Tally ho, my little yoicks! It is I, Asperitus! The horrible haruspex of heinous harping and hideous harangue! It's the month of obnoxious October and I'm here to dog and bedevil you with a dire and dreadful declaiming of your damnable and doom-laden destiny. Here is the bitter cup, my foul-fleeced miseries with nasty little hoofs and curling horns! Drink deep of the vile and bitter prognostications within its rancorous confines!
Last time you were left in a febrile condition, due to odious eclipses in the anal and neurotic sign of the Virgin. This time, the first cab off the cosmic rank is mischievous Mercury as he grinds a passage (eek) into morbid Scorpio. Thus, from your sick bed, you rant about sex and money, threatening to murder your friends if they refuse to give you either or both on demand. However, as you have no friends and these shenanigans are indistinguishable from your usual behaviour, such incidents pass without notice.
As I remember it (and it's a tragedy that I do), you rode the treacherous train of fame and fortune with the release (or was it escape) of your masterwork, THE PARROTS OF WIMPOLE STREET. This latter is a 'tone deaf' exercise in artless squawking, predictably unpleasant, given that you are an untalented wretch! Said undertaking is a musical based on the life of Elizabeth Parrot, a colourful poetess, and her monochromatic but well-seasoned lover, also a poet, Robert Browning. The resultant travesty is another of your ghastly efforts to leave an indelible mark upon a naughty world, a thing you have accomplished already, as you should know from the numbers of people that throw things at you or abuse you in the street or from passing cars.
Enough pleasantries! Back to the tragic tale of your tawdry existence! And what's this? Why, it's a flaming Full Moon in your fatuous sign! You rise from your bed of woe, revived! You prance about, calling for your favourite repast. Predictably, this involves chili, red dye or sauce and red cordial to wash it down. Following this culinary delight, you take a spin in your car (red, of course). It's pedal to the metal as you speed down the streets, honking and yelling at people to get out of the way.
Astoundingly, hideous planets favour you with their flatulent attentions and you sign deals, become famous overseas and get your strength back by taking up an exercise program that involves hitting pacifists and people too weak to defend themselves. Soon, you're surrounded by sycophants, feigning friendship (mischievous Mercury gropes narcotic Neptune) and willing candidates for your bed (marauding Mars gropes the great Sol Invicti). And, by my sainted aunt, despite the fact that no normal mortal could contemplate intimacy with your ghastly personage without the use of medication or strong drink, a candidate for undying love emerges at the New Moon in loathsome Libra. Marauding Mars is involved in unspeakable congress with loony Lady Moon and you find yourself in a union with your heart's desire, i.e. someone that agrees with everything you say and replies in the affirmative to petulant demands for sex, hot food and loud noises.
Great masticating misanthropes! Is this perfection? Indeed, for you're famous and your sex life involves another person! Ghastly planets grind a passage (ugh) into obsessive Scorpio and you bathe in a sea of money, success and sustained erotica! THE PARROTS OF WIMPOLE STREET is the name on everyone's lips. There's talk of a stage musical, a soap opera and a 'coloring in' book for illiterate fans (a massive sales market there).
With marauding Mars in Scorpio, you study the black arts, argue with occultists and hire hitmen to take out the staff in the tax department. With vamping Venus in Scorpio, you dress in black, adopting a look you think is sultry and passionate but everyone else thinks is sulky and resentful. But then your life takes a shadowy turn with all these nauseating planets in the unspeakable sign that rules the anus. Egad! Jolly Jupiter mounts the aging bones of grim Saturn and you fall prey to peculiar fantasies of ancient power and wealth. Eek!
You buy a castle you can't afford so you can live like a mediaeval ruler. And, by all the damnable demons, it's dastardly cosmic doings for you, tiny twits! Unspeakable planets collide with the eccentric person of cranky Chiron as mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse in morbid Scorpio. Gadzooks! You shut yourself in said castle, brooding and muttering about dark secrets. You wear a dark cloak and a darker look! You think that friends plot against you, which is entirely absurd as you haven't any.
By my little brown bottle, tiny twerps! Are you losing your mind? Have the trappings of this long sought success now become chains to drag you to the bottom of a private sea of insanity? Click here next time and read the first exciting (yawn) installment of THE MADNESS OF KING RAM IV. Ave atque vale, my simpering psychos! Happy Halloween!