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 Asperitus Casting Runes... |
Tally ho, my little yoicks! Horror is set to unfold before your eyes and lay itself incarnate at your smelly hoofs! Hoofs, I must say, that all the perfumes of Arabia could not sweeten. At least, they could not do so without the aid of a good old-fashioned scrubbing brush, wielded in a stern and traditional manner!
However, enough of hygiene, a subject of which you know next to nothing! Instead, we have the unhygienic prognostications, vile and bitter, to attend to! Hear me, recreant Rams! It is obnoxious October (so I am reliably informed) and doom awaits you, as dastardly Mars does dread things to the private parts of each breathing warm blood he can find! Even you will be among the helpless, hapless victims! Eek! To be set upon by one's own ruling planet! My sainted aunt, how ghastly! How karmic and how cosmic! Could anything be worse! We can only hope so! In the meantime, on with the Ram's tail soup! Last time, we left you in the midst of what seemed to be a dream come true. You were rich and famous for making loud noises about doing something which you mistakenly (but devoutly) believed you were good at! Sex! You had recorded your orgasmic cries! Eek! You released said recording upon an unsuspecting world! Aargh! You became wealthy and successful in a moment as a public with more money than sense rushed to purchase this unspeakable cacophony of coition! Ugh! Thus you retired to the paradise of SHAG-RI-LA! There did you rage in hedonistic heaven on monies pouring in from the sales and downloads of the SHAG-RI-LA SHOUT, the ghastly copulatory ululations that have made you what you are today and condemned so many of your unfortunate paramours to the tender mercies of a hearing specialist. It is on such a note as this that things begin! Yet the note straight away turns sour for marauding Mars, the patron of belligerent psychotics and weapons, blunt, sharp and percussive, turns retrograde in the cloddish sign of the Bull. Gadzooks! It's as if the hands of the insane gods themselves reach down and render you numb with their stultifying attentions. For, by my little brown bottle, that's exactly what happens! You find you're numb! As leaden and unfeeling within you as you have always appeared to be to all those without you (as it were)! Great gods alive and dead, what will you do? A New Moon brings a Solar Eclipse in loathsome Libra and you no longer feel those with whom you have intercourse. Mischievous Mercury gropes the private parts of jolly Jupiter and those about you exhort that you shall do the same with their private parts. You try, but feel nothing. Their babble of encouragement seems empty and meaningless. The cloak of fame you wear feels like sackcloth. The money you have falls from your nerveless fingers. Vamping Venus enters silly Sagittarius and willing persons offer contracts or adopt exotic and enticing positions but your flesh remains numb, your spirit jaded. Mischievous Mercury slithers into hag-ridden Scorpio and you're lost in morbid self-contemplation, feeling nothing but the misery of being. Egad, my little tikes! You could write a book called BEING AND NOTHINGNESS and be just like Jean Paul Sartre only louder and less intelligent. Perhaps not! And what's this! A ghastly array of farting planets assembles to form yet another Yod (you had one last month). Thus the gods again give you the fingers, my little animosities. A Full Moon brings a Lunar Eclipse in your own addlepate sign and you slide into a Brown Study, a melancholia, a slough of despond, yea, into the jaws of the black dog himself! As the great Sol Invicti gropes his way to morbid Scorpio, you are lost in a darkest night of the blackest realms of thought (a depressingly unfamiliar terrain for you by either day or night)! Jolly Jupiter follows at the wounded heels of the great Sol Invicti and you begin wondering why you're alive, what death is like and if people really do have to pay taxes. Egad! You're down to the serious stuff! You're in the dark night of the soul, little ovine things. Has all the philosophy you've toyed with come back to bite you on your ovine bottom? Click here next month and we shall see! Ave atque vale, O tiny types of woolly fleece and smelly hoof! | ||||
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