Tally ho and yoicks, tragic bottom types! How is everything in the stylish and shapely posterior of your lives? Of course, I must emphasize I do not wish you to answer. The question is merely rhetorical, intended to fill up space until I begin to warm to the task of prognosticating in a vile and bitter manner. And on that note, it's nasty November and the influences gather to make your wretched lives even more miserable. Shall I speak of them? Indeed, I shall! Abase yourselves, my tiny trousered loons! I am Asperitus! Terrible to behold and even worse to listen to!
Last time we left, you had lost faith with friends and partners alike, deciding to go it alone in this odious world rather than entrusting the fragile blossom of idealism to the rough usage of vile bodies and nasty hands. You eschewed the solace of cooperation. You gained mysterious psychic powers. Now we find you set to create a storm of discontent as you seethe over shattered ideals and grim betrayals that have been your lot.
The New Moon glowers in morbid Scorpio and you determine to have revenge by treating all you meet with the contempt they deserve for not appreciating you. You will use your newfound powers for fun and profit. Instanter, you revel in the monies made from blackmailing the unfortunates who were passengers in your water taxi on the occasion of the great storm and subsequent orgy. As mischievous Mercury clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, you set up new business schemes, putting them in motion with the ill-gotten gains. Vamping Venus wanders unmindfully in the gloomy climes of Capricorn and you buy beautiful objects d'art to enhance the beauty of your home. You entertain an elderly relative to embarrass them with this display of riches. You invite your parents to dinner to have revenge on them for the numerous childhood indignities they visited upon you by cooking and serving food they hate. You annoy them further by billing them for the therapy you've undergone due to their uncaring criticisms of the shape of your buttocks, your appalling clothes and the boldly coloured linen set you chose for your bedroom.
As ghastly planets fart in nasty aspect, a row erupts over money. They refuse to pay for the therapy so you instead charge them for the meal. Vamping Venus displays her private parts for jolly Jupiter to leer at and they hurl a fistful of dollars to the table and depart, swearing never to darken your door again. As mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse, your siblings ring the next day and berate you for your callous treatment of mater and pater. By rejoinder, you lambaste them with the faults and sins you hold against them, in alphabetical order, with frequent quotes in foreign tongue (Mercury in Sagittarius) and hang up. As you do, neighbours knock at the door, complaining of the nighttime ruckus but you slam said architectural feature in their faces with a sneer on your own.
As the Full Moon glowers in cloddish Taurus, you look with some satisfaction on the nasty vindictive sod you have become. However, as marauding Mars then rubs his ghastly thing against the wrinkled skin of aging Saturn, you decide you still have a long way to go. The great Sol Invicti ambles carelessly into addlepate Sagittarius and you wander in the streets, insulting passersby at random, commenting acidly on their clothing and, of course, on the shape of their buttocks.
As miserable Saturn turns retrograde, you insult the elderly and infirm as well and also snub your quondam friends, failing of course to see the look of relief on their faces as you pass them by, unheeding. However, after an altercation with a foreign person who threatens retaliation over an 'off the cuff' remark about religion, you abandon the streets and return home where, as mischievous Mercury re-enters Scorpio you solicit further funds and sexual congress from your blackmail list of water taxi waifs. It seems your campaign of revenge is going rather nicely, doesn't it.
But what's this? Quelle horreur! The Heavens themselves seem to lurch and, all of a sudden, turn against you, my daft loonies of the balance. As the great Sol Invicti clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, you begin twitching violently and babbling incoherently. Great expectorating camels, what can be wrong? As I'm rather tired and somewhat distracted, I will call my medical team for a dose of the brown bottle and the silver tube and then retire to my chamber. You'll have to click here next time and see if I'm well enough to fabricate more of this outrageous piffle for our mutual delectation. In the meantime, ave atque vale, my tiny frightful persons!