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 Asperitus Casting Runes... |
Great harrowing hordes of heebie-jeebies and horrible harangue from hellish bells! It's you, darling ovine obscurities! You're champing at the bit to meet your ghastly fate head on, no doubt!
Well, so shall it be, O lunkheads nonpareil! Jactitating July is the month! The drivel that follows, you may refer to as the vile and bitter prognostications thereof. Last time we left you, a tribal rite performed perforce by tribal folk in some godforsaken foreign land beckoned you to join the revels, taking a mighty part in proceedings. Said 'mighty part' promised a surfeit of food and sex (hoorah), most enjoyable for a few moments (what ho) but ultimately ending in a ritual death (eek) that, sadly, would be your own (ugh). This fateful culmination would thus be the final chapter in the book of arts and farces that is the collection of tales of your wretched and useless existence. All this, you were informed, was due to some gobbledygook about karma and past lives that I cannot now be bothered repeating. Needless to say, you were initially enticed by the possibility of service to the nether regions but were entirely unamused by the prospect of the doom that would inevitably follow. Hark to me, my tiny twerps! Prepare to meet thy fate as I deliver the dread libation for you to drink. Such sup as this will guide you on the twisted path. We begin in the wake of a ghastly Full Moon in the hideous sign of the hircine that bad farewell to jaded June. Thus, you witter and twitter about not wanting to die, whining in that irritating voice you use during attacks of personal cowardice. You cry and throw tantrums, insisting on a return to your home instanter rather than facing death for the sake of sex, food and an obscure karmic bond. Thus does the wonder-worker that brought you, with a look of infinite sadness in his eyes, gesture magically and send you flying through the ether to your own little beddy-byes. You know the place. It has red sheets and pillows with a wind-up fire engine lamp on the bedside table, a scarlet marker buoy in a sea that is otherwise chaos. It also has an angry mother who, on your reappearance, drags you from slumber and demands that you clean not only your room but also the entire house. Only this way, cries your long-suffering mater, will you get any pocket money. As you're broke, cowed by this formidable figure and at the mercy of a nasty intercourse between mischievous Mercury and marauding Mars, you at first weep then feign illness but finally grudgingly comply, muttering inaudible obscenities all the while. As little of consequence occurs until mischievous Mercury turns direct several days later, the house is soon spick and span and recent eccentric adventures are a distant memory. Weary of the ways of the world, you opt to remain in the domicile with mater and pater, as a ghastly New Moon comes in the odious sign of the Crab. Vamping Venus slinks into anal Virgo and you are forced to look for work (eek) to support yourself (ugh) as your parents refuse to do so (aargh). Thus, you take a position (egad) in a pet shop. Marauding Mars gropes the nether regions of cranky Chiron and, to relieve your boredom, you force a friend to have sex with you whilst watching television, a program, aptly, on mediaeval Swedish torture. As the great Sol Invicti clatters drunkenly into lackwit Leo, you decide this gruesome activity constitutes grounds for declaring an official romance. You ask your new partner on a date, insisting on consent despite the note of fear in the violent but tearful shaking of the head. Thus, you set up a table in the back of the pet shop, buy cheap takeaway food and even cheaper plonk then demand sexual favours as a recompense for this extravagance. However, as marauding Mars, narcotic Neptune and grim Saturn meet in immoral and unseemly embrace, you spice the evening's shenanigans by rolling the pet hair and feathers from the floor into an exotic cigarette, one puff of which sends you climbing the rafters and squawking like a giant eagle. By my sainted aunt, tiny twerps, what avian delusion has you gripped in its heinous and hallucinatory claw? Perhaps we shall never know for, as you're still performing in like manner at the commencement of the following business day, the police are called and you are detained, as vamping Venus moves in for a dose of perverse reversal in nasty and neurotic Virgo. Your new paramour is so shocked at these developments that the poor creature flees home to buy an air ticket and fetch a passport then flies to the distant climes of a far land, never to be seen or heard from again. Your friends (both of them) attend the hearing as a ghastly Full Moon blazes in Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, largely to applaud your misfortune and also as an excuse for getting drunk early in the morning. Then fate grabs you by the boot heels and drags you further down a path of heartache and sorrow with which you are already passingly familiar, just as marauding Mars rams the rude bit into grim Saturn. You, my little ovine types, are sentenced, condemned and institutionalized at a nasty institution and in a particularly nasty manner. By the nine blithering blasphemies of the high priest Blunderbuss, the Ram's clapped in irons and left to rot in damnable disgrace in the deepest dungeon of infamy! We could sell tickets and guarantee a profit, among gales of jolly laughter! See you in stir, as the clock ticks inexorably towards your darkest hour. Ave, little loonies! |
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