Great gods alive and dead, my lunatic poltroons! The news is grim from the outset! Certes, it will be a dreadful month, this savage September. Frankly, as I surveyed it's grim prospects, it looked so ghastly that I hesitated to reveal them, to your nitwit selves in particular. As a consequence, I'm late with the forecast. However, I've decided to make the harsh pronouncement on the matter of the nasty fate that awaits you. After all, it is an essential principle of sublime irritation that all must know the bitter truth.
Thus, I will not spare you! Lay on, Asperitus! And damned be he (or she) that first cries 'Hold! Enough!' where prognosticating is concerned. Last time we left, you were stranded on an unknown isle with a gaggle of sybaritic social parasites that once used to be your friends. This was as a result of your water taxi being swept out to sea in a violent storm. Now, to recap what has been missed due my dilatory ways! Jolly Jupiter tickled the fancy of vamping Venus in your ludicrous sign, bringing several proposals of sex, money and even marriage in return for safe passage (eek) to dry land. As dark Pluto, underworld god, began to move forward, serious altercations broke out amongst the nitwit band of survivors. The New Moon came in anal Virgo and your solar twelfth house (eek) and you were forced, in pitch darkness, to beat the wittering ninnies into silence (enjoyable) with your rough 'sea dog' ways, a heavy cold and nervous tic you'd developed making you seem even more nautically impressive. That's enough to catch up with!
As mischievous Mercury moves to that same odious sign of the Virgin, you build a rude shelter against the cold with canvas from the water taxi. The messenger then clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, and a vigorous discussion ensues as to what you will do from here. Most of it revolves around sending out for cappuccino and the arrival of the magnificently attractive rescuers that will bear it. And, as vamping Venus enters gloomy Scorpio, there's talk of a massive reward being offered for the safe return of all. This talk continues enthusiastically till it's discovered that no one's cell phone can get a signal, at which point the previous state of panic returns in no uncertain fashion. And, oddly, despite you're being there for several days, you're still in complete darkness, as the sun doesn't apparently rise in this place.
Great Caesar's ghost, tiny bottom types! Have you sailed by some mischance or quirk of fate through the waters of Avernus, the lake by means of which one enters death's dread realm, to be lost forever in the stygian gloom? For, indeed, in this aforementioned gloom, you still have no idea on what strange and lonely shore you've been marooned. And yet, tiny ning-nongs, even worse than this is yet to reveal itself for ghastly planets fart in nasty aspect, befouling the cosmic winds with steaming flatulence. Of course, it's marauding Mars that is the chief offender, intruding his rudest bits into the private parts of jolly Jupiter and dark Pluto (eek). This vile act forms a configuration of unspeakable horror, known to astrologers of yore as a yod, the Finger of God. This divine yet dastardly digit is directed right at you, tiny twerps! The belligerent one (Mars) seethes in leaden Taurus and your solar eighth house! As this is a grim and noisome realm of sexual perversion and nasty occult practices, as well as taxation and deep-rooted psychological problems, you find yourself moved by strange and dark urges. Egad! You're filled with fiery and unwholesome desires, passions so deep no lead-line could plumb their gruesome depths. You decide to light the erotic fires of the little seraglio that has fallen to your charge. Thus you will warm yourselves in the freezing cold as you sit under canvas on this unknown shore. You call in the earlier promises of sex, made in exchange for a safe return. And the willingness with which these promises are honoured will only make the sensitive (myself) look away in disgust!
Quelle horreur, my bottom types! As the Full Moon blazes in tear-stained Pisces, clashing with dark Pluto, a writhing and a stretching of elastic limbs begins, a display such as has not been seen since the worst excesses of Rome, Babylon and the green room for the Blonde Ambition tour. But what's this? Why it's a worse horror yet than all the horror we have seen before! The great Sol Invicti grinds his way into your own loathsome sign, visiting yet another Equinox upon an already over-burdened world. The air is filled with grinding and creaking to match the grinding and creaking of your ghastly orgiastic display. And then raw daylight falls upon you all, exposing limb and breast and other repulsive parts for all to see. Gadzooks, my tiny twits! What is the meaning of this? Why, it seems you were not on an island in the sea at all, but only in a sheltered mooring at the docks. And now the storm is over, humble dock-workers have returned to their labours, only to get an eyeful of yours. And 'eyeful' it certainly is for there you stand, stripped of your disguise as vamping Venus clashes with narcotic Neptune. Your friends blanch as they recognize you at a single glance.
Great gods alive and dead, what will happen next? As I'm feeling tired and rather unwell, I think I shall retire with my brown bottle and my lovely silver tube. If I can restore my shattered sensibilities, I will return next month with more of this outrageous drivel. In the meantime, ave atque vale, my little 'Scales' ning-nongs!
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