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    Go Back  The Sublime Irritations of March 2005  Go Forward
    Ave, vacuous vanities! Still bullying your idiot friends (Gemini on the cusp of your solar eleventh house) into agreeing with you so you can continue to believe you're always right? I expect so. Last time, we left you with damp pussy knickers and a brow, fevered more than somewhat, due in no small measure to your encounter and enforced alliance with the dread Mr Griffin, a criminal mastermind who is in fact the incarnation of a mythic beast made in stone.

    This mythic beast dribbled, emitted clouds of grey dust and made you an offer you couldn't refuse. And that was to go into the fashion business as a cover for his nefarious criminal activities. As a consequence, you've been under a lot of stress lately. You might have even had the worst weeks of your life. All your friends noticed it. In fact, they felt it too, on your behalf. It may even seem as if no one's really listening to you. Well, I suppose there's always a simple explanation for that. Ockham's razor, don't you know! You haven't said anything interesting.

    Anyway, that's by the by! Let's get on with the matters at hand, the vile and bitter prognostications for manic March. The month starts badly, of course, as we've all come to expect. You lie on the floor, paralyzed with fear as mischievous Mercury clashes with Pluto, dark lord of the underworld. You feel as if you're psychically enslaved to the disturbing Mr Griffin. Your mind is bereft of not only thought (who would notice) but also the necessary spark for fashion ideas. In fact, this generally vacant piece of real estate is currently awash with roiling torrents of emotion. Jolly Jupiter clashes with marauding Mars and your fingers twitch absentmindedly with your serviette from lunch, working it into pattern after pattern as you use it to wipe away the sweat that pours from your neck. Mischievous Mercury moves to arrogant Aries and you prowl the confines of the room where you're supposed to be working but can find neither exit nor means of contacting the outside world. Marauding Mars grinds against the aging bones of miserable Saturn and you see you are trapped, cut off from friends and relatives (most of them hate you anyway) and feeling somewhat claustrophobic.

    Come the New Moon in snivelling Pisces and your solar eighth house, you weep for your confinement and wish you had someone to have sex with, just to relieve the tension. Sadly, neither comely folk nor acceptable devices are at hand. The great Sol Invicti and vamping Venus clash with Pluto, dark god of the underworld. Suddenly, with no sound and just the barest shimmer of light, Mr Griffin is there. The grim line of his chiseled features hovers in the midair dark. Shriek and double shriek, tiny misbegotten things! Or you would, if only you could break the iron grip fear has on your jaw and scream aloud. By all the gods alive and dead, it's wicked when ghastly planets cavort in your solar eighth house!

    And then, all Hell breaks loose in the Heavens! Eek! The great Sol Invicti clatters into arrogant Aries, bringing yet another Equinox to haunt a benighted world. Marauding Mars moves to Aquarius, sign of the idiot god. And mischievous Mercury moves backwards, simply because he can think of nothing better to do. But where does that leave you, my vain and empty vessels? Doubtless that's the question on your lips, if no one else's.

    'Pussy,' says Mr Griffin, 'I have been worried about your sex life as you do not seem to be having any. So I have brought one of my assistants.' An enticing figure steps forward as marauding Mars conjoins with cranky Chiron.

    'It's an elemental. It doesn't have any gender itself but it goes well either way. You can call it Arimaspia!' After a brief moment of revulsion, you find yourself wrapped in the embrace of the most thrilling creature you have ever touched. And it's not human. It's an 'it'! Gadzooks! Oh well!

    'By the way,' says Mr Griffin as his image starts to fade, 'I like the necktie. We'll go with that first up.' You look down in amazement and see that you have twisted your serviette into a rather fashionable piece of neckwear. Without even meaning too! Gods, how talented you are!

    'I think we'll call it Pussy's Bow, after you, Pussy Mabusé,' says Mr Griffin, fading. Arimaspia seizes you in an embrace so wild that Pussy's Bow reties itself three times in a row. Perhaps being a crime lord isn't so bad after all! If this is the underworld, you want more of it. Click here next month and see if you get more of it. Ta! Ta!
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