Aloha, my little pineapples! I wonder, has anything interesting fallen into the gap between your ears since last we spoke? No, for pity's sake, don't answer me! It's a rhetorical question and only intended to fill up space as I gather my scattered wits, an exercise that can take some time, especially when I am recently awoken from the blissful snoozing known only to those that dwell in the realms of sublime irritation.
It seems I'm late with the forecast again. Something really must be done! But I can't think what as I hate getting up, so we'll just leave things as they are for the moment. Thus we can get on with my purpose in my being here, which is to insult and abuse you by means of fanciful astrological bilge that no one in their right mind would either read or write.
That says it all, doesn't it! Now, last time we left, you were depressed about your mother. You had torn up your manuscript about Disco Nuns and the like and were preparing to go off and find yourself. This 'finding yourself' was to be done so as to learn about relationships and thus enable you to have a serious and mature one. Ribald laughter exploded here in Heaven when that was discussed, I can tell you. Although, it must be said, the gods are generally so drunk they don't know what they're laughing at most of the time. That aside, you also determined you would take up a new profession as a psychic detective.
Now, as I haven't had a better offer meantime, I suppose I must address the awful business of your fatuous lives, as we consult the vile and bitter prognostications for nasty November. Already there has been a New Moon in morbid Scorpio, with nasty aspects to miserable Saturn, as the great Sol Invicti and Lady Moon fondled his aging, wrinkled corpus. Thus, you set off on the business of becoming a psychic detective, wandering about the countryside, making impertinent remarks to everyone you met. You made 'off the cuff' assumptions about their personal lives, their childhood, their mothers (hmm), their fears and their secret neuroses.
That's where we find you now, with mischievous Mercury groping Uranus, the idiot god, and vamping Venus lost in the desolate climes of the sign of the Goat. Despite the fact that everything you say is wrong and many people that you speak with hit you and drive you off, you're oddly buoyed by your efforts. You determine to continue till you rise in the ranks of psychic detectives and become the most famous one in the world.
Hmm! There's so much for us to look forward to that I hardly know how to express my self on the matter. And, of course, this takes place under the auspices of the fury of a predictable hurricane of cosmic flatulence in which marauding Mars is, yet again, the chief offender as he goes ten rounds with narcotic Neptune and the great Sol Invicti. You wander on in this peculiar peripatetic mood, pondering on your mother, wondering if you'll ever have a relationship and picking up the odd straggler who follows in your wake, believing you to be a person of importance.
Mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse and you assail those you meet with your insightful (though erroneous) perceptions. When they deny the accuracy of what you say, you simply tell them you're right and they're wrong, a tactic you have often used to get through life in a wide variety of situations. You're particularly hard in your pronouncements on elderly people with back pain and young males with anger problems, with the result that you're often avoiding mobility carts or dodging fists or projectiles. This turns your wander to a sprint with the occasional hitched lift on the back of a cart or lorry. And, on this helter-skelter mystical journey, the Full Moon casts her chill necrotic light from the sign of cloddish Taurus.
All of a sudden, you look up to see a white rose on a billboard before your eyes. Gadzooks, my tiny lunatics! Is this a mystic sign? Your astonishment is compounded further when, as the great Sol Invicti ambles into addlepate Sagittarius, you discover that you're in Halifax, a long way from the wilds of Somerset and Avalon.
It's no wonder you're fatigued, tiny turnips! You look about you and find that you've accumulated a rag tag and bobtail army of degenerates and the unemployed that follows in your wake, watching the extraordinary spectacle of you.
Inspiration strikes! You decide you will make Halifax your home. Huzzah! You will be the resident and much-loved psychic detective of West Yorkshire and the white rose will be your symbol. And all your life will be devoted to the deepest understanding of the workings of the human mind. You may well need all your life to even begin to understand your own. Certes, darling airheads, that is the truth!
But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's trouble that follows this burst of inspiration. The busy messenger re-enters morbid Scorpio via the back passage (eek) and nasty officialdom appears and begins to querulously question you as to your intent and purpose in the town of Halifax and also as to why you have a band of wastrels and woebegones in tow! And, as this questioning takes place, you idly search your pockets and realize you have neither ID nor funds upon your person. Eek!
How unnerving to be nameless and broke in a West Yorkshire town with only a band of idiots as your companions. Is your espousal of Halifax and the white rose to be yet another ruin before it has even begun? In all likelihood, yes! But, as I'm fatigued myself and feeling in need of solace from my little brown bottle and my silver tube, I'll leave you hanging in midair till next time. Click here then, my tiny twits! If I'm awake, I will doubtless write more such drivel as this. Ta! Ta!
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