Great elephants and farting camels, my pesky little wretches! We left you last time on the precipice of a confrontation with your parents, just as it seemed your career was revived. Ugh! How unseemly! Your book, SEX IS FRUITY AND FRUIT IS SEXY had been transformed from abysmal failure to cult hit due to the whims of a 'brain dead' public that will embrace anything to alleviate the tedium of life's wretchedness for a moment or two. On the back of such success, you revived the Palace of Forbidden Fruit, the healing sanctuary that fell to desuetude while you fruitlessly (note the pun) roamed the waves as a water taxi driver.
It seemed the bad old days were behind you, as you became an avatar of fruity healing, revealing to a pain-wracked clientele the spiritual joys of dalliance with banana, peach and mango, as well as other items in the general run of fruity things. Yet, once again did mater and pater loom on the horizon, casting grim shadows on your newfound joy! However, at that point, I lost interest completely, due to ennui. I fell into a deep sleep, due to the twin actions of medication and disinterest, a sleep from which I have only recently awoken, due to a misunderstanding about prescription strength. I now find to my chagrin that it's New Year and jittery January is well underway. Oh well! How sad! Never mind! I shall essay the prognostications, vile and bitter, despite the sluggard manner of their delivery.
First, I shall fill you in on what you've missed! There was a burst of heavenly flatulence in the lugubrious sign of the Goat and you were transfixed by dark childhood memories, re-invoked by the sight of mater and pater. Thus you have done little besides stare into the middle distance, wondering in bemused fashion if they have come to criticize your clothing or your bed linen, or to rebuke you over the matter of your ill-fated meal together and demand back the money you charged them. Thus, enraged beyond describing at the thought of this tawdry transaction (marauding Mars clashes with jolly Jupiter), you launch into an inspired tirade, listing all the wrongs they've done you and all the faults that they themselves must own. Ye gods and little fishes, it's a veritable 'stream of consciousness' delivery as mischievous Mercury inserts a supple digit into the nether regions of Uranus, the idiot god. You vibrate with the music of the spheres in your voice, just like a bard of old.
But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's a thing that is like a thing beyond belief, so strange a thing it is! As a Full Moon blazes in neurotic Cancer, your aged forbears break into hysterics, weeping, wailing and wallowing in a sea of remorse as they beg your forgiveness for the ill-treatment they have meted out over a lifetime! Egad! How unseemly! Maids with mops (dressed as succulent apples) are required to soak up this vast effusion of parental grief. And, what beggars belief and description even further is the subsequent request for you to take fruit and heal them of their ills and ancient sins.
Gadzooks! Is the world gone mad? Well, as it's ruled by insane gods, I suppose that begs the question. The great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury grind their passage into Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, and do you rush these wrinkled, weeping specimens to the inner sanctum of your temple of fruit. There your pater chooses the ill-starred banana for the solace of his spirit while your mater inclines to a risqué double act involving all the berry fruits, with a little prickle still on the stem. Eek! Perhaps she's been hiding her light under a bushel in all those years of marriage!
As a New Moon comes in idiot Aquarius, the mantle of authority in the family subtly shifts to your fine and supple shoulders, as your P and M shed the burden of it and come to rest in your sanctuary. Ah! What sweetness unrestrained is this! Ah bliss! Ah nausea! But wait! Is there a dark side to these family shenanigans, a hidden viper in the bosom that will soon deliver a sting to the tail (eek) of someone we know well? Perhaps! Perhaps not! Click here next time and you will discover which of these is true! Ave atque vale, my tiny buttocks loonies!