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 Asperitus Casting Runes... |
Yippee yi oh! Yippee yi ay, my ghastly ghost-riding two-faces! We left you last time having had an epiphany about the works of a Swedish philosopher that invented the nail file, Nhils Carborundum by name! You, during a period of incarceration, had been exposed (eek) to his works and are set to become his disciple! By all the gods alive and dead, this promises to be quite a chortle. Thus, we'll waste no time on pleasantries but hie us straight to the well of the vile and bitter, to imbibe of the prognosticatory waters roiling and swirling therein.
Miserable Saturn grinds aging bones, creaking knees and wrinkled skin into forward motion in your solar third house. Thus do you begin to think deeply! Eek! Now there's a turn up for the books! You decide there and then to devote your life to living in accord with the Nhils teachings. As vamping Venus slithers lasciviously into wretched Pisces, you decide to adopt garb befitting an acolyte of the great one. As this involves a garish concoction of lilac chiffon and lavender lace, it does nothing but confirm one's worst fears about the Swedes. Marauding Mars assails the naughty bits of dark Pluto, lord of the underworld, and you psychically commune with the great one. This is done by performing a kind of Swedish yoga, revealed in a series of pictures in a handbook that comes with his recorded lecture, THE RASP OF FUTILITY that brainwashed you in the first place. Come the Full Moon in lackwit Libra, you sing and dance yourself into a state of ecstasy. You swirl your chiffon and wave your lace, performing a series of vocal utterances (described by those who heard them as ungodly shrieks) until the proper authorities come to restrain you, an outcome we all applaud. This latter is brought about by the assault committed on dark Pluto by Mercury, absorbed as he is in his usual round of indecent behaviour. But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's Hell in Heaven! That's what it is! Marauding Mars now barrels into slimy Cancer as the messenger barrels into idiot Aries. These two barrelling busybodies then make ghastly and obscene congress such as would defy the efforts of a thousand scribes writing for a thousand years to describe it. Suffice it to say that servants of the great one (that's Nhils) have embraced the psychic communion you made and have come with funds to free you from the cell in New Orleans, which is where you were incarcerated in the first place. Really! I do wish you'd keep up so I don't have to recount your unspeakable past as well as predict your unenviable future. The upshot of all of this cosmic madness is that you're whisked away, little twerps, to the great one's secret retreat somewhere in the wilds of Cincinnati. You're cut off from kith and kin and prison wardens, several of whom had, incidentally, become quite fond of your supple favours. And yet, it seems you've only moved from one place of imprisonment to another. For, as the great Sol Invicti barges into cloddish Taurus, you're left to your own devices in a darkened room as the fiery Sun advances on grim Saturn for illicit favours of a most unspeakable nature. Come the New Moon in the leaden sign of the Bull that lights a nasty glaring lamp in the ghastly confines of your solar twelfth house, you beg and plead for company of any kind to end the solitude. You also beg for gentle unguents to soothe aching fingers and worn skin surfaces. However, as vamping Venus gleefully exposes her private parts to Pluto, dark god of the underworld, no solace comes. Ye gods and little fishes, tiny two-faced twits! Is this just one injustice after another, visited on you in the gruesome climes of a benighted universe ruled by insane gods? Let us hope so! In the meantime, I'm afraid I'll have to leave you confined and alone and going slightly mad, as I'm quite fatigued and extremely bored, ennui being what it is, you know! Kindly click here next month. If by then I have the slightest idea as to what this story is about, I may inform you. Or I may not! It all depends really on how one feels at the time! Ave atque vale, my teeny-weenie twerps! |
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