Huzzah, hideous hairdressing types! It seems it's time to pass the poison chalice in your direction once again, a little thing I do on something of a monthly basis. Though, I must confess that it's harder to get started in some months than others, this being one of them, as I'm late with the forecast. Oh well, it's only a matter of a day or two and I doubt that we've missed anything interesting! After all, it's only the lives of fatuous felines we're discussing.
Even so, as I recall it, there was something of a contretemps developing when last we left. That was in the month of awful August. Hmm! Well, as it's officially savage September, I suppose I had best stop wittering on and begin a tirade in the vile and bitter manner, so familiar to us both after all these years. Great Caesar's ghost! I feel exhausted just contemplating the passage of time. And, if I don't get this done with soon, I shall have to lie down and rest. And then where will we be? Obnoxious October, I expect, as it soon will be if I don't cease procrastinating and begin prognosticating.
So let it be! Attend me now, my pussy loons! It's the tale of Puss in Boots! Last time, you were facing an army of ruffians bearing banners upon which was writ their contempt for mighty boots and pussy's bow, fashion accessories you had designed and now were wearing. This confrontation came after you had settled an altercation with the press and law, one that occurred while you were on a trek in the wilderness to prove the worth of mighty boots. Thus we find you, in a standoff with dread opponents. You must cross a bridge to continue your trek and yet the ruffians hold it, saying 'none shall pass'. As marauding Mars seethes and simmers in cloddish Taurus, you see these are cattlemen, doughty chaps of mighty limb and tiny brain, not unlike your good selves if you leave out the bit about 'mighty limb'. You look into their fierce eyes and see they are bent on making mayhem with all that try to pass the bank they hold. It's as if their collective steely glare cries aloud, 'neither mighty boot not pussy's bow shall tread on the soil of our fathers!'
Gadzooks! How rustic! They are the very embodiment of the ageless tradition of psychotic plainsmen that has made so many countries great by means of rapine, plunder and the slaughter of innocent beasts and indigenous tribes. As jolly Jupiter gropes the private parts of vamping Venus, the rag tag and bobtail collection of adoring fans and hangers-on weeps and wails in trepidation, gesticulating in an exaggerated manner as they look to you for leadership. By all the gods, it is certain that disappointment is the lot of humanity! A New Moon comes in anal Virgo and you sidle to the closest of these fellows and surreptitiously offer money to encourage their retreat. A discussion ensues among the doughty chaps. However, as mischievous Mercury moves through that same dread sign and clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, they bring an answer back. They say they will accept large quantities of cash if you will consent to be branded and have the entire stock of mighty boots and pussy's bows shipped to Uranus. Eek! Double entendre! And, not only that, they even show you the branding iron. Aargh!
You, of course, refuse these rude requirements and retire from the bridgehead, feigning composure as an eruption of childhood fear surges in your body. Ghastly planets fart in the cosmic winds, the chief offender with flatulent effusions being marauding Mars as he pokes his vile weaponry into the private parts of jolly Jupiter and dark Pluto, lord of the underworld. This thrusting action forms a configuration of unutterable horror known as a yod, the Finger of God, which is pointed directly at you, loony felines! It seems you must stand up and fight for all you believe in or be branded a cowardly poltroon and have white feathers sent to you at dinner parties.
Thus you choose the path of mightiness! You hurl the money you offered them to the ground and dance around it, whooping and screaming like a savage of old, a lion roused to fury. With grim Saturn in your sign, clashing with vamping Venus, you know you must put aside childhood fears and adopt a fearsome glare in the mask of a stern countenance. And so you do, showing contempt for these rude creatures! You swagger mightily, making throat-cutting gestures in their general direction. Egad! How mighty is that!
As the Full Moon comes in wretched Pisces, with ghastly aspects to mischievous Mercury and dark Pluto, you stamp your mighty boots until the timbers of the bridge begin to shake. Thus you dance and wail and sway and utter threats of a fiendish nature, threats against these ruffians and against the cows they herd as well! Gadzooks! You cut a grim figure, my fatuous felines! As the great Sol Invicti then grinds his way into loathsome Libra, visiting another Equinox upon an already over-burdened world, a crowd gathers at the bridge to witness this ritual of fearsome prowess that vaunts your intrinsic mightiness above the mightiness of cattlemen, past, present and future! The cattlemen step back, looking somewhat daunted and in a state of incipient trepidation! You have gained ground against the foe, my fighting lions! Hola! But can you step up and deliver the killer punch with all the force of mighty boots and pussy's bow behind it? Click here next month and see. In the meantime, ave atque vale, my tiny pussy types!