Toodle pip, my tiny idiots! Last time we left you crossing to Heaven on a bridge of birds. Yet as you rose higher and higher into the 'hair unfriendly' stratosphere, concern as to the means of descent began to overtake your airy voyage. All this has come about as you strive to be the greatest magical adept of all time by practicing sorcerous gestures and expressions in the mirror at your new home by the bridge in 'cow' town. And all this sorcery is so you can take on the might of your quondam mentor and nemesis, the bowel-loosening Mr Griffin.
Well that's about it for an update with regard to past piffle. Let us hie to the piffle of the future (well, some of it's actually the past as I'm late with the forecast as per usual)! Nonetheless, place a trembling paw to your quaking bosom, tiny pussy types! For these are the vile and bitter prognostications for awful April and they really are quite depressing. The main reason for this depression is most predictable! It's the motions (eek) of grim Saturn as he grinds aging bones, creaking knees and wrinkled skin into action of the 'forward' persuasion. Thus will depressed looks become fashionable, along with bad backs, garish antiquated costumery (Saturn in your sign) and a tendency towards turgid remarks on the general state of things will prevail. So what is your state, hair gel vanities? Read on and you will discover. Vamping Venus slithers lasciviously wretched Pisces and you begin feeling sexually stimulated and lustful. Marauding Mars assails the naughty bits of dark Pluto, lord of the underworld, and your urges rage up volcanically inside you.
As a Full Moon blankets the idiotic world in the chill necrotic light of lackwit Libra, you ask your avian carriers if they would consider inter-species sexual relations. Egad, my tiny pussy persons! You could be members of the 'mile high' club by a peculiar and unusual means. However, as mischievous Mercury gropes the underworld god in a most indecent manner, your proposal is rejected out of hand (or wing) by your feathered friends, due to them being busy flying. However several of the fatter ones promise to text you once the journey to Heaven is done. The rejection stings your oversensitive nature, as does rejection in any form.
And what's this? Ye gods and little fishes, it's a grim development. Marauding Mars barrels belligerently into slimy Cancer and your solar twelfth house, a realm of mischief, naughtiness and self-undoing. You fall prey to dark fear and worry about being separated from family (they all hate you), deprived of favourite foods (fair enough) and stepping into the unknown of Heaven's climes across a bridge of birds. Rage rises like a mystic tide but dissipates before you know what you're angry about. Perhaps it's not so wonderful being a magician after all. Then a cosmic double barrel fires as mischievous Mercury crashes into addlepate Aries. The birds start singing as Heaven's gate comes in sight!
Gadzooks! How sublime and yet how terrifying! And, by my sainted aunt, how deafening and shrill is their ecstatic trill! Suddenly it feels as if you're gripped by a storm of cosmic forces of an unknown variety. You're tossed from wing to wing, heading straight for the threshold of the divine and all the time knowing deep inside that to cross it is to change for good and all. Yes, my teeny tiny twerps! Once you enter Heaven you'll be transformed and there will be no going back! I can assure you of that. Since I was admitted here, I'm not the man I used to be. But then I never was!
You witter and dither within but it seems there is no choice but to enter, as the song and wing of these passionate creatures carries you along. But what's this? Great bullish buttocks, it's a startling development that comes as the great Sol Invicti clatters into cloddish Taurus then bends the ear of aged Saturn with an indecent proposal. And, in a most spooky and mystic manner, it is in fact a bull that magically appears before you just as you're about to cross the threshold!
'Hold' he bellows, which is the vocal style one anticipates with the bovine. The birds stop singing! You're suspended in midair.
'If,' continues this massive creature, 'you wish to enter Heaven, you must leave behind all the things of the earth. Are you prepared to do this, my nitwit feline type?'
Egad! He obviously knows you well and is most articulate for one of this kind. You're floored by this question. As far as heavenly initiations go, you were hoping for a stringent technical examination on your favourite colour or the history of hair product, if indeed you hoped for anything at all. By the daft and giggling gods, is this a dream gone wrong? Have you lost your mind and this is an hallucination? Is the world gone mad and you've woken in a nightmare? Perhaps the bird excreta you've used as a stratospheric hair gel has an hallucinogenic property that has only now made itself known.
Great gods alive and dead, what will you say to the Bull of Heaven? As I'm excruciatingly bored and fatigued from an excess of ennui, I shall retire to the chamber of brown bottle and silver tube to embrace my beloved Morphia. If you wish to read more piffle, you may click here next month for should I happen to awake, I will write more. In the meantime, ave atque vale, idiot types!
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