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    Click for Last Month  The Eccentric Exigencies of August 2007  Click for Next Month
    Leo Hi ho, my ghastly pussy types! It is I, Asperitus! Prophet of piffle, bard of baffle and teller of twaddle, come to bring light into your otherwise wretched and miserable existence. Well, it is not actually 'light' as such! It is more like further depressing news, consequent upon the depressing news you have recently had, which followed on from the depressing news that has clogged the drains of your ghastly days from time immemorial.

    Well, that's enough pleasantry for the nonce! Let us proceed with prognostications of a vile and bitter kind, those that, in this instance, pertain to the month of awful August, which I am reliably informed is the nasty, misbegotten period we have the misfortune to currently inhabit. 'Stranded like a fool, dear Lion, on the reefs of earth untimely' as the poet has it!

    Last time, we left you in a desert cave, surrounded by phantoms seeking redress for unpaid debt or revenge for assail unto death that you had inflicted. I can't, in all honesty remember much of it what it was all about now, though I do recall that tiles of a 'duck egg' blue were mentioned so, clearly, someone involved in interior décor deserved to die. I also have a faint recollection that your journey had something to do with poking cows, another quaint pastime devised by a species (humanity) obviously incapable of engaging in anything resembling an intelligent occupation. 'Ho hum', as we say in the classics! And, all too obviously, the next step we must take is to ask 'what will happen now'.

    Having done so (that was it), an exhortation to drink from the dread cup will certainly follow, and it does! Mischievous Mercury is first cab off the rank as he pops his pointy end into your lackwit sign. Thus, you have a distinct change of mood and tell the phantoms to bugger off, as they'll get nothing out of you. Certes, no money will be forthcoming! And, certes with knobs on, nothing involving the use of the term 'I apologize' will ever pass your lips. You stride from your cave, brushing them aside, an easy thing to do with phantoms! You swagger back along the saltbush trail towards the campfire of your cowpoke comrades. There, as marauding Mars steams into nitwit Gemini while jolly Jupiter moves forward in silly Sagittarius, you knock a few of the fellows to the ground, in a jovial and comradely sort of way. You declare that, as it's your birthday, you will shout food and drink, and set up gambling tables and horse-racing so that all can enjoy a jolly, old-fashioned good roistering time.

    Ye gods and little fishes, how masterful you have become, my hairdressing types! It's as if a double dose of fabric stiffener has given you the spine to which you have always aspired but never risen. The very intensity of your being seems now to increase in direct proportion to your swollen pride, just as the New Moon comes in your nasty sign. Against the backdrop of a dark but starry sky and rugged hills, a veritable halo of shimmering light settles on your little pointy head (god bless it). You're inflamed with mystic radiance as you swish your garments in a manner you believe is both stylish and glamorous, a manner that certainly convinces your cowpoke friends you have a gift for low comedy and crass sexual behaviour. By all the gods alive and dead, is there no end to your talents? Sadly not, as you do go on and on, ad nauseam!

    At this point, ghastly planets too tedious to name fart in nasty aspects too hideous to recount, and your captive audience suddenly is restless. As usual with all such performances, you're overly dramatic. Your wild saltations become exaggerated and your cacophonous ululations become even more embarrassing. The present company edges into the shadows and then disappears into the night, leaving you by yourself, a precarious situation at the best of times but far worse here in cowpoke country where an unsuspecting Lion could be bush-whacked with the sneaky snicker-snack of a six-gun.

    Great farting elephants and dancing monkeys! You suddenly realize you're all alone, abandoned on the wide prairie with neither present nor good wish nor even a stylish card on the occasion of your birthday. But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's further indignity as you realize you're also stony broke after the spend up on your party. Mischievous Mercury runs his pointy end into anal Virgo and you turn out your wallet and your pockets to find no joy at all. Eek! The great Sol Invicti parts the knobbly knees of grim Saturn and you fall to the ground depressed and wailing for effect, in case anyone has remained behind and is listening. That'll make them feel sorry for you and force them to realize how selfish they are! But only silence greets this master strategy so, as marauding Mars plunders the treasure trove of jolly Jupiter, you fly into a rage, kicking over the traces of the campfires, throwing the remnants of the food into the dust and jumping on a hat one of the cowpokes has left behind. But instanter you regret this as you're still hungry and you'll need the hat against the heat of tomorrow's sun, as you'll have to walk home.

    O flibbertigibbets and folderol! Nothing's working out for you, is it, my hairdressing types! As the great Sol Invicti rolls and clatters into vexatious Virgo, you begin to trudge moodily to what you believe may be your destination, wondering what you can sell to get a little dosh. You feel unloved, wondering why you bother with people, but then you also wonder who you would get to praise you if you actually were a hermit. After all, it's no use believing in god as he expects all the praise to go his way and you couldn't have that. You continue with this sparkling if simplistic inner dialogue until you suddenly, because you're sulking and not looking where you're going, trip and fall, letting fly with an operatic cry of pain, once again in case anyone is listening and will show concern or sympathy for your plight. As you rise from the clouds of humiliating dust, a shadowy figure looms. For a moment, you take this to be one of the ghostly debtors that haunted you in the cave and so dismiss the phantom. However, the flesh is too too solid to push aside and you realize the figure is that of the vendor who sold you the tiles of duck egg blue for your new bathroom. Up above, a Full Moon in wretched Pisces brings a Lunar Eclipse to your solar eighth house (the nastiest kingdom of them all)! The creature, rudely, demands that either you pay for the tiles or he'll rip them up and take them back! Eek!

    What will you do, little Lions? There's a dead body under them, slain and laid there by your very own paws! Is this a case of murder will out in duck egg blue? Or must the already bloodied paw strike once more then wash itself with all the perfumes of Arabia? As I have lost the will to live and wish only to sleep, I am unable to continue with this twaddle. Should you wish to read more of the same, kindly click here next time and you may be able to do so! In the meantime, ave!

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