What ho, my two-faced twits! Last time, we left you incarcerated in a prison hospital and primed to endure further physical duress as a vengeful horde waited at the door of your room. All this, of course, occurred just after your most precious dreams had turned to dust and ashes in your mouth. Oh well! Life's just like that sometimes, especially life in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods, which is the unspeakably hideous realm you currently inhabit. So, without further ado, we will consult the vile and bitter prognostications for noxious November, the current month, if I'm reliably informed.
But what's this? By all of the flatulent demons of the twenty-ninth hell (and that's quite a few), the tables turn instanter in your favour, due for the most part to the actions of others, a phenomenon that is consistent with the presence of jolly Jupiter in your solar seventh house. First cab off the rank is mischievous Mercury as the little tyke steams out of perverse reverse in loathsome Libra. Thus, does a comely and stylish legal person step up and swear to defend you in a court of law, averring unreservedly your innocence. Gadzooks! Yet, this run of fortune doesn't end there for, as the great Sol Invicti gropes cranky Chiron, a foreign specialist on duty in the prison ward observes your parlous condition and, in a most timely and medical manner, administers the correct potions to soothe your fever and heal your private parts. Vamping Venus reveals her secret bits to dark Pluto, lord of the underworld, and you're bailed to return home under the supervision of your lawyer. Venus sleazes into loathsome Libra, and the term 'supervision' takes on a whole new meaning as you begin a passionate litigation with your legal saviour. You hold parties and prance about in those dreadful multicoloured garments you prefer to wear.
A New Moon comes in evil Scorpio and you're reinstated at your place of work, pending the outcome of your trial. As mischievous Mercury returns to the sign of the death god, you hold constant and obsessive inspections of your sexual organs to assure yourself the infection has abated. Sadly, not all the news is as uplifting as this last instalment for marauding Mars moves into perverse reverse in neurotic Cancer and tragedy strikes the department of dosh. Food bills, liquor bills and wages for the servants spiral out of control. You get a bill from your family for the cost of bringing you up, with a ten percent loading for the mental and emotional damage caused by prolonged exposure to yourself. In addition, the cisterns in your house block up, requiring the attendance of a highly expensive plumber (is there any other kind?). And, last but not least, the artificial lake in your backyard raises such a storm you become fearful and have to hide in a cupboard. Despite this fiscal misfortune, the trial goes well as your lawyer delivers a bravura performance that saves you from the slammer and sees you diverted to community service, polishing lily leaves for a horticulturalist.
But, by all the gods alive and dead, what cosmic slap in the face is this that Heaven now delivers? Having saved your bacon, the successful legal eagle abandons you, taking a gig in a reality television for a show called SPOT THE FELON, making the creature unspeakably wealthy and successful beyond measure, though your bill is not forgotten but instanter sent, adding more weight to the fiscal duress. Yet, just as it seems fickle fortune has turned her face away once more, the great Sol Invicti rolls and clatters into silly Sagittarius and you roll and clatter down to the horticulturalist's house to begin community service. And, by my sainted aunt, you meet the most comely creature you have ever seen, fall instantly in love and spend a deal of time polishing the lily as instructed, just as a Full Moon rises in your nitwit sign.
Gadzooks, my ghastly types, I can write no more for creeping ennui grows like a bramble in the garden of my mind. I shall take no further interest in your lunatic doings until next month, at which point, should you wish to read more drivel such as this, you may click here and do so. For the nonce, it's hail and farewell to you, my loquacious loonies!
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