Odds bodkins, my little crab type things! It's that time of the month (or even later)! We must be vile! We must be bitter! We must prognosticate! What are we waiting for?
Last time, we left you in the winner's circle, with your nasty little nippers on a fortune won on the turn of a wheel. Great trundling tea-trolleys! What will you do with all the dosh? But wait! Don't answer yet! First read the morbid meanderings that pertain to the month of malodorous May. Thus, will you give way to fear and trembling as you realize you have no control whatsoever over the damnable doom that doggedly drives you toward a dreadful dénouement, fulfilling the dastardly destiny deserved due to the drab doings of your dull and dreary days.
So much for the letter 'd'! Now it's time for the farting of ghastly planets in nasty aspect! Vamping Venus swans into addlepate Aries and you hire persons of fiery temperament, dress them in red uniforms and have them accompany you wherever you go as a sign of your phenomenal wealth. We shall call them your retinue. As jolly Jupiter gropes the great Sol Invicti, you peruse various schemes and dreams by which you may spend money in order to make more. You also hire several friends (it's easier than making them due to your unpleasant nature) so you can listen to their 'down to earth' opinions and ignore their hard-headed, practical advice. As mischievous Mercury clatters into cloddish Taurus, you witter on interminably about your views and opinions, including the sanctity of the home, the danger of foreigners and the necessity of regular thrashings for children, pets and partners.
A grand trine of planets in water signs sloshes in the streets of Heaven, filling your days with bizarre communications and outre encounters. These include threats of litigation from family members and disgruntled ex-partners, begging letters from in-laws and solicitations for funds from a variety of organizations, including groups concerned with the promotion of intergalactic relations or saving the endangered transalpine skunk or the restoration of the code of Hammurabi. But what's this? Aargh! It's the Full Moon in morbid Scorpio! It comes as marauding Mars closes in on a disgusting encounter with narcotic Neptune! Ugh! Thus, you hire a secretary to handle this so you can concentrate on sexual practices so revolting they make 'the choo-choo goes into the tunnel' seem a child's game. You also gamble a great deal and pour funds into developing of an 'electric shock' rubber sheet designed to discourage bedwetting through aversion. As the great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury expose their private parts to the thrusting of dark Pluto, you hire staff that share an interest in flogging and the history of torture.
But what's this? Egad! It's a ghastly turn of events! That's what! The busy messenger and the vain and selfish Sun god roll drunkenly into supple yet perverted Gemini and your solar twelfth house, the latter being an odious realm of misery, addled thinking, addiction, psychics and self-undoing. No right-minded soul would dwell there. Instanter you become withdrawn and surly though it's difficult to see the difference between this and your usual demeanour. As marauding Mars ravishes vamping Venus, you withdraw into the offices you've rented, refusing to come out or see anyone. There you dream mad, secret dreams about egg custard and the culinary skills of your sainted mother. God bless her wooden spoon and aluminium saucepans!
As a New Moon comes in the nitwit sign of the two-faced one and mischievous Mercury ogles Uranus, the idiot god, you decide to formulate a recipe for egg custard and a well known anaesthetic that you will manufacture. This you will export about the globe so annoying children everywhere can be forced to eat it (you'll include a head restraint and plastic tube with each packet) and thus cease their irritating wailing and complaint. Thus will you be even richer by dint of this marvellous product and the world will be a better place for all the blissful silence that will ensue. Parents from here to the end of time will speak your name with honour. Dr. Crustacean's 'Soporific Custard' will be on every supermarket shelf. Right there and then you make a test batch. Instanter, you consume a goodly portion at which point you fall asleep (quite naturally).
And what's this? By my little brown bottle, it's a strange and dreadful dream that Morphia has sent straight to your woolly, sleeping head. What is contained therein? What bizarre messages have come from the gods to tell you of the fate that lies before? As I'm rather tired and consumed by creeping ennui, I shall have to lie down now. Do click here next time. If both you and I have awoken, we can resume the flow of egregious piffle! In the meantime, hail and farewell, tiny nitwits of the nipper!