- What ho, tiny bottom types! Last time, after the usual dramatic preamble to anything you do, you had taken to the streets, wearing your merkin with pride, with your trusty Swedish film director at your side. We find you now, standing buttock to buttock with your tribe of artificially hirsute fellows, staring down the doughty sons and daughters of the cannoneers of old. These last, as you know, have come to wrest this pubic hairpiece from its pinnacle of newfound prominence, the awesome peak where you yourself have placed it. They do so with riotous behaviour and criminal mischief of the naughtiest kind as they lay assault upon not only the wearers of the hedgehog (so they've titled it) but also upon the stylists and fashion consultants whose tireless work has raised it up.
But, hardened as these cannoneers are, nothing will prepare them for the shock you are about to unleash in your campaign to defend the merkin. As ghastly planets cavort in the sign of idiot Aquarius and your solar fifth house, you lead your useless, decadent fellows in the mating dance of the merkin-wearer. This is a cheeky fusion you have devised using a traditional Argentine folk dance and the central theme from Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring'. It culminates (dare we say 'climaxes) in a daring exposure of that which lies beneath the merkin (shriek).
Great gods alive and dead, little whinnying nitwits! Even I, with my great powers of description, dare not essay to write what happens next. Suffice to say that, as ghastly planets fart in the cosmic winds, the brave cannoneers are reduced to such a pitiable state of hysterical laughter that you merkin-wearers flounce across their helpless forms to call the police and have them arrested, one and all, for public obstruction. Thence you fly to the safety of your bedroom. There you retreat beneath the bed, a habit you learned in childhood as a result of the strange and disturbing dynamics in your family. And thus do you plan the next move to be made by the Merkin Gorillas (never let a small spelling error stand in the way of a good joke).
Jolly Jupiter waves the magic wand at vamping Venus and the doings of the day pay more dividends than even you could have hoped for, being by nature a whey-minded idiot dependent on hope. A lunatic friend in the media was so impressed by the mating dance of the merkin-wearer that large sums of money change hands to see it made into an avant-garde ballet and reality show, starring Britney Spears and Jude Law (only on the condition that their union will be childless).
But what's this! By my little brown bottle, what's the meaning of this clangour in the Heavens? The great Sol Invicti moves into snivelling Pisces. Eek! Mischievous Mercury conjoins in unseemly fashion with Uranus, the idiot god, as the aforementioned nitwit deity grinds into the body of miserable Saturn. Aargh! And, worst of all by far, cranky Chiron enters bothersome Aquarius, turning every native of that lunatic sign into a greater lunatic and troubling the rest of us in no uncertain terms.
Egad! What a year this is turning out to be! Especially for you, my tiny poltroons! As a Full Moon comes in odious Virgo and your solar twelfth house (shudder), you're seized by an ecstatic fit. You begin channelling in Swedish, believing you are any or all of the members of Abba. I think Anna Frid suits you best. Or Benny! What do you think?
And then things take a bizarre, indeed almost outré, turn for the worse! You begin to fantasize about having sex with fruit to heal the pain and anguish of childhood, such memories being brought about by being under the bed in the first place. It brings to mind in particular an unpleasant incident where you were found, by your mother, under the bed with an improperly placed banana. Thus, you seize several items from the fruit bowl and go to work on yourself. By my little brown bottle, the results are unspeakably orgiastic though not entirely without visual merit. You are soon in ecstatic transport, assisted by oranges, peppercorns, a packet of frozen peas and a stuffed parrot. Exultant from this eccentric escapade, you decide you will become a sex therapist and teach people to heal their most intimate wounds with fruit. Overwhelmed, you begin to sing 'Dancing Queen' and race out under the night sky to prance in the orchard of a neighbour, wearing only your merkin. And even his shotgun and snarling watchdog cannot still the ardour that pulses beneath the hirsute apparatus. In fact, they only seem to stir you more deeply.
By my sainted aunt, I think I'll have to stop now before one of us becomes liable for arrest. But if you think I'm done with this then think again. Click here next month to find out what further madness lies in store for you, my bothersome bottom types. Ta! Ta!