Hooray to you, 'hair gel' horrors and maladjusted miscreants of styling mousse! Last time, your star was on the rise. You triumphed as the effete designer of Pussy's Bow, a revolting fashion accessory of the garish kind you favour. Yet beneath your frightful and fatuous exterior, there lurked the frightening but equally fatuous interior of Pussy Mabusé, evil crime lord and brainless plank. Here, your triumphs were of a darker, more nefarious kind.
Then, at the last gasp of jaded June, you excelled yourself again, designing Mighty Boots, a romping stomping 'kick up the backside' footwear item for those who believe the mindless crushing of insects and small animals is a testament to human superiority. Thus do we see the rarest device of this benighted universe at work as you, with no talents beyond those of vanity, an obsession with hair and a determined self-absorption, may rise to the heights by virtue of a nitwit public with more money than sense.
Attend me now, my tiny feline twerps! It is time for the bitter truth! The gut-wrenching, stomach-churning, bowel-griping dose of vile and bitter medicine for the month of jaundiced July, delivered by the grandest prognosticator of all! Me! Asperitus! Bard of baffle! Poet of piffle! Haruspex of harangue!
Events unfold at a rapid rate. So chuffed are you with this new invention that, while marauding Mars clashes with the New Moon in neurotic Cancer, you decide to set off on a mighty trek, tramping in the wild (in mighty fashion, of course) and camping in the countryside (in another fashion altogether). For this extreme excursion, you will wear only your mighty boots and pussy's bow. Eek! Thus will you stand nearly nude with nature to promote your mighty product! Hearts beat loud across the land in bosoms, both manly and maidenly, as a bored and brainless public, hungry for any facile novelty, applaud your brazen hide in every sense, given the manner in which you appear for the publicity photos.
Of course there are the doubters! Those who say the inventor of mighty boots is one faggot short of a campfire. However, this poisonous but subtle allusion is lost in the blare of trumpeting applause for your daring-do. Marauding Mars conjoins in unseemly fashion with the Lunar North Node and you set out upon your mighty trek, leaving behind you the mysterious Mr Griffin and his grim fortress of evil. You consider briefly taking Arimaspia, your companion, but soon realize a grey, asexual creature that has no speech but can fornicate with either sex in eight hundred and fifty three different positions will do very little for your standing with the boot-buying public. Mischievous Mercury and vamping Venus now grope each other whilst wrestling with narcotic Neptune. I must say, all those who saw you without giving way to hysterics felt you cut a fine figure as you strode out in your pink and silver boots, your lavender pussy's bow and nothing else but that with which you were natally endowed.
And this, of course, is where the ghastly strife to which you will finally succumb actually begins. So raucous is your inner dialogue of self-praise, my little feline fiends, that you fail to hear the alarming rattling in Heaven that should alert the wise to coming of catastrophes. It is, of course, the grim and aging bones of lugubrious Saturn, grinding their way into your sign and presaging misery and hardship for the next several years to come. And, it's not only Saturn's entrance you must contemplate (Eek!), but also his unpleasant grappling with cranky Chiron.
A cold breeze comes to wrap you up and carry you along. You draw pussy's bow more tightly about your neck and pull your mighty boots up higher on your shapely calves, but the vast areas left exposed give way to goose pimples. Night falls. An odious Full Moon casts lurid light and necrotic chill across the land you were set to trample underfoot in your mighty boots. You look about you, fearful as to the unnamed horrors that may lurk in the darkness. Strange mutterings assail your ears. You begin to feel you are pursued by a distant enemy, invisible but fixed upon your trail.
Quelle horreur! Is this a case of 'run, pussy, run' or must you turn and face the nemesis behind? The great Sol Invicti crashes into your idiot sign, conjoining with grim Saturn. You become depressed. Groan! Mischievous Mercury turns retrograde. You become confused and lose your way. Shriek! Vamping Venus moves to Virgo and you realize you have neither card nor coin about your person and cannot flee to the safety of any hostelry that may lie upon the road ahead. Double shriek! And then the Heavens spew forth their wrath in a manner no one (not even you, my little loonies) could mistake...
By all the gods alive and dead! It's marauding Mars, clattering and banging into leaden Taurus and your solar tenth house, grappling in unseemly fashion with grim Saturn.
'Hold where you are!' cries a cracked and ancient voice, resonant with grim sepulchral tones. Eek! You are transfixed, my tiny twerps! All the courage has drained from you and your mighty boots. You wonder in a distracted manner if there is a nearby public convenience that may prevent you from enduring the ultimate humiliation. And then, you look up!
Sigh! I think I'll have to stop now. It's time for my nap. Kindly wake me in time for next month if you're remotely interested in reading more of this egregious piffle. In the meantime, hail and farewell, fatuous felines!