By the damp and dowdy dungarees of dribbling Dentures, god of the daft, the delusional and the dangerously dense, it's you, my little ovine wretches. It's also awful August so it is time for your dose of prognostications of a vile and bitter sort!
The doctor is in, my pea-brain vacuities! Open wide your gaping gobs and imbibe the dread draught from the most sought after spoon in all of the nine realms of irritation. It is I, Asperitus, reader of cheese and ashes! I have come to deliver, with tincture and implement, a terrible oracular utterance! Cease farting in your nasty little undies and attend me, as I speak the truth that others dare not name. The 'unnameable' is a trail of tears that must be walked by Aries the Ram, a tortuous path leading inexorably to abject misery and black despair, two fellow travellers with whom you are somewhat more than passingly familiar. It will all, of course, end tragically, a fact that is, conversely, guaranteed to put a smile on the dial of everything that isn't a woolly quadruped. On with the show!
Last time, you were incarcerated in a house of confinement! Eek! So what will happen to you in the deep dark dungeon of shame, humiliation and malodorous things? Let me but read the cheese and thuswise discover!
Ye gods and little fishes, what's this? It's mischievous Mercury, first cab off the rank as he rams his pointy end into lackwit Leo. Thus, you decide that, if you're to spend your days in confinement, you will write upon the walls of your dingy dungeon, as you have written on walls since the first day you could hold a red pencil. You will chisel a masterwork to bring a tear of bitter regret to the eye of every reader that he or she did not love you more but left you to languish, solitary in your cell, suffering nobly, hapless and unjustly accused by the fickle finger of rancorous resentment, poked in your general direction by lesser beings. However, as you have no chisel and a brief attention span, this scheme goes by the by. But then, O tiny addlepates, startling developments come to startle (predictably), wrenching you out of this freefall into oblivion. The great Sol Invicti parks the lorry in the special space that belongs to cranky Chiron as jolly Jupiter moves forward in asinine Sagittarius! Thus, it is revealed your incarceration is a delightful jape, carried out by two irritating wags that call themselves your friends, all by means of straight-faced deception and a smidgen of 'behind hands' sniggering.
By all the gods alive and dead, you're not in jail, wretched twerps! You're simply locked in a cellar down the road from your very own home, your very own bedroom and your very own wind-up fire engine lamp! As marauding Mars steams into idiot Gemini, you burst into the street with angry thoughts racing through a fevered brain. We note that there is ample room for them to do so. You pass a post office and espy an advertisement for a job, delivering mail of a sort. It is for a service called the 'punch in the face' a-gram, a mailing option recently introduced to service the rapidly increasing number of angry and vindictive people in the world, those that love to see someone hit but are too weak or cowardly to venture a blow. As the job comes with a red scooter to ride, your ovine heart is sold. Instanter, you're signed on and rolling down the road, astride the scooter, brandishing red boxing gloves and wearing a shiny red uniform avec cap, all under the awful auspices of a New Moon in loathsome Leo. Hurrah for mindless violence, especially when it's profitable! You're being paid to hit people. Oh tra la la!
As vamping Venus moves in perverse reverse, also in the nasty sign of the Lion, you have a list of those that have jilted you, offended you, insulted you, stood you up, dressed you down, tricked you or simply ignored your petulant demands, in times recent and distant. And, what's more, you have taken out a loan against prospective salary and paid for 'punch in the face' a-grams for each and every one, blows you will deliver from your shiny red scooter, allowing you to ride off very fast. Hurrah for vindictive sods!
Under the cloak of unseemly conduct involving vamping Venus, narcotic Neptune and mischievous Mercury, you deliver the 'mail' to your so-called friends, after first anaesthetizing them (of course), thus terminating your relationship forthwith. As mischievous Mercury slips into anal Virgo, you become enamoured with your pugilistic skills, practising left hooks, right crosses and haymakers before the mirror. As the great Sol Invicti gropes the knobbly bits of grim Saturn, you decide to apportion further payments to deliver a 'punch in the face' a-gram to every figure of authority that's ever told you what to do. Needless to say, many are listed, as 'issuing instructions' is what authority figures are required to do everywhere but in the self-obsessed realms of ovine fantasy.
Thus, numbed by the numbers, you decide to begin with those that are suffering some infirmity or incapacity, for obvious reasons. Marauding Mars rams the rude bit into jolly Jupiter! Yee-ha! You launch a vigorous campaign as you ride the red scooter like a demon of pugilistic thresh and flail, violating the sanctity of persons of status by banging them on the bonce, clipping their ears from behind (as they often did to you) or punching the poorly sighted ones on the hooter. As you're entirely over-excited with these tiny triumphs (picture the elderly with handkerchiefs clutched to bleeding noses) and spurred by the entry of the great Sol Invicti to vexatious Virgo, you declare yourself the baron of biff, master of the trade of fisticuffs! You practice the art obsessively, fantasizing about giving the count to boxing greats of the past, such as Jack Dempsey, Gene Tunney and Sledgehammer McCluskey, heavyweight champion of the Nether Wallop lunatic asylum for ten consecutive years. It should be noted this venerable institution was your family's ancestral seat.
But what's this? Great barking bandicoots, it's the cosmic fart of ill-fortune that comes, typically, just as you're feeling pleased with yourself. Mischievous Mercury and marauding Mars fornicate obscenely in the company of the Loony Nodes and orders arrive for your services as the crack deliverer of the 'punch in the face' a-gram. At first, tiny creeps, this seems a good thing, until you read the order sheet to find enemies, family, ex-lovers and angry children all have paid for you to deliver to yourself. Eek! Egad! Gadzooks! And other quaint expressions to indicate surprise and alarm. Then, lawks a mercy, the insane gods deliver a knockout blow, a heavenly haymaker in the form of a Lunar Eclipse at the Full Moon in wretched Pisces!
Weeping bitter tears, you realize you must resign from the only job that's ever suited you or punch yourself on the conk more times than you have fingers or toes to count. It's difficult to say which distresses you more, your lack of numeracy of your looming inability to repay the dosh you already owe if you resign. As usual when faced with a crisis, you feign a faint, hoping someone will revive and rescue you. Oh dear! How sad! Never mind! Perhaps you should click here next time to read the outcome, as I'm bored to screaming sobs with the ennui of being awake. Ave, rambunctious!