Gadzooks, my puling pussycats! Last time we left, you were contemplating the killer punch! Kindly note that this is not a cheeky cocktail you have designed for your next soirée. It is rather the 'death blow' you must now deliver to the cattlemen who hold the bridge against the advance you must make in order to continue your trek across the land, made in the cause of pussy's bow and mighty boots. Though you have in tow your rag tag and bobtail of sycophants and brainless lackeys, it is you, my feckless felines, my hair gel vanities, that must set foot first upon the timbers of this ancient bridge.
You have danced the dance of challenge, stamping and spitting your contempt for the foe. You look across the ranks that are mustered on the other side of this Rubicon. Is there a Horatio to hold against you, a grizzled warrior armed with nothing but one eye, a limp, a sharp blade and halitosis that would fell a bear at fifty paces? As you survey the doughty cattlemen, you see many candidates that would more than fit the bill! Eek! Perhaps you must be Horatius Cocles and take the battle to the enemy on the other side! Anyway, enough nonsensical speculation and historical meandering! It's time for a sobering dose of prognostications of the vile and bitter kind. Here is the poison chalice, my addlepate felines! Drink deep for tomorrow you die!
At the first instant, the farcical fandango of planets becomes a fiasco of flatulence as marauding Mars turns his backside on the world and moves into perverse reverse motion. He does so in cloddish Taurus and your solar tenth house. And, by the gods, it's a spectacle from there for blind rage grips you as the war god turns tail! Suddenly, you're haunted by the ghosts of mother, father and every authority figure who's ever stood over you and told you what to do or berated you for the foolishness that is your birthright. Every slight ever done you, every sarcastic remark about clothing or hair and every superior look made in your direction seems to live in the air about you. The shades of every ruffian that has soiled your garments (or caused you to do so)! The phantoms of each slanderer that has taken the name of 'Lion' in vain! These gather too and soon all the ghosts stir into life a seething cauldron of rage within. It begins to boil like some dark and magical potion, moving inexorably toward a gruesome moment of release.
Egad! We must all of us beware of the tide of feline fury for, lo, it may yet rise to engulf a naughty world! The New Moon in loathsome Libra comes, bringing a Solar Eclipse in your house of communication, just as mischievous Mercury and jolly Jupiter conjoin there in unseemly fashion! Your rage spills over and you scream contempt at the enemy across the bridge, at anyone who happens to be standing near you and at the world in general! The gloves are off and it's no more 'Nice Pussy' (so to speak)! Vamping Venus enters silly Sagittarius and you dress in your toughest mighty boots (with the steel caps) and best pussy's bow (with the reinforced crotch) while the gaggle of sycophants that attends you looks on in simpering adulation, applauding each stylish addition to your coiffure and costumery. Mischievous Mercury slithers into hag-ridden Scorpio and you mutter 'sotto voce' in a threatening and morbid fashion.
As the messenger moves to clash with grim Saturn, you cry aloud that you will cross this bridge, in ringing stentorian tones that rattle the bolts and shake the timber of this ancient construction! The cattlemen stand fast but you detect an uneasy look in the eyes of each and every one. Then it is that all hell breaks loose in the Heavens. The farting of ghastly planets, cavorting in nasty aspect shatters the gathering tension. Chief among the offenders is the Martian marauder as he forms yet another Yod (you had one last month).
This is an odious configuration that betides woe of nine kinds, known to astrologers of yore as the Finger of God. Under its foul and fearsome influence, you close one pussy eye while the still open one glowers with feline fury. You spin around in a dervish dance and then launch yourself across the bridge like a whirlwind. It's the dance of Lugh of the Long Hand done by Pussy of the Long claw!
As a Full Moon glowers in arrogant Aries, bringing a Lunar Eclipse to your solar ninth house, the enemy breaks and runs, unable to withstand the magical fury of your charge, abandoning Stetson, stock whip and cattle prod in their cowardly wake. No doubt you'll find a use for these spoils of war in the privacy of your bedroom.
Egad! It seems your supernal rage has won the day, my hair gel vanities! That cauldron of pussy magic within you has spilt over and routed the foe. A rousing cheer rises from your limp-wristed supporters. Several of them begin to undress in the 'not so vain' hope that they will be spoils for the victor while others order coffee and cake to boost your somewhat depleted stocks. The trek of 'mighty boots' has triumphed!
But what's this? By all the gods alive and dead, it's the great Sol Invicti, grinding nastily into hag-ridden Scorpio! A committee of local folk comes and presents you with the keys to the town, an ancient custom that means you can walk naked in the street if you wish and not be arrested. As you're nearly naked anyway, I am uncertain as to how to assess the true value of such an award. However, it seems the locals never liked the cattlemen as they invariably brought their prods to town and proceeded to get horribly drunk, with entirely predictable consequences.
So, you've become a local hero, my puss in boots! By driving them away! But there's even more good fortune to come. Jolly Jupiter, the giggling and inebriated lord of fortune, now lurches into that same unspeakable sign of death, taxes and the anus! Evil Scorpio! Thus, the committee offers you title to lands on the far side of the river and a lifetime post as bridge-keeper. They say it is a sinecure that carries a considerable annuity. You decide henceforth to settle down, build a mansion and experiment with the supernal powers you have discovered in your innards. You may become the magical guardian of this bridge in the country while city fashion houses sell mighty boots and pussy's bow to make your fortune.
All seems well, my tiny tikes! But is the post just a sinecure? Or is there more to keeping a bridge than meets the eye! Those who click here next month shall discover the bitter truth! Hail and farewell, fatuous felines!