What ho, loony Lions! Last time we left, you were setting off into the wild to live in a cave and become a hermit and master of the mystic. The impetus for this odd behaviour was an earlier homicidal encounter, though rough and nasty treatment from a bunch of doughty cowpoke persons was a contributing factor. As I cannot wait to hear the first pronouncements from what I trust will be a newly acquired state of enlightenment (the kind that comes with hair gel in caves), we shall proceed apace with prognostication of a vile and bitter sort, the only sort we know!
Attend me now, O hairdressing vanities! It is I, Asperitus! Odious oracle and the twitterpate of tiromancy which, as you will doubtless know, is the art of divination using cheese. With the cheap plonk they serve in Heaven, a strong cheese is required, not only for the art but also to disguise the taste of one's libations. I sometimes resort to tephromancy which (as you will also know) is the art of divination with ashes, quite handy when one is a pyromancer. Thus by scrying the fire, reading the ashes and studying closely the slices of cheese I eat, I hereby make prophecies on the matter of your wretched lives and unspeakable futures.
As vamping Venus gropes the nether regions of gloomy Saturn, you are severely depressed in your rustic solitude, spending a deal of time fantasizing about having sexual relations with persons old or infirm and also performing the requisite hand actions as marauding Mars and mischievous Mercury engage in behaviour best described as 'gross moral turpitude'. You also fantasize about bashing every nasty creature that ever told you what to do.
But what's this? Eek! Mischievous Mercury moves forward once again and you decide to take shelter in a cave, having wandered aimlessly up ridge and down gulch as you moaned, wept and wailed about your tragic childhood and nasty early life experiences. Once ensconced, you surrender to the power of the divine and the practice of meditation, such as you understand it (snigger). As a ghastly New Moon comes in the odious sign of the Crab, you feel moved by the spirit of solitude to put aside this lengthy list of grievances and forgive the various offenders named thereon. However, you will have no more ill-treatment, bossiness or criticism of the coif from any vile varlet! Nay indeed, as the Horse God says!
And, by my sainted aunt, as vamping Venus slinks into anal Virgo, you decide there will be no sexual relations with nasty persons, old or sick. Instead, you will seek a partner schooled in proper hygiene, one that adheres to decent values and is prepared to work for a living in order to support you in the manner to which you are by rights and birth entitled. Nothing less will do! No more will you endure the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune et cetera et cetera! You swear this by the badminton trophy that you won at the age of twelve when you spiked your opponent's raspberry cola with sleeping tablets from your mother's bedside table. You still sleep with this trophy at home, alongside Teddy, Horsey and Mr Pouch, the velvet kangaroo.
Great walloping wage-slaves, it's as if the insane gods and the Heavens themselves do hear you, tiny turnips! For as you swear this mighty resolve, the great Sol Invicti clatters into your appalling sign, reminding us once more of the ghastliest day in history, your birthday! May life bring you more of what you have already endured, tiny addlepates! Bask in the glow of this Sun Return at your peril! Even as the vain and selfish Sun God slobbers all over your golden sign, marauding Mars, narcotic Neptune and grim Saturn meet for a bout of nasty roistering that will make the worst excesses of Rome and Babylon seem a mere afternoon tea for ladies of breeding. Gadzooks!
You look up from your enlightened meditations to discover that you're surrounded by shadowy figures. Eek! They loom over you in threatening manner. Aargh! You try to shrink back into the bowels of cave to escape but find the way blocked by a rancid potpourri of dung, bones and cobwebs, the latter certain to de-potentise your styling mousse. Ugh! You turn to face these figures only to discover that, as vamping Venus sneaks into anal Virgo, they are the phantoms of all those that have passed away waiting for you to pay the money you owe them.
Shriek and double shriek, my winsome wretches! A bevy of spectral debt collectors pursues you, waving neatly printed accounts in your face, putting your locks in disarray with a chill, unearthly breeze! Odds bodkins, but you are windswept and terrified! What a to do! Yet, worse than this is set to come with the Full Moon in Aquarius, sign of the idiot god! Quelle horreur! What sight is this? Why, it is the very corpse you buried beneath the bathroom floor, walking with worms and waving tiles of duck egg blue in a threatening and loathsome manner.
By my sainted aunt, my tiny pussies! It seems your resolve for a better life has invoked the ghosts of a dark past. So often the way with matters spiritual! How can you stem the tide of this thresh and flail of phantasmagorical manifestation? This of course begs the even more pressing question, what hair product in heaven or earth could maintain weightless volume under assail from these avaricious apparitions!
Ye gods, tiny monarchs of the coif! Is this the end of style? Or is this the end of you? Marauding Mars now rams his rudest bit into the unmentionable place between grim Saturn's knobbly knees while shadows engulf your screaming form, your paws desperately raised to defend your locks to the last drop of stiffener. Will you survive or will you be dragged to hell to live with all your creditors, and not one hairdresser among them? Click here next time and see! Ave, brainless vanities!