Toodle pip, my fine examples of the ovine ignoramus! Last time we left you squawking in the name of art as you recorded yet another eccentric ululating endeavour. This one is entitled THE PARROTS OF WIMPOLE STREET, dedicated to that fine, feathered poetess, Elizabeth Parrot, and her less colourful paramour, Robert Browning. Undoubtedly a road less travelled for you, involving as it does the complex world of literary allusion! However, as the absence of knowledge and talent has never before discouraged your efforts to impress an odious personality on a naughty world, we shall see what great consequences will follow upon your fiery efforts.
Step to the breach of savage September! Set yourselves to imbibe the dread concoction, prognostications of a vile and bitter kind! Great dithering dung beetles and masticating camels! Marauding Mars conjugates the viler verbs in congress with the Loony South Node! Mischievous Mercury and the great Sol Invicti gallivant in crass concupiscence in the anal sign of Virgo. Thus cosmic chaos is instanter unleashed upon a naughty world! We find you squawking your heart out, parrot fashion, under the critical ear (as it were) of a nasty sound engineer with perfect pitch and a temper as bad as your own. In no time at all, sparks fly! A dangerous thing in the world of electricity and engineering! Everything you do is inadequate in the eyes (should that be ears) of this ghastly, carping creature. And nothing annoys you more than being criticized by someone who knows better than you which is, of course, a large portion of the world's population. Vamping Venus gallivants lustfully into anal Virgo and a personal trainer is hired to soothe your fevered brow, and the other parts of you that incline to fever.
As the Full Moon comes in tear-stained Pisces, bringing a Lunar Eclipse to your solar twelfth house (eek), you collapse with feverish exhaustion, your body wracked with aching pains and nasty little cramps. And yet, as dark Pluto, underworld god, glides forward again on his restless search to suck the soul of human life from this naughty world, THE PARROTS OF WIMPOLE STREET is complete and published on the worldwide web for all to hear.
Gadzooks, tiny twits! Will it fly like a bird or be dispatched to the roasting dish for Sunday consumption? Marauding Mars belligerently barrels into loathsome Libra and the world erupts about you. On the one hand, there's a frenzy of fierce adulation from fanatical fans but on the other hand there's a storm of angry criticism, largely from angry critics that don't like you. Once again, a large portion of the world's population is involved. At least it can't be argued that the fans aren't made up of friends and family, as you have no friends and your family hates you. Market forces are whipped into a hurricane of demand by this controversy and the recording magnate sends you to the studio to film a dramatic outing on the back of a hastily written script. However, this time you have a smarmy, sycophantic director that praises everything you do then tears strips off you behind your back, smiling all the while. Thus, the dramatic tale of THE PARROTS OF WIMPOLE STREET is told in the modern idiom of hip-hop, low-liners and gangs that battle their way to the peaks of poetic inanity against a backdrop of bouncing bosoms and bobbling backsides. And in amongst the thresh of flail of these fantastical but tedious and superficial doings, further controversy erupts as the descendants of Elizabeth Parrot Browning claim their venerable ancestor was not, in fact, a parrot and they have DNA from her pin feathers to prove it.
Needless to say, the farting of ghastly planets in nasty aspect is the cause of this travail in the corridors of your wretched, futile existence. And, by all the masticating mutant deities and their fornicating idols, jolly Jupiter and narcotic Neptune ice the cake, as they make unspeakable congress, rolling in the gutters of Heaven. Unquenchable thirst (Jupiter in morbid Scorpio) meets unutterable self-delusion (Neptune in idiot Aquarius), head on.
You are swept up by this maelstrom of adulation, criticism and controversy until the New Moon in anal Virgo brings a Solar Eclipse that rides roughshod over your normally rambunctious good health. You collapse and are carried away, sinking into a fever of unconsciousness. Egad! You're confined to soft sheets and a contoured mattress. Sigh! As garish luminaries and planets gaggle and gasp their way to loathsome Libra, you're committed to the tender ministration of hands whose caring quality can only be purchased by a small fortune.
As you lie pining in a febrile coma, the small fortune grows to a larger one but so too does the sound and fury of the storm about THE PARROTS OF WIMPOLE STREET. Will it signify nothing? Or will it be 'out, out brief candle' again as another of your bold efforts finds it way down life's exit pipe? Click here next time and see. But for the nonce, ave!