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My sainted aunt, tiny airhead twits! It seems, perforce, I must address you once again as the month has now turned around! Manic March is on the agenda! And so, armed with rubber gloves, a spray deodorant guaranteed to withstand a nuclear attack and my trusty little brown bottle in the shoulder holster (for easy access), I undertake my grim prognosticatory duties, vile and bitter though they are.
Attend me now, my frightful ninnies! Last time, you had scored a triumph over the Sons of Edward Longshanks, a reactionary patriot group that picketed your hit musical HAIRRRR, due to its promotion of the people of Scotland and its all round awfulness. You had done so in a battle at close range where frozen peas, ground pepper and occult curses were the weapons. As usual, you were then content to rest upon the laurels of recent success, not suspecting that the peppered patriots were regrouping for another sortie. And so do the vile and bitter matters begin.
Mischievous Mercury clashes with Pluto, dark lord of the underworld, and attacks are launched on your lovely friends (great gods alive and dead, say not so). They are mugged, losing cash, mobile phones and credit cards, and strapping men with shaven heads are the perpetrators. These fellows promise to return the purloined property if only these friends of yours will eschew your companionship, tell the public what a ghastly person you are and sell stories of your sex life, drug habits and tedious childhood to the media and the scandal sheets. Needless to say, your friends do the right thing one and all by spilling the beans as quickly as they can and peppering the disgusting stories they know with bizarre twists they make up by themselves.
Soon, the tales of airplane orgies, time in prison, fake mesmerism, bogus electromagnetic healing and shares in a brothel (as well as the vile sexual antics there) are circulated throughout the land. And, while at first, the naturally prurient public flocks to the show just to catch a glimpse of you in all your notoriety, the tide of grim judgement in this Presbyterian land soon turns against you. Mischievous Mercury's move to Aries sees you doing articles and interviews to defend yourself but the grind and clash of odious planets undermines your efforts. Jolly Jupiter, marauding Mars, lugubrious Saturn and the Lunar Nodes all make a grand cross that marks a fall from public favour as the attacks of hidden enemies bring you down.
In the blinking of an eye, the great success that was HAIRRRR is a failure, theatre doors closed, while the backless kilts and whiskey incense are relegated to the bargain table. Even your knees betray you again by swelling up in a most inconsiderate and unsightly manner. Ye gods and little fishes, my water-bearing twerps! You're out of fashion and limping painfully! How upsetting! If you find someone who cares, I'm sure they will sympathize. At the New Moon in snivelling Pisces, where the great Sol Invicti and vamping Venus clash with Pluto, dark god of the underworld, you find you're looking at a credit card bill the equal of the Middle East peace-keeping budget. And you don't have any money to pay it! Yikes and double yikes!
Quelle horreur, my tiny addlepate tikes! And, as if all of that is not enough, mischievous Mercury turns retrograde and a cloud of confusion and frustration settles about your airhead ears. You roam the streets, tripping over, falling down, shouting incoherently and gesticulating in an aggressive manner. You abuse ticket dispensers, traffic lights and any signs with the colour red in them. But what's this? Great gods alive and dead, it's a cosmic cacophony!
The great Sol Invicti plows into arrogant Aries, casting the dreadful shadow of another Equinox upon the world, and there before you in the street awaits the gaggle of your enemies, gathered in a menacing line. It's the Sons of Edward Longshanks, tiny idiots! What will you do?
But what's this? Marauding Mars trips into your lunatic sign and thus you feel charged with confidence and courage. You stand up straight and assert yourself in steely fashion. The Full Moon comes in the loathsome sign of Libra and you lecture these hapless shaven-headed fools, with their steel-capped boots (eek) and funny trousers. Your cloud of confusion clears and you urge that they abjure the creeping disease of patriotism, exhorting them to put aside their nationalistic ways and become true citizens of the world! You make sport of them with your verbal brilliance and yet embrace their leaden simple-mindedness within the spiritual girth of your compassion and deep love of humanity (ugh).
However, as usual, you have failed to read your audience when delivering one of these mind-numbing monologues on the mystic powers of universal brotherhood and sisterhood! Ghastly planets fart in nasty Aries and you find you are in the midst of a threatening circle of Edward Longshanks' doughty sons. Fists are clenched, grim mouths are set and the shiny steel caps on their boots seem to glare with evil menace. It seems you may be in for a rather traditional pasting, my flatulent tiny tots! It's not the ABC of nationhood but rather the GBH of it that you are soon to learn, unless it is that marauding Mars, conjoined in unseemly fashion with cranky Chiron, can give you a crash course in the pugilistic arts. Or perhaps these two ghastly planets may conspire to spirit you entirely to another realm where persons are free to follow their hearts with no threat of national borders or their grim patrols to inhibit a love of freedom and of one another!
Gods, I'm feeling unwell. I must rest! Doubtless the spirit of universal boredom will call us to our gruesome monthly meeting next time. Until then, my asinine airhead things! Ta! Ta!
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