Shiver me timbers, boutique buffoons! I'm late with your forecast. I was going to say I overslept (a handy excuse), but that's not true, as I've already written most of the others. It's just that I was trying to think of something special to say to you. For you are special people, in every sense in which the term can be understood. But I couldn't! And then I fell asleep trying! And then I woke up again. I have to say I was quite disappointed to find it wasn't jaded June already, saving me the bother of writing anymore.
However, we shall make the best of what sublime irritation provides. It mostly provides irritation, to tell the truth. But then you can't always be sure. At least I can't. I'd better get on with what I'm supposed to do, otherwise the arms of Morphia and her twin sister, Anaesthesia will reach out and take me in their grasp once more and we'll be doing all this again in another week or so. Sigh! So, garrulous style victims, are you ready for another jolly romp among the merkins, the Swedish films and the healing powers of fruit?
Well, perhaps that's not what you'll get this time! After all, my noxious nitwits! Who knows what it is that the cup of vile and bitter prognostications holds for the coming month? Only I, Asperitus, know! Well, and the insane gods, of course! But they have difficulty even remembering that you exist, unless they're looking for something small and weak to torment.
Now, last time, you were looking at a grim financial picture, if I remember rightly. And, as ghastly planets fart in the cosmic winds to begin the month, such worries have escalated out of all proportion. In fact, as marauding Mars slithers into snivelling Pisces, it seems you will either become ill with worry or you'll have to get a real job! Eek! There won't be any fruit or merkins on the job site, my namby-pamby things! And there'll be a dearth of Swedish films as well. But that may be a good thing, you know! After all, you may be as mind-numbingly bored with it all as I am. No you couldn't be! Nobody could be!
Anyway, back to the tragic tale of your life! Uranus, the idiot god, wrestles with jolly Jupiter in your sign and you decide that you'll solve your problems with a bit of risk-taking and inventive genius. Come the New Moon in cloddish Taurus and your solar eighth house (eek! Dark horrors!), you inveigle a massive loan from a financial institution (one that employs lunatics as staff apparently) and decide to trade your way out of trouble by writing an artistic masterwork. It will be called 'SEX IS FRUITY' or 'FRUIT IS SEXY'. Either way, it will embody your views on the radical alliance between the horizontal arts and green-grocery. You suspend all work in progress with your newly acquired building crew despite their protests and, as mischievous Mercury enters cloddish Taurus and clashes with cranky Chiron, you set yourself to write a creative masterpiece on the subconscious drive nature within the week. Eek! And, by all the gods alive and dead, winsome woebegones! You do it!
At the Full Moon, you stand exhausted. You stare at the disc of the first draft of the greatest work of literature since Freud wrote 'OEDIPUS REX THE WONDER DOG' or Jung wrote 'THE EGO AND I' or Isaac Asimov and Enid Blyton co-wrote 'FIVE GO TO MARS ON A ROCKING HORSE'. Ghastly planets twitter insanely in lunatic Gemini as your work goes out to publishers and websites across the globe so that you may pay off your debts and then pay off the further debts that you incurred to pay of the earlier debts we just mentioned.
I think I'd like to go to sleep now. Medic! Bring me my little brown bottle and my silver tube! You'll have to come back next month, my crapulous cretins. If I am awake, I will write more of this masterful trash. In the meantime, hail and farewell!