, you take back the life given by your own passion and the wild, praeternatural forces of the earth.
Gadzooks, little anal intensives! It's a dilemma of the first water in the matter of moral dilemmas. To cure one ill you must commit another, so destroying two lives made in the magic of love (your own) and the wild places of the earth. For did you not once love Pinkie and Perky more than any other living thing! And was it not this love of yours that brought the wee devices of sexual wonder into fleshly life? You listen to distant howling! You look askance at your new lover! You worry and wonder! Of course, all this moral agony bespeaks the presence of ghastly farting in your solar sixth house and that's where we now find the great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury, cavorting lasciviously with cranky Chiron in Aquarius, sign of the idiot god!
As a New Moon comes in that same lunatic sign, you sit on the horns of a dilemma (ouch). Must you bear the curse of the werewolf to preserve the lives of the pack you yourself have had a hand in creating? Or will you quest forth, find the flower and end the curse? Or will you move to Poland, get a job driving frozen food to Damascus and be struck from your truck by an evangelistic vision such as caused St Paul to write the most boring collection of letters on moral duty ever recorded in the history of the world? As I'd rather perform a colonic irrigation with a screwdriver and a bottle of methylated spirits than continue with this drivel for a moment longer, you will have to click here next time to see what occurs. In the meantime, hail and farewell, my virginal nitwits!