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    Go Back  The Sublime Irritations of February 2005  Go Forward
    Ho to you, Pussy Mabusé! I salute your tiny brains and pussy parts, all of which bear witness to the rule of idiot gods in a benighted universe. Truly are you in every way a testament to the truth found only on the path of sublime irritation, where the just man wanders, raging in the wild. Now that the pleasant introduction is behind us, let us turn to drink of the vile and bitter truth.

    Last time we left you facing the dreadful Mr Griffin as you discovered this notorious crime lord was, in fact, a supernatural being, a mythic horror (or horrific myth if you prefer)! An eldritch beast that is, in all likelihood, as heartless and inhuman as the stone from which it is born! Grey dust floats about the dripping beak then mixes with the drool that pours therefrom. Still, you find that you're having enough trouble controlling your own secretions without worrying about those of Mr Griffin. Now the wheels of Heaven turn, grinding the cosmic gears is such a manner that planets frolic and cavort in ear-splitting cacophony, mostly in idiot Aquarius and your solar seventh house to begin with.

    "I hear you're called Pussy Mabusé," says the remarkable, dribbling stone statue. "Is it all right if I call you Pussy?" Realizing this requires an answer you prefer not to give in a squeaky falsetto, you nod, attempting to look self-possessed. However, you only succeed in looking arrogant and self-absorbed as usual.

    It seems as if hours pass as the stone one contemplates you with an unwavering stare. And, in fact, they do. Food is served. Drinks are drunk. The stone creature eats nothing, drinks nothing and says nothing. You become nervous, wondering what criminal masterminds do and say when they meet, as you're not very experienced in this line of work. Marauding Mars moves into the miserable sign of the Goat and your solar sixth house, bringing you out in that embarrassing rash you used to get as a child when you didn't know how to do things properly.

    At last, the silence breaks at the New Moon in loony Aquarius. "Pussy," rasps Mr Griffin, "we're going into the fashion business. I hear you are gifted with colour and style (it seems even supernatural creatures can be misinformed) so I want you to design something. Shoes or a necktie! Whatever! I'll do the rest. I want a fashion accessory I can export to cover my tracks. Is this acceptable to you, Pussy?"

    You nod again, for much the same reason as before, though this time you are also controlling a bout of rising hysteria as well as trying to dissuade your bladder from betraying you through fear. It strikes you as insanely amusing that you are pretending to be a crime lord, talking with another crime lord when this other crime lord is a supernatural creature, made of stone and thousands of years old. And, what's more, you are blithely discussing with him (her/it?) going into the fashion business as a front for organized crime that is doubtless of the darkest and most scurrilous ilk. It certainly strikes me as insanely amusing but then everything does, if it's not boring me into a state of sublime irritation on my cloud here in Heaven.

    Ah well! That's all by the by! Mr Griffin asks you to seal the bargain by spitting on the floating dust in the air, rubbing it on your palm and then rubbing the result onto a protruding stone appendage which we shall not identify for the sake of the sensitive. That pact is sealed and you go to work as a fashion designer as marauding Mars harmonizes with Uranus, the idiot god, wondering vaguely why your life has taken this peculiar turn. Though you take out your very best crayons (the set with the lovely gold one), you find these nebulous concerns soon turn into deeper fears, leaving you unable to do more than doodle in an idle but anxious manner. Ghastly planets penetrate snivelling Pisces and your solar eighth house. There are dark whisperings all around. Shadows flit through the gloom. Though you have the freedom of this outré manse, the grey ghost of the pitiless and impermeable Mr Griffin seems to haunt every room, mocking you with stony silence. You try desperately to think of brilliant ideas to impress your partner in crime, but nothing comes. Instead you find yourself falling into the gap between your ears. And then, my fatuous felines, this dark drama takes a darker turn...

    The gears of Heaven screech and grind as they send the planets on a lunatic race to delight the insane gods who rule this benighted universe. Cranky Chiron enters idiot Aquarius! Yet another erratic dancer in the tribe of the idiot god! You begin to feel peculiar, my dear pussy type things! You feel the dark energies of the soulless Mr Griffin seeping through your skin (ugh) and penetrating your deepest reaches (eek). Great gods alive and dead, my mewling morons! It's as if you have become a psychic slave to this grim and ruthless thing of stone. As the Full Moon comes in irritating Virgo, clashing with the great Sol Invicti and Uranus, both disporting themselves in the house of the underworld lord, you fall to the floor. There you lie, helpless as a kitten, weeping and enslaved by the sneer of cold command, carved into the stone visage of this thing of ancient evil.

    Ye gods, my vacuous vanities! Could matters become any worse? Let us hope so. Click here next time and we shall see! Ta! Ta!

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