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 Asperitus Casting Runes... |
Ave, my mewling morons! And how is everything in the fabricated fantasy world of the fatuous felines? For pity's sake, don't answer! Have you never heard of a rhetorical question? When we left you last time, you had won your battle with the doughty cowmen, driving them off with your feline fury. You had been appointed guardian of the bridge in the town where your mighty trek had culminated in this dramatic contretemps. But has your walk in the wild come to an end, O mighty puss in boots (and bow)? Perhaps the wild will come knocking at your door as jolly Jupiter looms in ghastly Scorpio. Eek! How unnerving!
Anyway, enough of that! Let's get about the business of prognosticating in a vile and bitter manner as is customary at the beginning of the month (or as near to it as medication will enable). Attend me now, O puling pussy types! It is I, Asperitus! Baffling bard and doom-dealing doctor of dastardly doings! Nasty November instanter brings a New Moon in dread Scorpio, sign of unspeakable body parts, and you straight away settle in to your new domicile and duties as bridge guardian. However, as nothing more prepossessing than a flock of chickens, a yokel with a handcart collecting their dung, two spiders and a squirrel make their crossings, you're bored and chafing at the restriction within minutes. Vamping Venus wanders mindlessly into the climes of gloomy Capricorn and you put your house in order, busying yourself with menial tasks. Mischievous Mercury clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, ensconced in Pisces and your solar eighth house and you compose salacious ditties to while away the hours. But then the farting of ghastly planets cavorting in nasty aspect unleashes itself upon the Heavens and befouls the cosmic winds. And you begin to wonder, little pussies, just what powers lie within you as you're touched by vivid memories of your frenzied chanting at the bridge. Such memories are enhanced by the praise heaped on you by visiting adulating acolytes who come to offer sexual favours in the hope of coming closer to your mighty personage (inevitable where sex is involved), enabling them to rise in your esteem. However, despite a passion for people willing to mindlessly adore you, your esteem is not easily gained at this time. Such a startling phenomenon as this is due to the onset of a perverse reversal of direction by mischievous Mercury, as he gropes Uranus the idiot god, and aging, wrinkled Saturn. Thus, you're preoccupied with transcribing the words, ululations and stamping that you made to wrest the bridge from the doughty cowmen. You've decided they must form the body of a magical incantation that welled up from the very depths of your pussy soul (a mercifully brief journey). As the Full Moon glowers in cloddish Taurus and Uranus, the idiot god, moves direct, you're struck by inspiration! You decide you will turn your new home into a palace of the occult. There you will explore the powers you are convinced lie within you. As marauding Mars clashes with lugubrious Saturn, you shut your doors on the world and throw things at those who come to intrude on your studies. Mischievous Mercury gropes Uranus and you begin speaking in an outre tongue, resonant with eldritch tone and utterly incomprehensible, a pattern so familiar when the hopeful nitwit pretends to sham magic for the sake of effect. As the great Sol Invicti wanders into addlepate Sagittarius, we find you prancing in the occult palace, dressing in outrageous garb, about which the only thing that one can say is that pussy's bow is conservative by comparison. Ghastly planets disport themselves in evil aspect, most particularly mischievous Mercury as he sneaks up the back passage (eek) of the morbid sign of Scorpio. Quelle horreur, my tiny lunatics! Something so horrible now occurs that no horror like it has been seen before in this naughty world (at least, not since the last time). It's so horrible that I must fly to my brown bottle and my silver tube for the solace of anaesthesia. Medic! Hear my plaintive cry! If I recover, I may write more of this egregious rot in time for your visit in dubious December. In the meantime, ave, my hair gel vanities! | ||||
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