Avast behind, my jolly tars! It's time once again to hoist the mainsail of your wretched lives, haul on the bowlines of your daft proclivities and set a course for the land of endless trouble, across the straits of despair. The only question being, are you 'square-rigged' or do you prefer 'fore and aft', my tiny ocean-going vessels?
I trust you will take note of the colourful, aquatic argot and realize the vile and bitter prognostications for jaded June will leave you all at sea. Shiver me timbers, over-dressed poltroons! Cleave to the capstan! Raise the anchor, me horrible little hearties! And prepare your perfectly formed buttocks for a long and treacherous voyage. Ha! Ha!
Last time, you had written a book. You first thought of calling it 'FRUIT IS SEXY' but then leaned towards 'SEX IS FRUITY' and finally decided to call it both by adding the word 'and' between the two. This of course is your usual standard of decision-making since, as you can never make up your mind about anything, you incline to the path of appeasement and approval by including all the available options. While this strategy works well in terms of variety with drug use and sex, it generally fails you on all other occasions.
And, indeed, it does so here. Tremble in your tiny pantaloons, my miserable mites! It's time for the vile and bitters to be delivered in a mind-numbing, double strength dosage. Marauding Mars clashes with Pluto, dark lord of the underworld, and the publication of your book is greeted with universal derision. The sneering of jaded reviewers cracks the glass in bookshop windows and brings providers and web-masters to their knees with frozen traffic. The general public abhors your florid style. They go out of their way to insult and humiliate you, seeking out pictures of your execrable personage on which they draw insectoid moustaches, garish underwear and fungal pubic excrescences (this latter in honour of your ludicrous espousal of the merkin). These are then posted in the public street where small children also throw stones at you as you try to take the posters down while dogs urinate upon your studded leather socks and expensive tweed shoelaces.
Petty officials have emotional outbursts as you enter their offices to seek legal redress. And when you complain of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune in that dramatic, exaggerated manner you think is somewhat thespian, but actually annoys the rest of us even further (an achievement in itself when one thinks), things only deteriorate further. Of course, all of this is due to the farting of ghastly planets in the cosmic winds. There's vamping Venus in Cancer! Jolly Jupiter moving forwards in your loathsome sign! And, on top of all that, there's an odious New Moon in nitwit Gemini bringing severely nasty aspects between mischievous Mercury and Pluto, dark god of the underworld.
Great gods alive and dead! It's no wonder I'm the last sane man left alive with all this lunacy about! And, if you think that's the end of it, wittering twerps, think again! The clatter and roar of heavenly bodies splits the eardrums of the sensitive as marauding Mars enters the dread sign of the war god, arrogant Aries. Eek! Your friends (both of them) turn against you. Strangers flaunt themselves sexually or insult you by writing taunting remarks on stones and then hurling them in your direction so that you may read them when you've regained consciousness.
Thus, you flee from such hostility and also from your imminent bankruptcy, as your book has failed to restore a grim financial situation. Uranus, the idiot god, performs obscene acts in the gutters of Heaven and you are forced at last to take a job. Ugh! You disguise yourself as a common working person and take employment, driving a water taxi. Thus, you have refuge from the storm of abuse, funds to sustain you and a sense of failure and utter humiliation to which you are, quite properly, accustomed. By day you ply your new aquatic trade. By night you hide quivering beneath the bed, trying to decide whether or not to purchase an apricot valance to match the handkerchief you use to wipe away your tears.
The Full Moon comes in lugubrious Capricorn and you find the doughty sons of cannoneers no longer wait for your return to continue their therapy with fruit. Instead they have reformed into the fearsome opponents of the merkin. As marauding Mars clashes with jolly Jupiter, they come, armed, and in the company of your ruthless creditors, to seek you out wherever you hide. Eek! What if they look under the bed or beneath the dark glasses, pink scarf and snorkel that make up your disguise as a water-taxi driver? But all the gods, what's this? The vile doings in the Heavens are not done with yet! Vamping Venus and mischievous Mercury abrade themselves as they first clash with the vile and aging body of miserable Saturn then sail on to the sign of the Lion. Thus, we find you friendless and tragically wracked with the agony of frustrated aspiration.
Gadzooks, little imbeciles! This is familiar territory. Perhaps you could turn it into a film that will be the story of your wretched and futile life! What do you think? I'll be back next time to pick up the threads of this idiotic plot, for worse turns of the wheel are yet to come. Shiver me timbers, my shipwrecks on the sea of trouble! Saturn is set to enter the sign of the hairdresser while jolly Jupiter is soon to cleave in unseemly fashion to the bosom of the Lunar South Node! What horrors will unfold for you then? No doubt you'll read about them here. In the meantime, ave!