Hola, tiny air sign types! Last time we left, you were imprisoned in a cellar, having been drugged by a turncoat lover. Though the creature was once your slave, your roles were reversed due to the influence of foolish passion. As you can tell by the lateness of the hour, I was inclined to leave you there, as suffering of this nature seems a suitable redress for your errant ways and your vacuous converse which, in itself, may be regarded as a stream of drivel from which no one in their right mind would drink.
Speaking of streams of drivel, it is now time for the vile and bitter prognostications for jactitating July, the current month if my information is reliable. Attend me, air sign loons! Asperitus speaks! As the month begins with an unseemly encounter between the soft bits of vamping Venus and the knobbly bits of gloomy Saturn, we find you alone in the stygian gloom. Mischievous Mercury does an obscene two-step with marauding Mars and you wallow in this isolation, wailing about lost love, lost dosh and the deteriorating values of a 'post modern' world. This absurd behaviour and arrant piffle continues unabated until mischievous Mercury moves forward when you at last come to your senses, such as they are, and decide to do something about your parlous confinement. After searching about you in the dark, you find a tiny means of egress and soon are squeezing your supple limbs along the shaft of a disused dumb waiter. So you ascend to the body of your house, only to find the ghastly creature you once called 'dearest' (ugh) has done a bunk with all of your precious possessions as well as further funds. As a ghastly New Moon comes in slimy Cancer, you're on the ball instanter, calling the fiscal folk, cancelling credit cards and demanding that warrants for arrest be issued.
But what's this? Ye gods and little fishes! No sooner are you hung up than threats to your person arrive via a video link. Peculiar foreign types appear on screen and intimate they will act in nasty ways against your supple limbs and private parts should you pursue your present course of revenge. The ex-lover clearly has international friends that dwell on the dark side, a notion that is easily gleaned from an examination of the gruesome intercourse between marauding Mars and cranky Chiron, currently polluting the cosmos. Vamping Venus gropes her way into vexatious Virgo and you employ a brace of sturdy bodyguards and purchase bullet-proof furniture to ensure your personal safety.
But, by my sainted aunt, what's this? Great barking bandicoots, it's the great Sol Invicti, propelling himself, on a cloud of malodorous vapour, into lackwit Leo and bringing hell on wheels to your home. A car races up your avenue (eek). Strange thumpings thump on the roof while strange eruptions sound in the stygian darkness of your cellar. You race into the street, trying to see what is happening, just as the speeding vehicle stops, disgorging strangers, darkly dressed and dangerous looking. They advance on you from the shadows, as marauding Mars, grim Saturn and narcotic Neptune engage in unspeakable orgiastic revelry.
Gadzooks, little brainless twits! It seems your life may be under threat. You attempt to race back inside and hide behind the bullet-proof furniture. However, as vamping Venus moves into perverse reverse in anal Virgo, your bodyguards turn traitor, locking the front door on you and speeding out the back, carrying said expensive furniture and anything else they can get their sticky fingers on. By my sainted aunt, it's another damning indictment of the unconcern and moral turpitude of a post-modern world! As the ghastly Full Moon comes in Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, while marauding Mars and grim Saturn exchange rude bits in a most repugnant manner. Threatening figures advance, grasp you by your most sensitive bits and throw you on the back seat of the car then speed into the night!
By all the gods alive and dead, you've been kidnapped, my nasty little two-faces! The clothes are stripped from your body while a blindfold is tied about your head. A dizzying succession of vehicular changes sees you switched from car to plane on into a helicopter from which you're finally unceremoniously dumped into the freezing night. Great farting camels! What doom is this that has come upon you? Sudden and nasty laughter erupts as you tear the blindfold from your eyes, only to see a masked gathering in a public square. They point, laugh and speak in a twittering foreign tongue as they begin hurling rotten fruit at you, all the while taking pictures with camera phones. Lawks a mercy, my tiny turnips, images of your fruity private parts and unfortunate body functions flash out onto the worldwide web in a ghastly humiliation of your person! You slip and thrash in a saltatorial and ungainly manner on freezing stone and fruity bits in a foreign city square! By my little brown bottle, how awkward, especially with your reputation for agile motion!
As you expire beneath this eructation of foul fruit and abuse, somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if you could somehow obtain the rights to this gruesome spectacle and, if nothing else, at least gain pecuniary reward for the ordeal. Instanter, you're struck in the nether regions by a rotten pear just as an apple strikes you on the head. You fall unconscious at the blow, wondering why forbidden fruit has brought your downfall. Should you wish to know the answer to this absurd question or read further piffle on the subject of your wretched lives, click here next time and I may oblige! Ta ta, darling twits!