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 Asperitus Casting Runes... |
Salutations, silly hairdressing types! It's the month of awful August and these are the vile and bitter prognostications that pertain thereto. Let us address them instanter and waste no time in chortle or chatter, banter or badinage!
Last time, you were in a serious affair of the heart with a childhood toy, a woolly Lion (hmm) that became your lover, your spouse, significant other, 'friend' or life companion. Largely these disturbing developments came about due to the effects of your obsessive self-absorption on prospective partners in the past. So, now you're married to a soft toy, what further shenanigans can we expect? Why, let us drink the draught of bitter truth and so discover. Grim Saturn clicker-clacks his ancient bones against the flesh of imbecilic Uranus, the god of idiots, and you begin to arrange an extension of your credit facilities just in case the pitter-patter of tiny paws takes you and your loved one by surprise. Somewhere within, you do of course realize this takes the level of your lunacy from the 'questionable' into an area of serious public risk. However, ignoring the obvious signs of a deteriorating mental condition, you organize a slap-up celebration, decorating Pussy Manse extravagantly with balloons, streamers and candles, with the predictable callout for the emergency services taking place later in the evening. Marauding Mars inserts the nastily erect facet of his personality into the nether regions of cranky Chiron and the ensuing fire costs the earth as far as interior decoration is concerned and necessitates another visit to the Dolls' Hospital to deal with a nasty case of scorched fur. You pace the waiting room, worrying as to the state of your loved one, as gruesome Saturn pins down the great Sol Invicti to gratify his ghastly desires. But what's this? Why, all is well, my tiny turnips! The Full Moon blazes in idiot Aquarius and your darling makes a complete recovery at the hands of a comely 'dolly' doctor. Mischievous Mercury clatters drunkenly into your appalling sign and you converse engagingly with this keeper of the Hippocratic oath as sworn in the care and protection of dollies. Marauding Mars belligerently ravishes Uranus, god of idiots, and you pay an exorbitant sum for the miracle healing, even purchasing color-coordinated bandages that you can wear to match those of your darling, as vamping Venus simpers lustfully in your godforsaken sign. But all is not as it should be in this benighted universe ruled by insane gods! Or perhaps it is! For, by my sainted aunt, as you bring your darling back to the marital bed, all hell breaks loose in the Heavens when ghastly planets in your afflicted sign meet with thresh and flail the assault of nasty planets in the sign of lunatic Aquarius. A row erupts as your darling one accuses you of flirting with the doctor. Pillows, bed linen and even small items of furniture are sacrificed to the fury of this, your first quarrel! Gadzooks! You flounce into the spare room, flouncing being one of your few genuine accomplishments. But, as the great Sol Invicti grinds his ghastly passage (eek) into anal Virgo, bringing a New Moon in that vexatious sign, you're soon counting the cost of this recent eruption of destructive force and wondering tearfully how you will make amends and repair the damage, both physical and emotional. Fortunately, mental damage is strictly limited by your reduced capacities in that department. You peek into the boudoir to find your loved one's back is turned! Great gods alive and dead! Anyone that has ever had the cold shoulder from a soft toy will know exactly what you're feeling (snigger)! And, as the Sun of awful August sinks slowly into the chilly west of savage September and marauding Mars farts and fornicates obscenely with the Loony South Node, you realize the seriousness of your condition! Alone! In a state of tragic lunacy! Pretending that you have a meaningful relationship with a toy! Great raving loonies and barking madmen, my hair gel vanities! What is to be done to bring salvation to the wretched climes of this desolate existence? As I'm suffering from creeping ennui and nearly asleep due to terminal boredom, you will have to return next time to see if there is a remedy for that which ails you. For the nonce, ave, my styling mousse nitwits! |
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