Hail to you, puling pissants! Last time we left you in the dread grip of ghastly guilt as grim Saturn danced a garish gavotte in your appalling sign. Thus, you chose the path of suffering and sought to abrade each and every pleasure in life by doing something useful for the world and punishing your person in a most unpleasant fashion.
So what further fateful flatulence will assail those nitpicking nostrils of yours in this, the month of odious October? Why, my virginal ninnies, let us consult the vile and bitter prognostications, as delivered by moi, Asperitus, horrid haruspex from Hackney and crazed conductor of the damned to Hell! Here is the dread cup, O bean-counting scrubbers and manic surface-wiping types! Drink the malodorous draught and expire from the horror of it all!
With marauding Mars in neurotic Cancer, you nurse dyspeptic shellfish and other crustaceans, devoting your days to services such as this because your life is otherwise empty, sad and tragic. Mischievous Mercury rollicks through evil Scorpio and mysterious strangers stop you in the streets to make enigmatic remarks or offer money for drugs, sex or occult counsel. As vamping Venus then slithers into your nasty little sign, you design a new line in sackcloth undergarments, encouraging people to suffer as much as you do. You even make and market a soothing herbal unguent that will ease the rashes or inflammation caused by wearing said items. As jolly Jupiter rogers the living daylights out of Uranus, god of idiots, you continue your spiritual studies at home and have casual sex with foreigners in transit or with academics that suffer from St Virus Dance or any related jactitating condition.
As the New Moon comes in lackwit Libra, you use the profits from the sale of kidney stone jewellery to purchase sackcloth in various colours so you and others may experience personal agony in a vibrant, outgoing manner. You purchase material for sackcloth belts, socks and shirts, and also pocket handkerchiefs, especially designed to lacerate the nose in the cause of universal suffering. Yet not all goes well for you, my little duckie things! And 'Heaven sent' is the travail that troubles you as mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse in the sign of morbid Scorpio. Siblings send poison pen letters over hurts from long ago. Neighbours have medical emergencies due to the excessive consumption of intoxicants or they conduct occult rites, disturbing the peace by chanting loudly in some outré tongue once used by a demon race that lived in Hull. You also have mishaps in traffic, contretemps with teachers and an interminable argument over the history of railway timetables with a Russian sorcerer, convicted of smuggling plutonium or catmint.
Thus, as grim Saturn sticks the knobbly bit into the private parts of vamping Venus whilst harassing the Loony South Node, you withdraw from life and the world in disenchantment. You then busy yourself with a myriad of minor tasks related to personal hygiene and the cleaning of your cleaning implements, just as cranky Chiron limbers up to launch himself forwards once more. Yet you will not be left to your own devices (eek), O teeny twits, for the great Sol Invicti now rolls and clatters into morbid Scorpio and a publishing fellow reads your tract on the 'blight of happiness' and seeks to publish it, in line with the current 'post modern' thinking that misery is the new happiness. As the busy messenger rolls backwards into lackwit Libra, you haggle over money but when vamping Venus flashes her equipment in the face of Uranus, god of idiots, you sign the deal and go ahead.
And, by my little brown bottle, fortune favours you as the Full Moon shines her grim necrotic light in cloddish Taurus. You're feted worldwide as THE BLIGHT OF HAPPINESS becomes the 'must read' of the now. You're especially popular in the Greek Islands, Dublin, St Louis and Palermo, receiving various communications from persons delineating the state of equanimity they have achieved on shedding all desire for happiness, especially those using particular varieties of prescription drugs. You naturally write back, recommending an herbal alternative. However, the upshot is clear to your discerning if peculiar mind by means of a startling revelation. You see that, as the desire for happiness is a fool's errand, due to the fact that this is a benighted universe ruled by insane gods, therefore one must fall shy of fulfilment, making one unhappy because the search has failed. To desire happiness is to be unhappy! Eek! How paradoxical and yet how true. Yet, if one accepts the condition of suffering and names happiness a blight on all endeavours, there is no failure nor is there shortcoming, as one has lowered the bar.
Thus, as Saturn teaches, do not desire happiness for you will be unhappy. This dark reasoning reveals that truly the old Devil has you in his grasp, O tiny turnips, and has passed on to you the grimness from his grimoire on gloomy magic! Mischievous Mercury pokes the pointy bit into dark Pluto, underworld lord, and you begin a 'gloom' inspired work on the equanimity of suffering, choosing to write on abrasive paper with a wooden pencil with lots of nasty splinters. But little do you know that as you scribble, scribble, scribble on All Hallows' Eve, you will conjure, with the magic of evil Saturn in your pencil, a spirit of malice and spite that will desecrate all human life and make mock of human suffering by ramping it up ten thousand fold! No happy Halloween for you, my little virginal twits and new servants of the old Devil, Saturn! Ave!
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