Ho to you, depressing goatish persons! Last time, you were plotting and scheming evilly (in traditional hircine fashion) to make a fortune from the business of llama spittle, this latter being the 'must have' of modern cosmetics. To do so, you had not only used magic for selfish ends (eek) but also betrayed the cause of llama liberation that you once loved so passionately. And in the process of 'selling out' you had eschewed your new lover along with the llamas, abandoning the plagues that were to teach the world to leave naughtiness behind and learn a better way.
Great steaming piles of sandwich meat, tiny horrors! Have you no gratitude anywhere about your person? Perhaps in your back pocket or in your other suit? Have you forgotten those magical moments in the wilds of a nameless wasteland where you were kicked and spat upon in a generous and inclusive manner at the llama council? Have you forgotten the promise you made to the high llama? And, more importantly, have you forgotten what a grumpy and vindictive old bastard said creature actually is?
To betray a llama is to know the wrath of all their kind for a thousand years. Attend me, goatish loons! It's time to consult the vile and bitter prognostications for nasty November and see just what doom it is that will visit itself upon you, shaking loose from your venal grasp the magic staff of llama poo! The talisman will always be wrest from undeserving hands! So sayeth Asperitus, the haruspex of harangue, as quoted from the ninth book of the deathless wisdom of llamas!
Anyway, we must get on with the astrology or I shall forget what I'm doing and fall asleep. Don't think this means I'm not interested in you, my tragic goatish types! At least, not in particular! You see I'm not actually interested in anyone at all, apart from my little brown bottle. I only do this to pay for luxuries like food and rent.
Enough pleasantries! On with the vitriol! It seems that the New Moon in gloomy Scorpio has come and gone, as I'm late with the forecast. I overslept, you see. Anyway, something will have happened in your solar eleventh house, that being where this sordid event has taken place. And, as there were nasty aspects with wrinkled Saturn (your ruler), you probably fleeced all your business cronies with dodgy contracts in order to make more money from your 'llama spittle' enterprise. As mischievous Mercury clashes with the idiot god, Uranus, you tell them it wasn't your fault and fabricate a story about how someone else is to blame for their impoverishment. And, as vamping Venus slithers into your odious sign, you then gad about the place, buying sex, clothes and food, enjoying your ill-gotten gains. In fact, as a raft of ghastly planets too tedious to name cavorts in aspects too gruesome to describe, the business of sex will probably turn into a cycle of uncontrollable urges (on your part), creating an obscene and orgiastic landscape no sensitive soul would dare describe.
As vamping Venus exposes her private parts for jolly Jupiter to leer at, you entertain yourself with activities suited to the barnyard or the jungle, charged by gruesome fantasies as invoked by the wrestling match of marauding Mars and narcotic Neptune. But what's this? By my sainted aunt, mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse in addlepate Sagittarius and your solar twelfth house. Egad! That's a hellish house of horrors if ever there was one. It's filled with fear, naughtiness and the seeds of self-destruction. Thus it is that nasty voices begin to nag in the back of your mind about betrayals and the anger of the llamas. You seek to ignore them as the Full Moon glowers in leaden Taurus, plunging into your favourite recreations!
As aging Saturn gropes marauding Mars with wrinkled fingers, you are the puppet master with orgies on a string. But the still small voice grows stronger as the mischievous messenger clashes again with idiot Uranus. The great Sol Invicti moves into addlepate Sagittarius, joining forces with the messenger. You become weakened, distracted and confused. You look around at the jungle of flesh and wicked pleasure you've created, wondering what you're doing. Mischievous Mercury then slides in through the back door (eek) of gloomy Scorpio and you begin to fret about why you set aside the cause of llamas and your role as Moses Goat, just to serve mammon yet again. You came low in Greece, did you not? You then found enlightenment in Tibet and set out with high hopes (and a nasty body odour) to change the world. What's happened to you, my hircine horrors?
Egad! A cosmic racket erupts as the great Sol Invicti clashes with Uranus, the idiot god! All of a sudden, the high llama appears, seething and spitting his contempt and disdain!
Gadzooks! What will happen now? But, before we can discover the shocking dénouement, you faint away, losing consciousness completely, a thing that I myself will do if I have to write one more word of this drivel. I must rest! I shall retire to the comfort of my brown bottle and silver tube. If you wish to know more, kindly click here next month when I have recovered sufficiently to allow me to continue piffling on. Ave atque vale, for the nonce, O things of knobby knees and stringy beards!