What ho, seafood miseries! We left you last time in the midst of becoming famous for something or other! I think it may have been hypnotism! Gods, will no one let me forget and rest in peace, free from the trammel and travail of the turning of the beastly wheel of animals known as the Zodiac belt! Apparently not! Thus my only choice is to attack with gusto (and I have a bit of that to spare in my little brown bottle) the task that is at hand.
And that task is, of course, the delivery of the vile and bitter prognostications for maudlin May! So here they are, my frightful little twerps! Ingest them at your peril! Ignore them at your peril! And thus we see that peril lurks on every hand as we are assailed by the whims and vagaries of the insane gods that haunt this benighted universe with their demonic laughter and ludicrous antics! Lay on, I cry, with this vile and bitter stuff! Eek! And damned be he who first cries 'Hold! Enough!'
Marauding Mars slinks into snivelling Pisces and your solar ninth house as the month begins and we find you travelling the world, hypnotizing folk into being chickens or eggs or both (which came first?) and making a fortune. And all the while, your private life is in the grip of an iron asceticism as you prepare for the moment when you can take over the world with your mesmeric powers. Thus will you re-establish the grim traditions of the past that gave your fathers cancer and sent your mothers mad (god bless their sacking underpants and bloodied leather belts). Driven by the unspeakable influence of a yod (golly! How karmic!) involving the great Sol Invicti, Uranus the idiot god and jolly Jupiter, you arrive at a New Moon in cloddish Taurus when you set your sights for world domination through the art of mesmer! Eek! Of course, a lot of other things happen, mostly involving sex, money and food. But they're all too dull and normal to worry about so we will not even speak of them.
Great gods alive and dead, what's this? Egad! It's a violent eruption of cosmic flatulence, the like of which we have not seen since we saw the last one (which was fairly recent as I recall. It may have even been last month). Predictably, ghastly planets cavort in nasty aspect, many of them doing things no normal person could understand. It's fortunate then that the last normal person was seen departing Earth for the constellation of Sirius on a bus leaving from Clapham Junction very early in the morning. That was in the eighties, as I recall.
Ah well! To return to the subject (as I suppose we must), among the unspeakable cosmic clatter, marauding Mars conjoins in unseemly fashion with Uranus, the idiot god. The jet on which you are travelling makes a forced landing on a remote island, about which that best that can be said is that it is totally surrounded by water. Quite proper for an island really! When one thinks!
But what's worse, my tiny crustacean cretins, is that the crew ask you to step out of the plane for safety reasons as they attempt to find out what is wrong with the craft. And, just as you are relieving yourself behind a grove of palms (how unsightly), the plane takes off again, stranding you there! Egad! What's happened to the powers of control you have over those who know you, whether biblically or not? You struggle and reach out with all your mighty mind and will, but to no avail. And then you find a note upon the sandy beach...
Well, my minuscule ninnies! It seems that old friends that you once cheated in business have conspired against you (mischievous Mercury wrestling with nasty Neptune). Thus, they bribed the crew to leave you here. The crew, as it happens, hated you anyway and were tired of having to clean your shoes and blow up your rubber bath toys and listen to your neurotic chatter for the pittance that you paid them. As a gaggle of idiot planets titter in the loony sign of Gemini (this involves the ghastly twelfth house) while the Full Moon blazes in addlepate Sagittarius, it seems you're alone and abandoned on a distant isle with no means of rescue. Even your mighty mesmeric powers won't save you.
What will you do? Swim for the mainland or light a signal fire, hope for the best and just become Robinson Crab-Toes, waiting for Friday! Click here next month for another drivelling installment of this unutterable piffle! Until then, my tiny cretins! Toodle pip!