By all the daft and giggling gods, it's you, my lackwit Lions! Last time we left you, it was at the threshold of the bridge to Heaven where you were about to address a giant bull about your entrance (eek) to paradise. The bull presented you with a crucial choice. To enter Heaven, you must give up worldly attachments and possessions.
Egad! To consider that will require intelligent thought, leaving you shy of the finish line in one crucial respect. So what do the vile and bitter prognostications hold for malodorous May? We'd best consult them and see!
As vamping Venus slinks lasciviously in addlepate Aries, heavenly beauties line up at the bridge of birds, singing in an irritating angelic fashion, waiting to see what choice you will make and eating exotic savories and sweets in the breaks from the heavenly chorus. The great Sol Invicti ravishes jolly Jupiter and you weigh the value of what you gain against what you leave behind. A grand trine in the water signs (how aqueous) leaves you uncertain about what you are, what you have and what you believe. How unsettling! For instance, if you give up the nine volumes you've collected on the history of hairdressing, your laboratory of product and your wardrobe of garish, brightly coloured clothing, how will you then know yourself? And if you add to that the surrender of your favourite cd, 'Greatest Hits, Greatest Hairdos' by A Flock Of Seagulls!
Egad! What kind of cruel sacrifice is that! If you leave behind all that you own, who will it be that enters paradise? Warning! Warning! Identity crisis! Ye gods and little fishes, it's unthinkable, for a variety of reasons. Mischievous Mercury enters cloddish Taurus and the bull relentlessly repeats his challenge, 'If 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?' By all the gods alive and dead, what will you do?
Marauding Mars violates the private parts of narcotic Neptune, entering at an eccentric angle. You feel unwell. It seems eyes everywhere are on you. Of course, this is entirely correct as you're being watched by a thousand birds, a chorus of angelic beauties and a great big bull. You wonder why your personal life has been such a disaster. You wonder why you're living in a yokel cottage by a bridge that you fantasize as being an occult palace. You wonder why you fantasize about being a gifted occultist engaged in a deadly war of occult power with a crime lord known as Mr Griffin, a creature so terrifying you nearly loose the contents of your bladder or bowels each time you think of him.
By my sainted aunt, what's happening, my hairdressing vanities? This attention is unsettling you, bringing a ghastly realization! You're a superficial fake, no deeper than a puddle and living in a fantasy world! Of course this latter is a fact the rest of us have always known. Oddly, it seems to surprise you when it comes even though we've told you often enough.
Eek! Egad! Gadzooks! And other quaint expressions to indicate surprise and alarm. This is a bolt from the blue that strikes you as you're poised and trembling at the gateway to paradise. But what's this? By all the gods, it's clatter in the cosmic gutters. The busy messenger and the vain and selfish Sun god roll and rut in idiotic Gemini. You babble insanely about your beautiful friends and wonderful life, holding back the shadows of this grim realization with a torrent of the typically naïve and superficial lunatic speech with which you're historically associated. It looks ghastly for a moment, my puling pussies! You may lose it entirely and enter the realms of true self-doubt! Especially when vamping Venus grapples with marauding Mars and the heavenly beauties begin fornicating to escape the boredom of the dreadful sacerdotal songs they have to sing while waiting for you to make up your mind.
Your decision finally comes with a New Moon in supple and perverted Gemini, just as the busy messenger assails the private parts of Uranus, the idiot god. You're not going to give up your goods, cross the bridge of birds or enter into paradise. Indeed, you're going to give up your guardianship of the bridge, the palace of the occult and all thoughts of an occult war on Mr Griffin. You're especially going to give up your plans for styling mousse made from bird poo. What you're going to do is go back to civilization, get a job in retail and stick with the image you've created by surrounding yourself with sycophantic, superficial, sybaritic friends.
This is perhaps the smart decision, as you'll neither find the clothes nor the hairstyle to suit the agony you must undergo when attempting 'deep thought'. Click here next time and I'll see you in the stores and salons, my hairdressing types! In the meantime, ave atque vale!
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