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Salutations, tiny air sign loonies! Last time, we left you ascending to the skies on a cloud produced by your self-inflating ego as you took the name of Wind Eagle in your attempt to escape from a lunatic asylum in Halifax. For some, there'd be nowhere to go from there. But not for you, tiny imbeciles! You've got more in you than that, as we shall discover from a perusal of the vile and bitter prognostications for malodorous May.
Vamping Venus disports herself lasciviously in addlepate Aries and everyone at the show remarks on how striking you look in your garish feathers. They immediately want to tell you their problems or have sex with you, which may be much the same thing. Jolly Jupiter assails the nether regions of the great Sol Invicti and you deliver psychic pronouncements to the assemblage from your lofty position in the flies (a theatrical term). However, as you speak in such an eccentric manner no one understands a word. This, in the end, proves to be favorable in the matter of the overall impact because thus it is that no one grasps the fact that every single utterance you make is wrong or misdirected. Mischievous Mercury then clatters into cloddish Taurus and you begin to speak of returning to your home in the clouds, high above the world. In fact, you're going to a secret Spanish retreat that you've set up with the profit from an illicit trade in prescription drugs. There, an elderly artist with a Picasso complex awaits your pleasure as your new liaison, the age gap being due to the presence of lugubrious Saturn in Leo and your house of partnership.
As a Full Moon comes in morbid Scorpio, fireworks and fury erupt in a prearranged display that lifts you through the roof of the Halifax loony bin. You chant in a peculiar, eldritch manner as the sprinkler system in the theatre spurts forth in an aqueous 'water feature' style display, dousing the fireworks and bringing a blinding smoke to cover your retreat. As mischievous Mercury and the great Sol Invicti lay their private parts bare for ravishment by dark Pluto, lord of the underworld, you're airlifted away in a jet, owned and piloted by a group of your idiot friends that run a 'mile high' airline.
As the busy messenger and the vain and selfish Sun god clatter into nitwit Gemini, you party in the stratosphere till a New Moon comes in the supple and perverted sign of the two-faced one. That's when the money and fuel run out and you land in Madrid, set to begin anew with your elderly artist and the drug money.
Will this be just another fabulous chapter in your gorgeous life? Or will the shadows of drug-dealing and lunacy follow you and haunt your Spanish days. And are the authorities of Halifax currently looking for an escaped lunatic or an escaped avian? And what is this business of being an eagle anyway? When is that going to make any sense? But then, when does anything you do make sense? Click here next time for the first exciting episode of Hacienda of Horrors! That's if I can be bothered to awake and write it. For the nonce, ave atque vale, my airhead loonies!
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