Gadzooks, little air sign loonies! It is I, Asperitus, oracle of bitter truth. It is also awful August. And, as it happens, I have on hand a dose of prognostication, vile and bitter as is customary, that I can immediately dispense. Pin back those ears of yours that normally do nothing but protect the gap between them and I will deliver unto to you that which is yours by right!
Last time we left, your relationship with your new lover was in tatters, your dreamlike quest to Avalon had become a storm-wracked nightmare and you yourself were turning into a giant bird, or so it seemed. One can hardly wait to ask the question, what will happen this time?
As cranky Chiron reverses to the miserable sign of Capricorn and your solar twelfth house, you begin to feel sorry for yourself, but at least you stop turning into a member of the avian genus. As the New Moon comes in lackwit Leo, you sit by yourself in the rain. You mutter about every past lover you've had. You conduct imaginary conversations with them in which you tell them exactly what you think of them and misrepresent all that happened between you so you can feel they are to blame for the wrongs between you.
But what's this? Why just as you begin to feel entirely vindicated about the constant failure of your personal life, the great Sol Invicti gropes the private parts of narcotic Neptune and a procession of visionary figures steps toward you from the rain and mist.
Great gods alive and dead, it's a body of shining nuns, each one dancing in a disco cage that floats like a hovercraft and each one carrying a sacred object. Why there's the silver platform boots, the cross with flashing lights, the sacred mobile phone (complete with a scabbard that guarantees the wearer will never miss a call) and, egad, the Holy Grail itself, a cappuccino mug! It's a dumbfounded airhead nincompoop you are as you witness this highly spiritual procession in this highly spiritual place! And it's just for you, my tiny lunatics! What do you make of that?
Surely it's living proof that DISCO NUNS GO TO AVALON must soon see the light of day! The processing nuns look expectantly, but you are so transfixed by the wonder of it all that you are dumbstruck. But, as ghastly planets fart in the cosmic winds (I can't be bothered to recount which ones, really I can't), you gesture helplessly and seek to follow on in the wake of this passing parade. And yet, somehow it eludes you, fading into the mist before you can utter the cry expected of you, 'whom does the cappuccino serve?' Thus, all too late are your efforts, my tiny lunatics, for all too soon the disco nuns are gone from sight, faded into the grim dark forest that now surrounds you.
Gadzooks, little airheads! You have wandered from the path you were on. You look about you but recognize nothing. The storm has eased but the mists are heavier still. As vamping Venus slithers into decadent Libra, a light shines in the gloom as you come to a hut in the forest, where a gracious person clad in simple robes of lavender and grey beckons you to enter. Mischievous Mercury moves forward and you recover your powers of speech.
'Who are you,' comes your croaking question.
'I am the disco hermit,' comes the smooth reply. At that moment, the Full Moon blazes in your own lunatic sign and you realize that you are on the grail quest, seeking the holy cappuccino mug. And, if you remember right that story that you read in the comic book edition, you'll have to do a lot of lonely wandering now, as you've missed your first opportunity, just like Perceval, the legendary lunatic, ingénue and grail knight. Ye gods and little fishes! How long will it be that you have to wander in the wilderness before you achieve the spiritual fulfillment of DISCO NUNS?
At that moment, an extraordinary thing occurs, little loonies! Marauding Mars, war god and the patron saint of psychotic belligerence, harasses narcotic Neptune and mischievous Mercury with his ghastly and improper attentions. And, suddenly, you break into paroxysms of weeping in a manner most unlike your emotionally challenged normal self. You wail and cry about the pain of your past and all the guilt you feel for being so feckless and uncaring as to hurt all those foolish enough to love you. You unmake all those assertions you made at the New Moon and beg the holy isle of Avalon to help you make reparation for your wrongs to all of your past lovers.
It's quite moving really, though also faintly disgusting and too melodramatic for my taste. Nonetheless, the disco hermit comforts you with the solace of wisdom of hermetic wisdom and sexual favours. And, it's there we have to leave you, tiny airhead things! Before I begin to think I would rather have my teeth removed with no anaesthetic than continue with this drivel for a moment longer. Kindly click here next month and I will be sufficiently restored through the agency of brown bottle and silver tube to continue. In the meantime, ave atque vale, tiny ning-nongs!
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