Hail to you, tiny turnips! Are you ready for laggard loquacity from the maw of the misbegotten magus? That's me, by the way. Asperitus! Oracle of bitter truth! At your service!
It's obvious to anyone that's awake (not always the case with me) that jittery January is well down the river of no return but I feel obliged to discuss something of its vagaries on your behalf before I return to the oblivion of the little brown bottle. And so I shall!
Of course, it may be argued that you have missed a great deal of the proceedings thus far. However, from the bottom of my heart (only a short plumbline is required to find it), I shall offer such guidance as I can on what has already taken place in the faint hope that it may be more interesting in retrospect than it was at the time.
As I recall it, last time we left you had fornicated with a guru, been fleeced by that selfsame person but had nonetheless found nirvana and had also decided to become a guru yourself. All very worthy intentions and no doubt the nirvana left lying about the place for you to purloin was of the very highest quality. Thus, as if by magic, jolly Jupiter and Uranus, the idiot god, came into harmonious coitus and all your idiot friends soon believed that you were the enlightened one, even though your nirvana was found (under the bed as I recall) rather than obtained through a lifetime of discipline. Incidentally, the discipline will come when grim Saturn enters your solar eighth house (eek), but that will be later on and it is another kind of discipline altogether.
A Full Moon then followed in neurotic Cancer and you prepared special foods for people to eat at their first working seminar in achieving enlightenment. As your knowledge of pharmaceuticals is that of the expert since your time in the Halifax loony bin, the drugs worked well and your students believe they experienced Samadhi under your expert tuition. Well, that was a relief! As vamping Venus then flaunted her nether regions in your idiotic sign, you purchased several new outfits with the profits and took several people out to dinner so you could have sex with them. As the great Sol Invicti flayed the private parts of mischievous Mercury, using his rod of authority, you continued to talk in that obscure, affected and circuitous manner that is the speech of gurus from time immemorial. Sadly, it still works on the average brainless seeker that has more money than sense, a demographic in the social order that is never in short supply. As vamping Venus conjoined lewdly with cranky Chiron, you began to walk in an affected manner, adopting a somewhat avian demeanour. You made raucous shrieking noises as well. As marauding Mars rammed his rude bit into the underworld of dark Pluto, all and sundry acclaimed you 'the fashionable guru' and your cult exploded into notoriety.
By now, we have completed the recap. Thus, mischievous Mercury wanders into your silly sign and you talk more and more idiotically than usual. But what's this? Great palpitating polyps and wiggling willies! It's marauding Mars, battering his way into grim Capricorn and your solar twelfth house (eek). Now that's a recipe for suffering if ever there was one! The twelfth house is a nasty realm of nauseating psychics, limp longshoremen, deluded artists and fraudulent spiritual teachers, so you'll be in the most fitting of company! However, it is also the house of hidden enemies! Eek!
Thus it is the cult of Wind Eagle, Visitor from the Stars, attracts the attention of those who would do you mischief. But of this fact you remain blissfully unaware. A New Moon comes in the hideous sign of the hircine and your enemies plot secretly against you. However, the great Sol Invicti bangs and clatters his way into your eccentric sign and, in a moving ceremony, you are named Great Wing by your followers while your eager acolytes are named Avian One, Two, Three, et cetera et cetera ad nauseam. The cult of Great Wing flies (snigger).
As jolly Jupiter catches Uranus, the idiot god, on the prong of his trident, you set yourself to make a fortune from your following and thus buy your own mountain range. You will then dwell on the highest peak. Great Wing's Eyrie, you will call it, charging thousands of dollars for the grand ascent whereby fools and their money may be easily parted as they climb up to watch you wave your pin feathers and call to the Heavens with a nasty shrieking sound. It is this sound that will be taken by your idiot followers as the teachings of enlightenment.
Ye gods and little fishes but I'm feeling unwell. Medic! Bring me my bottle and my silver tube. I must take up the prone position. If you're at all interested in reading any further piffle such as this, kindly click here next month, whereupon you will discover if I have been remotely interested in writing it. Ave, my avian friends! May all your thermals be current!