Salutations, depressing goatish types! We do not dilly-dally! We shall not shilly-shally! We shall hie us straight to the place of prognostication and there be vile and bitter in the manner befitting. Attend me now as I welcome you to naughty November.
Last time, we left you in the clutch of llamas for you had discovered, to your horror and chagrin, that the world was secretly ruled by a high council of said beasts. This discovery had come about on your pilgrimage in the wake of the disasters in Greece. Like a Persian king of old, you had set out to the wild lands to find healing for spirit after a shattering defeat on Grecian soil. Instead, in the deepest reaches of Tibet, you found a truth so nasty that none but the nastiest could conceive it. And the nastiest are, of course, the insane gods who rule this benighted universe. None are nastier than they, say I!
So much for a tasty entrée! Now let us feed from the trough of the main course. This is llama talk, by the way. Ghastly planets fart in the cosmic wind as the month begins and you are conveyed to the high council of llamas by the beast between your thighs, a llama in this instance, I hasten to point out. Mischievous Mercury clashes with idiot Uranus. Eek! The road is rough. Marauding Mars wrestles with lugubrious Saturn! Aargh! The path is long and arduous, as is everything connected with the miserable lord of illness and old age. As the aforementioned planet then turns retrograde, a cloud of gloom falls over the whole earth and the road you're on runs out, terminating in a box canyon where the council is held. Marauding Mars enters morbid Scorpio and in this wild landscape amid a surfeit of llamas, you are subjected to all manner of abuse. There is kicking, buffeting and, of course, the spitting. This is delivered in a more or less congenial manner and is, in fact, a traditional llama welcome, but you realize it will be many days before the bruising fades and your hair and clothing dry completely.
But, great gods alive and dead, before you can raise a cry in either misery or protest, a tall llama steps forth and says, 'I am the high llama. Begin the dance'. By my little brown bottle, the llamas are asking you to trip the light fantastic with them in the traditional quadruped two-step that precedes their council. What an honour for you, goatish imbeciles! However, what follows from there is more kicking, buffeting and spitting, leaving you in a pitifully damp and bruised condition. Such are the honours of the world, goatish twits! Turning to ashes in our mouths!
Mischievous Mercury conjoins with underworld Pluto and the council begins with a deal of obscene muttering and braying at a psychic level, giving the impression that the llamas are vastly displeased with their human charges. Just as your brain is fit to burst with the irritation and the angst of it all, silence falls. As the great Sol Invicti enters loony Sagittarius, the faces of the council turn to you and the beady eye of the high llama fixes you, rooting you to the spot. 'You must convey to the leaders of the world, little goatish tragedy,' he begins, indicating by his choice of words that he knows you all too well, 'a message from us, the ruling council of llamas. We are most displeased with human greed, selfishness and purblind materialism. Should the leaders ignore this message, an ill fate will befall them and the human race they lead. So have we, the llamas, spoken.'
Deathly silence follows, relieved only by the soughing of the wild winds of desolation! You ruminate. Greed! Selfishness! Materialism! What precisely is the problem? These are the laudable attributes of your own obnoxious sign. What on earth are they saying? The great Sol Invicti grinds inexorably into a wrestling match with idiot Uranus, bringing a Full Moon in nitwit Gemini. Lights flash in the cosmos! Bells ring in your leaden brain! You are struck by a realization so potent that it almost makes you think. In fact, it does make you think!
Great gods alive and dead, this is a day like unto no other! Spiritual knowledge floods your body, emptying your very being of the poisonous devotion to Mammon until the crawling horror of your own venal nature is revealed to you in all its corruption and despite. Pangs of remorse wrack your goatish limbs! Your bootless cries trouble Heaven till the very clouds threaten to crack open and rain grace and mercy on the pitiful spectacle you have become.
Ye gods and little fishes, goatish miseries! You've been saved and the llamas are your salvation. Vamping Venus and marauding Mars rut in the gutters of Heaven, thumbing their noses at nasty Neptune. You tear cash and credit cards from your wallet, rending them to shreds and swearing fervently to carry out your mission on behalf of the llama council that secretly rules the world. Great gods alive and dead, it's all so moving, I think I'll have to lie down before I pass out with the excruciating boredom of it all. But call again next month when further medication will guarantee more drivel from the dripping, venomous pen of Asperitus, the oracle of bitter truth and sainted lunatic of irritation. Until then! Ta! Ta!