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Great addlebrained twerps and hairy turnips! We left you in a loony bin in Halifax last time! Certified as St Cretin, notable wretch, nitwit and psychic detective! Are you not content with the suffering you already have that you must slither back to the vile and bitter cup for more?
It's jittery January, my oafish galoots! The first of twelve such odious undertakings in this New Year and I'm late with the forecast, conclusively proving that nothing in the course of Heaven, Earth and the realm of the insane gods is changed nor will it ever! I overslept due to ennui. I am awake now and will prognosticate upon your grim and ghastly future. We've missed a bit but I'll catch you up with that first. And, as it was only unspeakable farting in the lugubrious sign of the Goat, it did nothing to dispel the misery you were feeling or in any way alter your parlous situation. Thus, we find you much as we left you, despite the passage of time. You are lonely in your cell as you realize the barred windows and the funny coat with the sleeves at the back do in fact a prison make. Thus you spend most of your time talking with the other incarcerated lunatics, finding that you have more in common with them than a normal person would prefer.
All this is due to vamping Venus, perversely reversed, and mischievous Mercury, both of them in gloomy Capricorn. After several conversations with those who claim to be secret agents for the US government, millionaires in hiding and famous film stars researching new roles, you begin to wonder if the move from Somerset to Halifax has been quite what you hoped. Although, you do encounter several old buddies from your media days and an interesting elderly artist with a 'Picasso' complex. Of course, all of this is due to the farting of odious planets too tedious to name in aspects too hideous to describe. Suffice it to say that, by the Full Moon in neurotic Cancer, you have fallen into a routine of life in Bedlam and are beginning to think that you too are a person of importance, sheltering from the trammel and worry of daily life in the outside world. Of course, while the latter part of that statement is correct, the earlier part is as misguided as any view of yourself that you've ever held.
On the positive side, you find there is a significant trade in prescription drugs, involving the nurses and other patients. Your own lively participation soon sees a change for the better in your pecuniary circumstances. And, by my sainted aunt, as the great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury grind their passage (eek) into your benighted sign, it seems your standing with staff and inmates alike has risen exponentially since your incarceration. By all the gods alive and dead, as the ghastly New Moon comes in the sign of the idiot god (that's your sign), you have evolved from dull stereotype to bright archetype. Your identity as St Cretin, psychic detective and nitwit is not the risible bagatelle it once was among the burghers and parking wardens of Halifax. No indeed! For you have shed your customary wretchedness to become the baron of Bedlam, the most influential idiot in the asylum.
Great Caesar's ghost! Are there no natural limits on the heights to which you might rise among the company of lunatics? Click here next time and see! For the nonce, ave atque vale, my tiny airhead nincompoops!
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