- Great elephants and dancing monkeys! It's you, tiny wittering blatherskites! Ugh! And it's that time of the month again! Eek! And thus, I must address you personally! Aargh! Oh well, I suppose we must set our course by the lunatic star that guides us on the seas of sublime irritation where we are doomed to sail for what seems a gruesome slice of eternity or something like it.
As did the ancient mariner of Coleridge, so do I, Asperitus, oracle of bitter truth, carry the 'albatross' of you, my tiny 'air sign' twerps, around my neck. It's only a pity I never shot you with a shaft other than the tongue of asperity. Though, it is said the pen is mightier than the sword, yet in the philosophies of sublime irritation (where I am the enlightened one), it is a truth that all irritations are equal and therefore equally irritating. Thus it will not matter how the albatross is shot.
Gods, I get distracted easily! I must put my little brown bottle aside and return to the task at hand. Prognosticating in the customary vile and bitter manner! In this instance, the soothsaying will be said for the month of awful April. Last time, we left you seduced and abandoned, as it were, the victim of a cult of silkworm-worshipping monks that absconded with your money and stranded you in a deserted monastery, lost in some remote mountain fastness, without the aid of email or mobile phone. Were I to feel genuine concern for your wretched plight, I might idly wonder how you're actually going to read this month's forecast. However, as I don't, I won't!
Oh gods! I've wandered off again, haven't I. I hereby cease these meanderings and continue with the topic of your grim and terrible fate. As ghastly planets too tedious to name cavort in aspects too nasty to describe, you wander in the monastic rose garden, conversing vividly with absent friends. However, as mischievous Mercury is in perverse reversal, you are only talking to yourself, of course. But you apply yourself with vigour to the task, even naming various roses after particular friends you have lied to, stolen from or sexually betrayed by sleeping with their partners. What jolly times they were!
But what's this! Great gods alive and dead! It's a New Moon in arrogant Aries, bringing a Solar Eclipse to your house of friends, hopes and wishes! Mischievous Mercury moves out of perverse reversal and your futile conversation hangs in empty air, haunting you, mocking you with its hollow ring. You fall into despair, little imbecile tikes! There seems nothing left to live for as you contemplate the snowclad fastness of the forbidding peaks that lock you in. Your life seems empty and meaningless. But it always was actually! You simply filled it up with distractions to take your mind away from that obvious conclusion. Marauding Mars ruts with nasty Neptune in the gutters of Heaven and you become feverishly angry. Perhaps it's life itself that makes you angry! Or perhaps it's the deity! Thus you are seized by violent rage and race about the monastery, striking, with a hoe that's used to tend the rose garden, at every icon and image you can discover. But this too seems empty and futile in the end.
Vamping Venus then drifts into your solar twelfth house (eek). This is a ghastly place, filled with heartache, sorrow and self-undoing, described in forbidding tones by astrologers very nearly as nasty as myself. The great Sol Invicti follows suit. Suddenly it seems the air is alive with phantoms! My sainted aunt! How metaphysically alarming! And then, to add to your woes, the Full Moon comes in morbid Scorpio, bringing a Lunar Eclipse to your solar sixth house. You feel feverish and unwell. Your private parts begin to itch, causing you agony of a most personal kind while phantom voices laugh at your plight. They are of course the ghosts of all the friends you have deceived, revelling now in your misfortune. Ghastly planets begin farting in the cosmic winds and you scream at these beastly manifestations to cease their hideous harangue. But the spirit world only shouts you down, as you lie feverish, frothing and itching on the cold stone of the monastery floor.
But great gods alive and dead what's this! Why, my little tiny twerps! It's a ray of sunshine on an otherwise cloudy day. Vamping Venus clashes with nasty Neptune and a ghost steps forward from the gallery, holding a phantom hand aloft. The vile laughter ceases on the instant. The air shimmers with unearthly light and resounds with mystic music. 'Find redemption in the rose garden' says a voice of such ethereal beauty that you fall into a delicious swooning sleep.
Gods! I'm feeling ill. Medic! Fetch me my little brown bottle and silver tube. I must rest. If I recover in time, I shall write more of this outrageous drivel next month. Farewell for the nonce, my tiny airhead tikes!