Great Heavens and dancing elephants, it’s time to talk to the two-faced twits again! By my little brown bottle, will the suffering never end? Even with the doctrine of impermanence firmly in place, I fear this may be so! Ah well! How sad! Never mind! Attend me, air sign lunatics! It’s time for a dose of vile and bitter prognostications, poured into the spoon of awful August! Open wide! Here they come!
Last time, we left you, re-enacting the Tragical History of Dr. Faustus, a sixteenth century necromancer who sold his soul to the devil. You were at the time working as a transvestite entertainer in a Copenhagen nightclub and busy becoming the most successful person in the world. You’d had sex with everything that could bend in one direction or the other, visited war zones, laughed at danger, made a fortune and then given it away. Great gods alive and dead, it’s just one thing after another with you lot, isn’t it!
But now, my little puling ninnies! In your usual cowardly manner, you’re trying to worm your way out of a contract with the dark lord as you find the notion of eternal damnation faintly disturbing, as all that stuff about ‘devils, pitchforks and bottoms’ inclines you towards despondency more than somewhat. Thus, as mischievous Mercury clashes with idiot Uranus, we find you importuning family members in an effort to get them to take over the contract of perdition out of love and loyalty. You understand what it is you’re asking, as you have recently looked up these words in the dictionary and are satisfied other people use them in polite conversation. However, as the laughter dies down, you realize a task of this proportion may be beyond even your powers of persuasion.
As jolly Jupiter clashes with underworld Pluto, you call Mephistopheles to your home and try to negotiate a new deal, specifically by using that bright and breezy manner that has won you so many dishonest fortunes in communications and the media. However, the devil says ‘no’ categorically and departs in the aromatic manner chosen by his kind. Thus, as the great Sol Invicti wrestles with nasty Neptune, you’re afflicted by a dose of the vapours both literal and metaphorical in the wake of the brimstone and sulphur of his hellish exit and your subsequent confused consternation.
Cripes, little two-faced nitwits! This is serious! Vamping Venus enters Cancer and your solar second house and you advertise the upcoming position of eternal perdition for cash money but, strangely and sadly, there are no takers when the terms of the deal are made clear. Marauding Mars moves into anal Virgo and you thrash around your home, smashing your toys and spitting the dummy! Mischievous Mercury turns retrograde and you rant and rave, remonstrating with the benighted universe and its pantheon of insane gods and then berating yourself for being foolish and feckless.
But, by my little brown bottle, what’s this? Why, my addlepates of the first water! Everything is changed around as you have an idea when mischievous Mercury clashes once again with idiot Uranus! If you’ve been given magical powers by dint of this contract, why not use magical powers to charm your way out of it! A New Moon comes in loathsome Leo and you see your way clear to a land of new dreams with your brilliant realization! Miserable Saturn clashes with cranky Chiron and you bid the dark lord attend you and bring his best books on black magic and the arts of sorcery! He does so, smiling grimly, a thing devils do well as they have practiced same for that part of eternity which can be said to have already taken place.
As marauding Mars conjoins with Mercury while both clash with idiot Uranus, you study the books, muttering under your breath as you attempt to descry the eldritch symbols from the crabbed handwriting of these ancient texts. Great gods alive and dead, little twits! They wrote by hand back then in the days of magic! If they were so magical, why didn’t they invent a computer, or a typewriter at the very least?
Oh well! On with the show! Mischievous Mercury re-enters loathsome Leo and you begin to speak aloud the magic spells you’ve been learning. You will conjure a demon to serve you, one that will either unbind you from the contract or coerce some wandering innocent into taking the proxy for you. ‘Come, Asmodeus!’ you cry. ‘Come, Asteroth!’ you roar. ‘Hie, Baliol and Belcher! Attend me now!’ you scream. This goes on for quite a while, as is the custom with things of a dark and magical nature. Eye of newt and toe of frog are involved on the biology side of it, making you wish you’d paid attention in class at school instead of selling the brilliant student’s essay notes to the dull-witted in exchange for cash. And, the frocks and headgear you wear are beyond even my great powers of description!
Nonetheless, come the Full Moon in wretched Pisces, you get a result, my empty-headed lunatics! Thunders crash. Lightnings crack the sky. The bowels of hell open in your toilet (you seem to have made an error with the geography of the magic) and a slavering demon appears. ‘I am Odiferous Pigswill,’ the creature intones. ‘I am here to serve you, my lord and master!’ He bows before you, spilling several kilos of maggots from his hair. All of this, of course, is to do with the presence of underworld Pluto in your solar seventh house, so recently activated by vamping Venus.
But, what we all want to know is, can things get any worse for you? We trust it may be so. Click here, little nitwits, next month, and see for yourselves!