Greetings, dastardly doyens of flagrant disregard! Ill news accompanies this missive, my myrmidons of the psychotic war god, bellicose Mars. I've been overcome by ennui at the thought of Christmas shopping and have been confined to bed. You see, I set myself, this year, to buy gifts for those I dislike. On reflection, I should have begun to work my way through a list of almost biblical proportion in 1999, starting shortly after ten on any given Monday. Sadly, I left it too late.
As a consequence, I am emotionally and spiritually incapacitated. I have sucked so hard on my little brown bottle that I am told it will have to be surgically removed (eek). I have set fire to a paper chain of elves that I made at the Christmas party in Heaven. And, tragically, I am so distracted that I seem to have lost my customary powers of prognostication. I may have left them in my other suit, the one with the ties at the back. Thus you must content yourselves with chortling, chiding and chastisement to tide you over until I can publish my prophecies for the coming year. 2007 - THE NEW TOWER OF BABEL.
In the meantime, here are a few pointers for diabolical December. At the Full Moon in nasty Gemini on Dec 5th, everyone will shout at you or try to drive you off the road so don't forget to shake your fist threateningly and shout back in an incomprehensible foreign tongue. Ghastly planets cavorting in silly Sagittarius will no doubt inspire you thus! They will also urge you to throw yourself about, have sex outdoors, hurl spaghetti at the walls to see if it's cooked and, in extremis, depart the country, leaving behind a mountain of debt and a molehill of regret on the part of those that love you (both of them). By the New Moon in the addlepate sign of the Centaur on Dec 20th, you will travel where your appalling table manners and disgusting personal habits pass unnoticed. Thus you will be in prison, in an asylum or with your family. There may be no appreciable difference to the untrained eye.
But what's this? Yuck it's Yule! Odious planets fart in the ghastly sign of the Goat. The globe drowns in wrapping paper as forests tremble, but you receive no gift but a coal from Black Peter, the sign of an errant child in days of yore. Also, you're rebuked by persons in authority and, what's worse, urged to find employment the minute the holidays are ended. Mercury inserts his supple digit into the shadowy regions of dark Pluto, underworld god, and you dream wild dreams of taking over the government of a foreign country then invading your homeland.
However, as you haven't funds for an airfare, let alone a coup d'etat, you head for the hills and hide in a cave, munching stolen chicken and talking with a stray horse that has adopted you. You spend New Year's Eve throwing stones in a creek, waiting for a sign from Auld Lang that your luck will change and trying to encourage the horse to go and buy a lottery ticket. Hola, rambunctious!