Woe, I say unto you! Woe, woe, woe, O keepers of the sacred buttocks! Last time we left, you had fallen to low estate from the dizzy heights of merkin revival and sexy fruit. And, to add to your woes, you were swept out to sea in your water taxi by the sudden onset of a storm, with a gaggle of ghastly friends on board. Well, ex-friends, that is! Or so-called friends who'd spent the morning demeaning your achievements and criticizing your appearance, right in front of you, even though they didn't realize it was you, you being in disguise after all.
Well! That sums up the essentials! And, I should certainly be ill if I had to describe what each of you was wearing. Now, if things could get any worse for you, I'd like to hear about it. So, on that note, I will consult the vile and bitter prognostications for awful August just in case they do. Pin back your ears, my decadent objects of derision. It is I, Asperitus! The baffling bard! The piffling prophet! The haruspex of harangue! And, it is all three of these things that I am here to do, to baffle, to piffle on and to harangue, with an especial emphasis on the last!
Cranky Chiron returns to miserable Capricorn and your solar fourth house and you have a new home in your storm-tossed water taxi, adrift on a wide, wide sea. Mischievous Mercury gropes the private parts of narcotic Neptune and your friends (ex) all shriek and wail like the effete and sybaritic parasites they are. Come a New Moon in lackwit Leo, you find the useless woebegones look to you for leadership and seek the solace of your wise opinion, you being master of the vessel and a salty dog to boot. At least, this is as far as they can see for they have not yet penetrated your clever disguise. By my little brown bottle! What a responsibility! I wonder if you're up to it, my silly Scales type ning-nongs! We shall see.
You mumble in an inane but somehow convincing manner on matters connected with splicing the topsail, hoisting the yardarm and shivering your timbers. This last amuses your helpless castaways with its nautical authenticity and so idiotic tittering is heard until vamping Venus clashes with dark Pluto, underworld god, and someone asks when the rescue helicopter will arrive. Grim silence follows (apart from squalling winds and rain) until marauding Mars batters mischievous Mercury and then wholesale screaming erupts once more, screaming such as would daunt the heart of a strong person and dampen the underwear of a weaker one.
With jolly Jupiter slithering into illicit congress with the loony South Node, this is looking pretty grim, I can tell you, my wittering buttocks types! Ghastly planets on the insufferable South Node signal the onset of hideous karmic consequences, accrued for every wrong you've ever done in every gross and wicked past life you've ever lived. Eek! The insane gods are ready to play the punishment game with the denizens of a benighted universe.
But what's this? By all the gods! It's vamping Venus entering your unspeakable sign! Mischievous Mercury moves forward again! And you, my tiny twerps, are struck by inspiration as the storm howls and quisling friends still shriek aloud!
'Land ho,' you cry, just because it's the sort of thing that's done to alleviate the unrestrained terror that visits itself upon humans on just such occasions as these. And yet, as the Full Moon blazes in the lunatic sign of Aquarius, a telltale bump rocks the water taxi! By the gods, little idiots! You've struck gold, or land as it happens, in this instance. As the great Sol Invicti grinds into anal Virgo (eek), you herd your shrieking charges onto the unexpected harbour where your vessel has docked.
But what wild coast is this, beckoning the weary traveller? And will the landscape colour-coordinate with your clever disguise? Well, at least you'll have that windswept look. Egad, frightful creatures! There are yet further gross rumblings in the Heavens as marauding Mars, psychotic war god, harasses mischievous Mercury and narcotic Neptune with a raft of indecent attention. The storm lashes the coastal haven with ungovernable fury and your vessel goes full fathom five to Davy Jones locker. You're marooned and abandoned! The simpering sybarites cling to you in a hysterical embrace as you find yourself wracked by the forces of nature, stranded in unknown terrain, disguised as a lowly (and now sodden) water-taxi driver with a chequered past and an uncertain future and are developing a cold and a nervous tic.
Ye gods and little fishes, decadent twits! How could things be worse? Easily! Click here next time and see! Until then, hail and farewell!
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