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 Asperitus Casting Runes... |
Hail to thee, my wretched aqueous thingies! Have you missed me? Or were you too busy playing with Steamboat Willie in the bath tub to notice that I made no appearance for the month of awful April? Or was it Rubber Ducky that occupied your mind (snigger) in the midst of the customary ablutionary thrusting?
Egad! I can almost feel the aura of creeping foetid damp emanating from the 'frog pond' of your mental body, as you ponder this most complex of questions, sifting more recent memories from among the elder recollections of mahogany furniture, knitted socks and cloth napkins with safety pins. By grandmother's garters, this has come into an awkward vein early in the piece. Next we'll be discussing your penchant for egg custard or your obsession with wet sheets and thrashings with barbed wire. Quelle horreur! No right-thinking chap could emerge from such discourse without the taint of corruption clinging to his unmentionables. We shall leave these vile corridors instanter and surge forward to a more familiar vileness, that of the monthly prognostications from the oracle of bitter truth. That's me, by the way. Asperitus! Piffling prophet and awful auspex! But, as is often the case in life, in order to go forwards we must first go backwards. This is due to me being late with the forecast, as usual. One could even argue that I'm six weeks late and not just two. But then, I cancelled awful April so it doesn't count! The early events of malevolent May were nasty indeed. A Full Moon blazed gloomily in evil Scorpio, wrecking your investment plans, troubling your romantic life with rows about sex and money and giving you a pain in the anus when you fell backwards in the bath whilst attempting to mount Steamboat Willie. As there was then a deal of activity involving mischievous Mercury, the great Sol Invicti and grim Saturn, you had meetings with friends (snigger) and financial experts about your ailing investment. However, the only tangible result was the expenditure of further dosh amidst a bevy of blank looks and disinterest on the part of the so-called experts. As vamping Venus groped the private parts of dark Pluto, lord of the underworld, you also called in a medical professional to deal with the pain in your anus but the less said about that the better. By the time mischievous Mercury moved into supple but perverted Gemini, you were raving like a loony and talking to yourself. Thus, the past is behind us (snigger, snigger, little crabs) and we're set to launch ourselves into a future that's every bit as dreary and tiresome as the dreary and tiresome past we've left behind. Ah well! It's life in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods! What can one do! Great gods alive and dead, what's this raucous rampage that I hear! It's as if Heaven itself is being torn apart at the seams. This can bode no good at all! No good at all! Of course, the culprit is marauding Mars, thrusting his rude bit into the nether realms of dark Pluto then blazing his way into addlepate Aries. Ye gods and little fishes! It's just one damned thing after another! Thus, you rush out into the professional world, pick a fight with the first jumped up little embryo you meet and thrash him. You then sack everyone that works for you, burn down several government buildings, buy a brewery and get absolutely spiflicated. After that there's a calming New Moon in cloddish Taurus so you decide that, in time, you will form a new business venture with much nicer people than the current lot, folk that agree with you about knitted socks and the use of stocks. Thus, you sever connection with everyone you dislike which is in fact 'everyone' you know. And, as the great Sol Invicti clambers rudely into the sign of nitwit Gemini, you go away for awhile to a cottage by the sea where you can talk to yourself at length without being bothered by idiots or family members expecting to eat (ugh). But what's this? By my little brown bottle! It's a strange and outré thing that will turn your destiny around, tiny seafood morsels. As you settle in for your first evening at the edge of the briny, a mysterious vessel sails up your inlet (eek). In a flurry of reefing sails and dropped anchors, the ship shudders to a halt, disgorging a ghastly crew to crowd the beach where you live. They hail you in a foreign manner but all you can do is wave your hands ineffectually to indicate incomprehension, your normal state if truth be told. Instanter, the seafaring rascals seize you, bind you and hurl you into the hold. But, just as it's getting really exciting they abandon you, locking the door behind them as they depart for the upper decks. Strange snuffling and whiffling sounds surround you in the dark as timbers groan and crack. But what's this? It's the distinctive thresh and flail of seamen, heaving and hauling and weighing anchors (how much does one weigh?). By the madness of the insane gods what is occurring? Where are you bound, my weary travellers? Click here next month to see what destination is writ upon the ticket of this voyage to hell! For the nonce, ave, little crab type thingies! |
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