What ho, my crustacean ninnies! We left you last time, swanning about in a sedan chair, borne by slaves, as dosh and bad dreams rolled in from an overdose of Dr. Crustacean's Soporific Custard. What will happen this time?
Well, as it's awful August, we shall consult the vile and bitter prognostications and so discover. Put aside your bath toys and your favourite childhood blanket. It's time to swallow it whole, my miserable seafood items!
Grim Saturn clicker-clacks his aging bones against the flesh of imbecilic Uranus, god of idiots, and you market your custard worldwide, with the instructions on the packet translated into seventy languages. And, as the great Sol Invicti leers in ghastly fashion at jolly Jupiter, the recreant lord of fortune, your personal spending veers out of control as you take to having triple banana with strawberry and chocolate sauce with your morning custard. You organize gambling afternoons, winding up your clockwork toys then racing them across the lounge room floor and forcing relatives to bet extravagantly.
Needless to say, you win heavily. Marauding Mars inserts the nastily erect bit of his personality into the nether regions of cranky Chiron and you consult a psychotherapist about your 'road rage' problem. However, on your way to the therapist's rooms, you have an altercation with an elderly parking attendant over fees. You instruct your 'sedan chair' slaves to 'teach this wrinkled nobody a lesson' (quoted by the arresting officer from his notes when the matter comes to court). Your therapist later commends you on not being directly involved with an act of mindless violence but the court is less lenient and fines you an exorbitant amount. However, you soon win it back in the 'wind-up ducky' derby that you force your relatives to bet on.
Needless to say, all of this takes place as ghastly planets fart in nasty aspect, culminating in the gruesome glare of a Full Moon in idiot Aquarius that bathes a benighted world in the chill necrotic light of lunar madness. Mischievous Mercury clatters into lackwit Leo and you outline how much each relative owes as a consequence of their ill fortune in the ducky derby. And, as you've drawn the sedan chair slaves into this web of intrigue, you now hold in your puffy fingers the threads of life and death for those you have come to own by devious means, family and servants alike. And, by my sainted aunt, filthy lucre is the trigger for blazing rows, behavioural disorders and unspeakable sexual antics as a raft of hideous planets in the sign of the Lion meets with thresh and flail the attack of nasty planets in idiot Aquarius.
Ye gods and little fishes! It's a cosmic wrestling match, my tiny turnips! A ghastly grapple from the mud floor of your solar second house to the custard saturated confines of your solar eighth house! The sensitive nature could not bear to describe the venal exchanges of goods and services for evil dosh that now occur, except to say that nothing of the sort has taken place since the worst excesses of Rome, Babylon and the presidency of the saxophonist.
But what's this? Great trundling tea-trolleys! It's a cosmic eructation! The great Sol Invicti grinds his passage (eek) into anal Virgo, bringing a New Moon in that vexatious, surface-wiping sign. After a particularly gruesome weekend of ghastly sexual shenanigans and crapulous behaviour, your sedan chair slaves stagger the crab-carrying vehicle to the offices of Dr. Crustacean's Custard only to find that it is submerged in litanies of complaint about the dark, depressing dreams that follow the consumption of the product. Children across the globe demand the custard and then are rendered insensate with fear by the nocturnal visitations from the Morphia born within the yellow goo (just as I predicted last time).
Great harridans and shrieking harpies! What will you do, wittering ninnies? The children of the world are at risk and your custard may be responsible. Eek! And, in addition, the dreams you're having yourself are so disgusting that you can hardly tell them apart from the real life you're living in the sordid orgiastic hell of the family home. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm suffering from terminal ennui and can hardly stay awake, I should probably tell you what to do. Sadly, you must click here next time to find the grim solution to this custard debacle. Ave, my little nitwits of the nipper!