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 Asperitus Casting Runes... |
Great galloping gherkins! It's you, my goatish types! Fresh from your recent adventures as a flagellant and cult leader. But that was in of manic March! It's now awful April, by several days in fact, as I'm late with the forecast, due to narcolepsy, ennui, a little brown bottle and a silver tube! However, the situation is remedied! I'm conscious once more, though 'of what' might be the pertinent question! And, of course, the pertinent answer is 'vile and bitter prognostication'! Lie back and open wide your ghastly gobs as I, Asperitus, doctor of doom, deliver the medicinal spoon with the requisite dose therein!
The month gets underway in appalling manner, as miserable Saturn grinds his aging bones, creaking knees and wrinkled skin into forward motion, all in loathsome Leo and your solar eighth house, an unspeakable realm, jam-packed with base desire and dastardly deeds. That old familiar feeling begins to take hold, my goatish tragedies, as you collect money, hand over fist, from the willing marks and devotees surrounding your bloody cult. You'd happily trade any shreds of identity you have left (refer last month's forecast) in order to make a fortune and please the insane gods with your penitence. Vamping Venus slithers lasciviously into wretched Pisces and crowds of tearful penitents and willing novices fill the streets on your bloody trail. As marauding Mars assaults the private parts of dark Pluto, underworld god, you grant the fledgling ones an initiation to the cult they will never forget, largely due to the lifelong scars they will carry. Fantastical farting and fornication comes in the Heavens at the Full Moon in loathsome Libra. You stage an Easter Parade! It has a celebration of sorrowful mysteries such as has not been seen since the first Good Friday (a strange appellation for an affair of such bloodshed) when that carpenter chap, the one that had a virgin for a mother, got himself into bother with the Israelites. But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's a nasty turn of events for you, my goatish miseries! Disgruntled family members join your cult, as marauding Mars enters the slimy climes of neurotic Cancer. They express a proper desire to purify themselves but, it must be said, show an excess of willingness and indeed gleeful jubilation when it comes their turn to apply the lash to your back, flagellation being a team effort, due to the exertions involved. Mischievous Mercury rampages into idiot Aries and you whip them fiercely in return, spitting nasty words of vituperation from your hircine lips. But is it the wrath of god or the wrath of goat that drives the beaded cords? This is a matter between you and your conscience, tiny goatish types! Thus, it's no matter at all since you don't have one. Besides, there are deeper things to consider, as grim doings in the cosmic gutters stir up more ghastly rutting and flatulence among ill-disciplined planets. The great Sol Invicti clatters into cloddish Taurus, touches grim Saturn improperly and proceeds to form illicit congress with the loony lunar light, bringing a New Moon to your house of pleasure and recreation. Eek! Egad! Gadzooks! And other such quaint expressions to indicate surprise and alarm. You suddenly realize that what was once pain that would pay the price of penitence has now become a pleasure you all too readily enjoy and inflict! Great giggling gargoyles and rutting bandicoots! You've become a sadomasochist! By my little brown bottle, goatish types! What will you do? As for myself, I'll turn in before I'm forced to take a dangerous overdose, due to rising hysteria or interminable ennui. Kindly click here next month. If I'm alive and awake, I may write more unutterable drivel. Ave! |
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