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 Asperitus Casting Runes... |
Greetings, nitwit nonentities of the air sign persuasion! Last month we left you humming a cheery air as you triumphed in a tricky game of reality television. This month, what do we find? Why, little ninnies of air and nothingness, we find the vile and bitter prognostications for nasty November, as we'd expect if we were paying attention and concentrating properly!
Thus it is you are about to return home and collect the cash prize you've earned from the victory. But, in doing so, you'll have to face an army of debt collectors and disaffected colleagues. Ever being one to embrace a challenge by ignoring the consequences, you light upon a brilliant idea. You ask the producer of the reality show if they would like to set their cameras to follow you as you wend your way through the network of challenges that will follow upon your return. You will be cleverly disguised and thus pass unnoticed until you grab the cash and then run for foreign climes to disport yourself joyfully as one of the idle rich. Because this media creature is also an imbecile of the airhead persuasion, she/he is delighted to take a role in the farce of your life. Plans are laid and contracts are drawn up and signed. As the great Sol Invicti clashes with nasty Neptune, you re-enter your homeland in a ridiculous disguise. Venus the goddess enters nitwit Sagittarius and you phone up old friends, using foolish and affected voices, to see if you can find any who still hold affection for you. This strategy fails and you also begin to wonder if you can remain anonymous, given that a TV crew follows you everywhere. You decide to phone your parents to see if they can help you lie low but, as the Full Moon in idiot Taurus brings a lunar eclipse, you find they have moved away, changing address, phone number, email, et cetera without telling you. Perhaps they were too preoccupied. In the meantime, the great day approaches. You will be presented with a cash prize in a ceremony to be broadcast live to air, you, the victorious one and the bringer of universal peace through song. Gods, I feel ill! Thus you make arrangements to flee the country on the instant. A raft of irritating planets make a gaggle of odious aspects and you have cars booked with body doubles, false bookings on airlines and a limousine crammed with costumes, beards, wigs and makeup artists. You will triumph, little airhead nitwits, or perish in the attempt! Ah say not so! We would be bereft without your cheery smile and asinine wit as we roam the wasteland of this benighted world ruled by insane gods. Heavens, what am I saying! My medication must be wearing off! I shall have to finish this now otherwise I shall slip into the sleep that passes all understanding! The great day arrives. It's the New Moon in idiot Sagittarius! But what's this, little airheads? It's also a solar eclipse! You arrive at the studio to find your dream has become a nightmare. Vast and mountainous bearded fellows greet you, but there is no singing this time. These are the myrmidons of Pluto, ruffians of the highest (or lowest) order. As marauding Mars clashes with every planet it can hit, they throw you to the ground very roughly and begin demanding money in very loud voices. Oh dear! How sad! Never mind! It turns out, little air sign dupes that there was no reality television and, worse yet, there is no prize. The whole thing was a clever scheme by a debt collection agency to get you to return to face the music, but this is a tune of a different kind altogether. Venus the goddess enters miserable Capricorn and you find you're headed for the halls of incarceration. Great gods alive and dead, little nitwit ninnies! You're going to jail! What will happen to you? If, in the interim between now and next month's forecast anyone shows any interest in your fate, I shall certainly let you know. In the meantime, drivelling twits! Ta! Ta!  |
