Aloha, my succulent bananas! I trust you're sitting nicely on shapely buttocks and well prepared to read another round of egregious drivel, written by myself, Asperitus, the dastardly declaimer. Last time we left you amid indescribable horrors. The feeling here in Heaven was that so it should remain, without further comment! However, we cannot let slip the possibility that things may move from indescribable horror to unspeakable horror. These are horrors of differing kinds with the latter having so much more to offer than the former in the way of torment to your good selves, vile varlets that you are and deserving of punishment involving whips, leather and chains! With a dash of fluffy pink fabric thrown in, of course!
Anyway, enough pleasant banter! Let us get on with the meat and drink of our monthly encounters, vile and bitter prognosticating, pertaining as it does, in this instance, to devilish December. Jolly Jupiter makes disgusting congress with marauding Mars in perverse reverse and you're set to harvest yet again the fields of blackmail from the now notorious 'water taxi' affair.
But what's this? Egad! It's a New Moon in silly Sagittarius! And it's pointed right at you, little loonies, just as mischievous Mercury is set to move forward in the sign of evil Scorpio! You wonder begin to wonder if this is what you should be doing, blackmailing people and what have you! After all, you're concerned with all things fair and just! And nicely coloured valances and shapely buttocks, of course! Thus, when the busy messenger moves forward, you tear up your little black book and destroy the pictures of the odious, convoluted congress of bodies that now seems like a blight upon your life. And that's the horror I was referring to! An attack of conscience! Ugh!
But, by my sainted aunt, what's this? It's Heaven's answer to your act of selfless resignation, one that will bring redemption. It's cranky Chiron, tiny farting nincompoops! Executing an insane gavotte into Aquarius, sign of the idiot god! A mad awakening seizes your mind and fills your body with ecstasy. It's just like Julie Andrews singing 'the hills are alive', only it involves the sex organs as well! Gadzooks! Now there's a rum do!
Of course, you will remember all of this has happened before when childhood memories of being found under the bed with an improperly placed banana led to your epiphany about sexual healing with fruit. That was in fearful February. You even wrote a book called, 'SEX IS FRUITY AND FRUIT IS SEXY' as I recall. It was an abysmal failure then. But, by my sainted aunt, what's happening with it now? Well, I'll tell you.
The busy messenger intrudes on addlepate Sagittarius and you discover a remarkable thing. It seems that your publisher, desperate to restore a shattered fortune, posted the text of the book on a website and it's become a cult classic. Hits, galore! And massive advertising revenue! You're rich! And, as vamping Venus slithers into idiot Aquarius, seizing Chiron by the unmentionables, thousands of requests have come in. Requests from folk in agony, common ordinary folk who need the healing of an avatar, such as only you can provide!
Gadzooks, my little cretins! They've sent you their credit cards details to urge you to come to their homes, bringing your pineapples! Or bananas! Or blackberries, still on the thorny branch! Thus you will heal them of their sexual wounds or broken down libidos and become even richer! 'Sex with fruit' is hot! The world's gone mad for fruity healing. Some 'would be' clients send pictures of themselves, holding their withered apples or dried up apricots, pleading with you to take pity on their parlous state and come, bearing your rejuvenating mango. It is the Full Moon in loony Gemini and your world explodes into rainbow brilliance as the Palace of Forbidden Fruit rises from the ashes of desuetude to be the home of this, the most recent triumph of your chequered career. Mischievous Mercury gropes Uranus, the idiot god, and queues stretch from your reception area all the way to the new outlet of the green-grocery franchise that you've just invested in.
The great Sol Invicti lurches into lugubrious Capricorn, visiting yet another solstice on an already over-burdened world. Thus you take up residence in your Healing Centre. And, as marauding Mars pushes his private member's bill into the parliament of grim Saturn, you're too busy to leave your premises. Mischievous Mercury hobnobs with narcotic Neptune and you become horribly psychic, revealing secrets and the dark past of all your clients over plates of passion fruit and paw-paw. Vamping Venus moves into perverse reverse and ex-lovers and partners come to you to heal them of the hurt that relations with you inflicted in the first place. Great Caesar's ghost, it's a funny old world, is it not, my tiny lunatics!
But what's this? Egad! How unfortunate! And just when everything was going so well! The New Moon comes in ghastly Capricorn, right on New Year's Eve, and your parents arrive at reception, demanding to see you. Gadzooks! Will they too want healing? Will they want money? Or will this be yet another argument about the outrageous colour of your valance and bed linen? As I'm far too fatigued and unwell to write more of this drivel, you'll have to click here next month and see. In the meantime, ave atque vale!