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    Click for Last Month  The Eccentric Exigencies of May 2007  Click for Next Month
    Leo Hooray to you, hairdressing types! Long time no see, as they say in the classics! Now, as much as I'd like to brighten up your days with disparaging remarks about your appalling coiffure, your showy but tragic couture and your self-centred exhibitionism, I would remind you that we simply haven't the time for such pleasantries. I have slept through awful April (missing nothing but heartache and sorrow, of course) and the lesser part of malevolent May and so I must get on with the vile and bitter prognostications as they pertain to the moment and not waste the dwindling sands in the hourglass, entertaining you with badinage that you could not comprehend without the aid of a dictionary and a translation device. Thus shall I pour forth instanter my vile and bitter juices so the dread cup will fill to overflowing for you to imbibe and so on and so forth et cetera et cetera.

    We must first cast the oracular eye to the rear (eek) to make a hindcast and bring you up to the present. Proceedings commenced on a nasty note as a Full Moon glowered in evil Scorpio. Thus, you had a furious row over dosh with someone at home (egad), murdered the offending party (quite rightly) and buried the bloodied corpse beneath the bathroom floor, as you were renovating at the time. The body was secreted (eek) beneath tiles of duck egg blue, gilded with Aztec Gold, tiles that, sadly, you insisted on using, despite the advice of three interior designers, both of your friends and that portion of your family that still speaks to you. Post butchery, all seemed well enough as you surveyed your duck egg blue domain with some satisfaction. There is a cost for annoying you after all.

    And yet guilt, little loonies, will out, as it does in all the best tragedies! And, certes, life is tragic for you, hairdressing types, dogged as you are by grim Saturn, hovering in your godforsaken sign in a most Euripidean manner. Following the homicide, friends came calling, as friends do, just as a raft of ghastly planets farted in the cosmic winds that blow in your solar eleventh house. They meandered about your home, making superficial remarks, the only option friends have in converse with you, it must be noted. Amongst them was the phrase, 'I wonder where so and so is! I haven't seen him for days'. Needless to say, 'so and so' was the victim of your foul and bloody crime. You blanched, sweating pussy sweat in your furry places, even though the words were uttered in all innocence. They used the bathroom after that and, though nothing was said, they gave silent accusatory looks that suggested crimes against interior decoration. Of course, such offences will be punished at a later date, as the insane gods reserve a room in the lowest of the twenty nine hells for those guilty of the felonious use of garish colours. I believe there is a rack with your name engraved on the side! On reflection, it may be the Iron Maiden herself that awaits you!

    Now, to return to pressing matters (this latter is a torturer's pun, by the by). Vamping Venus slithers into neurotic Cancer and, racked with guilt over the murder, you locked yourself in your bedroom, making flimsy excuses to friends or loved ones that you were unwell, just as mischievous Mercury groped the private parts of narcotic Neptune. However, as jolly Jupiter battered the bollocks of Uranus, the idiot god, you descended, in your locked and darkened room, into a hellish world of morbid fantasies, reliving your heinous crime, at one moment terrified that demons would issue forth from hell to claim you while in another imagining that you yourself were a godlike creature with power over life and death, the golden assassin of Heaven. It's there we find you as we return to the moment, as it were.

    Ye gods and little fishes, pussy types! What's to become of you, fantasizing morbidly in your boudoir? At the very least you'll need a change of linen but, as usual, you haven't done the washing, have you!

    All of a sudden, the air is filled with thunderous crashes and reports! By all the gods alive and dead, what is this mighty thresh and flail that troubleth Heaven in unseemly manner. It is, of course, marauding Mars as he thrusts his rudest bit into the nether regions of dark Pluto then roars and clatters into his own appalling sign, that of addlepate Aries the Ram. Instanter you're a pussy rampant. You thrust your paws (or feet as you will more familiarly know them) into your mighty boots, kick down the door of guilt then stamp into the passageway (eek) of your home, bellowing that you're ready to quit your old life and leave for the wide open spaces to live free and independently. You'll be a puss with fresh air in your lungs and that attractive windswept fur one sees in magazines and at the movies.

    You hurl something hot and spicy onto the barbecue grill then search the internet and find a managerial position that lets you work in the wild, all as the New Moon comes in cloddish Taurus. As mischievous Mercury rogers the living daylights out of the Loony Nodes, you break ties with all around you and kiss goodbye the world of city, retail and bodies buried under bath tiles. The great Sol Invicti rolls drunkenly into jittery Gemini and, in no time at all, we find you sitting about the campfire with your cowpoke friends, telling tall tales of rocky ridges, dry gulches and interesting lariat knots you learned from a friend in the boy scouts. You soon have your new friends laughing heartily, even if you're not sure if it's with you or at you. Still, you're never sure about that one, though the rest of us have no doubt upon the matter. As mischievous Mercury slithers into slimy Cancer, you drift away into dreams of meeting an ideal mate as you ride the plains.

    Will it be love and freedom that you find in this new life? Or will the gruesome horror of the city haunt you still as you tremble at every moving shadow? As malevolent May comes to an end, you begin to dream of duck egg blue tiles, dreams that become nightmares from which you cannot wake! What further horrors lie ahead of you, my teeny weenie turnips? Click here next time and see but for the nonce, ave!

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