I salute you, tiny cretinous creatures! Let us sing the airhead anthem together so that we may be reminded of old times in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods. On second thoughts, let us not! When I think of the money I've spent on prescription drugs trying to forget such things, I shudder to contemplate how one unfortunate moment of mawkish sentiment might undo the excellent work of the staff in Heaven. Let us instead consult the vile and bitter prognostications for awful August whereby you may learn of the ghastly fate that awaits you.
Due to an attack of creeping ennui (an almost terminal one, I do declare), I'm so late with the forecast that you're being assailed by the ghastly glare of a Full Moon in your lunatic sign in the moment of writing this drivel! Eek! In the recent past, you've been assailed by the unseemly intercourse of grim Saturn and idiot Uranus, causing partners (ugh) to spend or demand your precious funds. You've been assaulted by the concupiscent congress of the great Sol Invicti and jolly Jupiter, whereupon close associates argued with officialdom or disported themselves in extravagant garb at public functions. Marauding Mars has also wagged his nasty bit at cranky Chiron, causing you to assault small animals, pay to have sex with someone with a severe nervous condition or a Swedish accent or spend extravagantly on miniature portraits of nudes in athletic poses. Lastly, the great Sol Invicti inserted himself into the nether regions of grim Saturn, forcing you to mix with persons aged, infirm or with painfully stiff joints.
Now you may or may not remember you're living in Madrid and engaged to an elderly artist with a Picasso complex while you're also married to a seed seller. You've also fallen prey to the delusion you're an eagle. By my little brown bottle, this is so complicated already that it hardly seems worth continuing. However, as that's the way most things appear to me, I suppose I should carry on regardless. And so I do! Beneath the chill necrotic gaze of a mad Lady Moon, you find yourself in the company of an aging idiot and a smelly street vendor, neither of whom you actually like. You immediately introduce them to one another in the hope they'll fall in love and marry so you can fly away to Planet Eyrie, where all the other eagles live. However, events do not go as planned! Due to ghastly planets in lackwit Leo meeting with thresh and flail the assault of imbecile planets in your sign, your hacienda becomes the scene of an appalling bun fight. The three of you scream, hurl insults and objects whilst making cutting remarks or having occasional sex (in all numeric permutations) in order to relieve the monotony of the conflict. You invite guests to witness your performance and several times have to deal with the authorities when they're called to the disturbances you create. And then, my gruesome little ninnies, the Heavens take a hand in things to make matters worse, a strategy the insane gods are all too fond of.
The great Sol Invicti grinds a ghastly passage (eek) into anal Virgo, bringing the New Moon in that vexatious sign and in the confines of your solar eighth house. Shudder! The eighth house is a nasty realm where gloomy occultists, greedy tax-collectors and shrewish sex-workers come to play, bringing to the surface that which it were better to conceal! Eek! You realize the situation you're in, the essence of dysfunction, is the ideal solution to your current financial problems. The worms of need and greed grow within your darkling heart.
It's simple, is it not! Charge an exorbitant entrance fee to the melee of your life and bribe the visiting constabulary to ensure your security of tenure. Two birds with one stone, though the eagle must be grounded for a time. Instanter, 'Two Birds' brothel is in operation though with mischievous Mercury in irritating Virgo, you mutter grimly and harbour morbid thoughts about death and your eccentric life whilst offering personal services. Not a happy camper! Yet the bank accounts swell as you argue, fight and fornicate for the delight of a Spanish public that clearly has more money than sense, as is common in this 'post modern' world. But, in the morass of intrigues, a loveless marriage, a loveless engagement and a sordid knocking shop, are you losing the desire to fly on high and look on the mundane world from eagle's wings? What of your spirit, O Wind Eagle? Is it lost in the relentless grip of grim reality? How will you fly free again?
As I'm passing out with ennui and terminal boredom, you'll have to click here next time to see if this idiotic question has an equally idiotic answer. For the nonce, it is I, Asperitus, doctor of doom, bidding you 'ave', my tiny turnips!