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    Go Back  The Sublime Irritations of March 2005  Go Forward
    Hola, odious things of the pastoral persuasion! Is that a hellish howling I hear? It is! Reverberating around the walls of this padded cell known as planet earth! And does this infernal sound rise up from a cup of madness held by damnable devils that lurk in the bowels of dangerous, indecent nether regions? Ye gods and little fishes! So it does!

    Why then! This must be the poison chalice wherein boils the viscous evil-smelling potion that, like the spume of a bitter hag bent on mad revenge, engenders acrid vapours of the foulest kind that then rise heavenwards. Thus do gases, fell and foul, find their way to the unhygienic nostrils of the insane gods who, upon inhaling same, fall victim to the drug of demons and once more play mad marbles with the planets that rule your lives.

    And so another batch of vile and bitter prognostication is born! Vintage, manic March! Egad! It is ready for consumption, tiny nitwit things! The insane gods fart in your faces as they bend to play their game! Place a scented handkerchief accordingly and read on!

    We left you last time, in despair of being loved and appreciated for the thing you are. As you are, in fact, a greedy, impatient bully with an obsessive love of sex, food, red things and getting your own way, it's difficult to comprehend the source of your discontent. However, we shall do our best under trying circumstances. The auspices are poor to begin with. Ghastly planets lurk in groveling Pisces and your solar twelfth house, a place of misery and abject despair if ever there was one. In the solitude of Arcadia (you've driven everyone off with your temper), you cling to Rosy and Pepper (two of your sheep) as you search for Mummy and Daddy (two more of your sheep). Mischievous Mercury clashes with Pluto, dark god of the underworld, and fearsome storms rend the skies with thunder and lightning while drenching you with rain. You tumble down a hillside, shouting desperately for help. This of course is a plea to imaginary folk you've invented because real, normal people refuse to listen to you. Any basic appraisal will reveal how efficacious this strategy is, both in the overall and also in regard to your present concerns.

    Thus, you find yourself at the bottom of a hill, deserted even by Rosy and Pepper (actually they selfishly rolled the other way). You pound your futile rage into the squelching mud at this wholesale abandonment while marauding Mars resentfully clashes with jolly Jupiter. And, by all the gods alive and dead, that's not the final indignity! Mummy and Daddy, terrified by the storm, appear out of the gloom to stampede across your prone person. Mummy kicks you in the bottom (something we have all longed to do) while Daddy besmirches your appalling bright red shirt with muddy hoofs.

    'Mummy! Daddy!' you cry, as mischievous Mercury enters your sign and marauding Mars wrestles with miserable Saturn. And, in answer to your call, they make a panic turn and come back to do it again. At the New Moon in snivelling Pisces, you are a wretched Ram. Arcadia has proven to be yet another nightmare chapter in the hellish novel of your wretched life. You're rich and famous but there you lie, muddy and bereft of the one shred of dignity you have ever been able to manage, standing upright.

    And what's this? By my little brown bottle! Worse is yet to come. From their station of misery in your solar twelfth house, the great Sol Invicti and vamping Venus clash with Pluto, dark lord of the underworld. The air is filled with phantom presence! Eek!

    Mischievous Mercury then turns retrograde and you fall over your feet, getting muddier and wetter. You arise, babbling incoherently, though few would mark a difference between this and your normal speech. The great Sol Invicti enters your sign. Marauding Mars moves to Aquarius, sign of the idiot god. Aargh! The loathsome Equinox has cast its ghastly shadow on the world again.

    Egad! The phantom presence takes shape, my tiny nitwits! It is none other than the bucolic Bolivars, the Essenes of Ovinity whose 'never to be revealed' guidance led you to this place of damp and mud spattered humiliation. Well don't you have a bone to pick with them, my fiery little twerps! You rise up as vamping Venus enters your sign and miserable Saturn moves forward yet again. But the phantoms gesture hypnotically and the light of a Full Moon in loathsome Libra strikes you dumb as you prepare to make rebuke. Ghastly planets fart in the cosmic winds and you're struck by a realization so powerful that you fall again into the squelching mud, wringing your hands in mute anguish while the blessed rain masks the worst excesses of tear duct and salival gland. Cranky Chiron conjoins in unseemly fashion with marauding Mars and you see it all!

    It's not the sheep, is it, my minuscule morons! Your real mummy and daddy never loved you! All they did was kick your bottom and besmirch your favoured bright red shirt! This is the source of all your woes! A sterling realization for this last traverse of lugubrious Saturn in neurotic Cancer! Well done, my odious little beasts! I leave you to the tender ministrations of storm and phantom comfort. Yet I will return to harangue you further, as befits an haruspex of my colossal stature. Neither tea nor sympathy from me! Just the bitter truth! Ta! Ta!

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