Tally ho and yoicks, oafish ovines! Last month, you were in reckless pursuit of pleasure, declaring yourself a hedonist, as you sought the hammer of erotica to stimulate the anvil of your creativity. Hedonism is the most recent in a line of absurd philosophical posturings, adopted in a 'so far' vain effort to find what it is you believe, driven as you are on a mad quest by Uranus, the idiot god, currently revolting in wretched Pisces and your solar twelfth house. Eek! What a ghastly domain of snivelling, theft and drug addiction it is! No normal person would have anything to do with it!
So, my wretched types! Will you dive deeper into the realms of Bacchanalia or will a new line of thinking (snigger) take your fancy? Why, we must consult the vile and bitter prognostications for savage September and so discover. Matters begin with vamping Venus and jolly Jupiter in concupiscent embrace and you surrender to the fleshpots of SHAG-RI-LA, smitten with some paramour or other. And yet, at the New Moon in nitwit Virgo, you return to desk, quill and inkwell, only to find you are bereft of inspiration, as you've always been. Thus you cannot write your masterwork on hedonism, or even a shopping list! As Uranus, the idiot god, is involved in this lunar lunacy, you become depressed and distraught. Egad!
As mischievous Mercury grinds his way into anal Virgo, you whine, moan and complain that you can't do what you want to do as well as you want to do it and also better than anyone else. Actually, you've been complaining in such a manner all your life and Mercury's transit only makes the practice more apparent. At first, you whine about the world, bemoaning your ill-treatment at its hands. Then, as the messenger clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, you whine about how useless and ineffectual you are. You whine so loudly, you cannot hear the rousing chorus of assent, issuing from all and sundry. Vamping Venus moves to gloomy Scorpio and you go back to the forest and have more sex to make yourself feel better.
But what's this? Gadzooks! A stunning realization strikes. And, what's more, it strikes you stunningly! Eek! Just as you're busy admiring the hearty tones of your bellowed satisfaction, the very bestial thrum of it dislodges an apple from the bough of a tree above. Said fruit then falls, striking you on the head at the crucial moment! One might call this an epiphany, as the apple has long been a symbol of otherworld wisdom. Thus, at the climax of coitus with the one of the nondescript, ill-endowed individuals, gratified to endure your attentions, you realize that one can't write about pleasure. One must have it! It's an experience, not a dissertation!
In the throes of this wondrous realization, you give up the idea of writing a masterwork, for what can words do compared to the rant and roar of a roistering rambunctious egotist such as yourself? As mischievous Mercury grapples with dark Pluto, god of the underworld, you decide you will record the joyous animal grunting you make during sex, set it to a dance track and release it as 'THE SHAG-RI-LA SHOUT'. It will make a fortune! You will be a musical sensation, promote the cause of hedonism and also shatter the windows and wineglasses of avid listeners across the world.
Oh golly gosh! What fun we're going to have, listening to the mind-numbing drivel of cretins in congress! One would almost think this is a benighted universe, ruled by insane gods! And, in fact, it is! Ah, the ennui! The ennui!
Ghastly planets fart in the cosmic winds! Yikes! Marauding Mars assails jolly Jupiter and dark Pluto, underworld god, to form an aspect of unspeakable horror known as a yod! Double yikes! And, to top all that, Lady Moon shines her chill, necrotic light in tear-stained Pisces, clashing with the messenger and dark Pluto.
By my little brown bottle! It's as if a great darkness descends on the earth whilst a vile noise engulfs it. Roaring rambunctious sets forth with suspect substances and servile sycophants to record the crass cacophony of ovine coition. And what the Ram sets out to do, the Ram does. The great Sol Invicti visits the horror of another Equinox on an over-burdened world, penetrating the ghastly climes of loathsome Libra. 'THE SHAG-RI-LA SHOUT' takes by storm a public with more money than sense (a species never in danger of extinction) and the noxious inanity of your coital crying is an instant hit! Eek! As vamping Venus gropes the private parts of narcotic Neptune, the forest of SHAG-RI-LA erupts in orgiastic scenes of such decadence and noisome noise that a civilized person such as myself can but apply ear-plugs, a cold compress and pray for the end of days!
But the end of days is not yet come! Heavens forfend! What further horrors shall there be? Click here next month and see. For the nonce, ave atque vale, little ovine tikes!