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 Asperitus Casting Runes... |
My darling little airheads! Greetings to you, on behalf of myself and all the other insane gods! On that count, there are too many to be named. And, just between you, me and the bedpost (to which I'm chained) I'm not entirely sure if all the gods I hear are in Heaven or just in my head.
Now, we shall make polite converse! Attend me, idiot creatures! While this is, of course, an execrable and entirely tedious process for an enlightened being such as myself, doubtless you will clap your little hands with glee in the knowledge that, for the briefest of moments, a being of the divine order of beings glanced in your general direction and chanced to pass the time of day. I shall begin these noxious proceedings with a question. Do empty vessels still make the loudest noise? The question is a subtle but nonetheless slighting reference to your eccentric cerebrations, notable for an absence of logic but a constancy of talk. As the answer to the question is blindingly obvious to anyone that knows you, I do not require a response but will pass on to the vile and bitter prognostications for manic March. I suppose you're expecting to get a forecast. And I suppose you think I've got nothing better to do than address you on the topic of your wretched lives! Well, there are no prizes for being right, my little bearers of the aqueous! That's a fact of life we can be sure of, inasmuch as we can be sure of anything, which is a thing I've never been sure of. Now, to deal with matters in their proper order! We shall start with a recap as I have slept through a considerable portion of the month of manic March and am thus late with the forecast. In fact, it is the hindcast with which we begin, an all too familiar monthly process latterly. We left you last time torn in two, as the happy-go-lucky side of your nature (the harmless idiot) wrestled with the power hungry controller (the dangerous idiot), while you perched in your eyrie in a high mountain range, posing as Great Wing, feathered fool and leader of the eagle cult. First cab off the rank for manic March was the obscene groping of grim Saturn with narcotic Neptune, conducted in a drug besotted yet knobbly and wrinkly manner. Thus you decided that you could no longer continue in your current relations with men, women or persons of any sort. You put down the feathered cloak and stepped from your throne. As the Full Moon glared down upon your solar eighth house, bringing a Lunar Eclipse in the irritating sign of Virgo, you decided you would no longer kill persons after taking sexual and fiscal advantage of them. And you further decided you would give your ill-gotten gains to the poor. However, as the great Sol Invicti rogered the living daylights out of Uranus, the idiot god, you further decided (further to the further deciding) that, as you were now poor, having given it all away, you would give some of the money back to yourself, you being a deserving case. If it works for you, stick with it, my brainless jumping beans! Thus, as mischievous Mercury returned to forward motion, you set off to seek your fortune, having turned in your eagle's wings and your beak of death. Ghastly planets too tedious to name then befouled the cosmic winds with unspeakable flatulence and you wandered about, looking for someone to marry you, mate with you, go into business with you or, finally, just be your friend and talk about really interesting things like invisible kneepads for fantasy bike riding. However, no strategy worked as people looked the other way or snorted loudly as you spoke. Thus we return to the present (ugh), just as marauding Mars cranks his shaft into cranky Chiron. You get hot under the collar and decide to perform a really dramatic and eccentric action and get everyone's attention so they will be your friends and admire you greatly. Thus, as vamping Venus squanders her assets by lolling about in the sign of cloth-eared Taurus, you hire a consultant to help you think of a really 'good' idea to impress people. However, as mischievous Mercury returns to Pisces, on the coat tails of a New Moon and Solar Eclipse in that same wretched and tear-stained sign, your funds run out after the first five minutes and you have to leave, in high dudgeon as the consultant doesn't want to be your friend and talk to you for nothing. Astounding, but true! Great barking bandicoots, my witless wonders! As the great Sol Invicti rolls and clatters into addlepate Aries, visiting yet another Equinox upon an over-burdened world, you run into the streets, cavort for the pedestrians and shout at the traffic, crying that all and sundry pay attention to you and be your friends, instanter. You then dance (eek), sing (ugh) smile and wave cheerily (aargh) as marauding Mars rams his rude bit into the nether regions of narcotic Neptune. Thus the gathering crowd, or at least those that are tone deaf and without artistic taste, mistake you for a comic performer and applaud these ghastly and garish gyrations. As vamping Venus leers obscenely at cranky Chiron, meddlesome minor officials such as parking officers and traffic wardens attempt to move you on from the spot you have chosen to display your artistic wares. However, you sport and cavort, embarrassing them in the performance of their duties until they turn tail and run. But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's a jolly good thing! As Uranus, the idiot god, rogers the living daylights out of the Loony Nodes, persons on the pavement and in passing cars throw money, large quantities of both coin and folding. The fact that some is thrown with the plea you will stop what you're doing and go elsewhere matters not a jot! For you have performed a marvellous act and have friends! And, you're getting richer by the minute! What could go wrong? Well as it's you that's involved, anything! Click here next month to find that fatal flaw in the tragic tale of the dancing airhead! Ave, my brainless twits! | ||||
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