Salutations, tiny silly persons! How are your posteriors? Are they shapely and stylishly clad? Well, as we left you last time in a somnambulist state and entirely unwell at the moment of the trial of your professional integrity, instituted by your sullen and uncaring pater, you'd hardly know about the state of your posterior, your posterior's current apparel or indeed anything at all. You were left bereft and in the siege parlous by the depredations of manic March. How will you be in awful April? As it's well underway, you'll probably have a somnambulistic inkling or two. Nonetheless, I shall attempt to enlighten you in the accustomed manner, with a dose of prognostications, vile and bitter.
In fact, you've hardly missed anything, as the beginning of the month was dominated by grim Saturn's grudging move out of perverse reverse in loathsome Leo and your solar eleventh house. That's the place where all of your perverted and eccentric friends hang about and have those inane conversations whilst wearing absurd clothing, by the way! As Saturn is ensconced there, you find you have no friends at all except for certain elderly persons with whom you visit on occasion, persons that lack the mobility to throw you out of their homes on your shapely bottom for wittering on like the ninny you are.
Enough pleasantries! We must get on with the business at hand before I fall asleep and miss the month entirely. Vamping Venus slithers into insipid Pisces and an array of sensitive health practitioners wince winsomely over your parlous condition, pronouncing, tearfully, that nothing can be done for you, a conclusion the rest of us reached at a somewhat earlier date. Marauding Mars assails the naughty bits of dark Pluto, the underworld god, and you're left standing in the street, friendless and alone, yet surrounded by an uncaring mass of passersby. Though you have no will of your own to move, you're swept along by the mass of mindless pedestrians! In the halls of justice, your hearing sweeps inevitably along towards your professional doom, as you're not there to defend yourself and no one else cares to do so or even actually cares.
The Full Moon comes in your ghastly sign yet you don't awaken, though you're swept across intersections against the lights, coming dangerously close to a nasty upset. Marauding Mars barrels into slimy Cancer and an overweight officer of the law bids you halt. In your somnambulistic state, you do not hear or respond. Mischievous Mercury barrels into addlepate Aries, an angry but agile stranger passes a rude remark at you but ends in an altercation with this more substantial example of the city's finest. The altercation turns to a riot, due to the bad temper of the times. But your unseeing eyes see not and on you walk! Eek! How unnerving and disturbingly strange!
As ghastly planets fart in a frolic of fantastical fornication in the gutters of Heaven, the riot turns to a nasty affray through which you continue heedlessly. By my sainted aunt, the world erupts into chaos because of you and you seem to care not a jot! The great Sol Invicti clatters into cloddish Taurus, making an indecent proposal in the ear of grim Saturn and something stirs deep within the pit of your subconscious.
Egad! Eek! Gadzooks! And other quaint expressions to indicate surprise and alarm. There's something taking place in your solar eighth house! This, as we know, is a ghastly realm of shadows, occult power, black magicians, brothels and taxation consultants.
Ye gods, tiny twits! What neurotic eruption from those nasty depths is set to surface on the frozen landscape of your somnambulist face? You shake, tremble and shiver in a most alarming fashion. And then, by all the daft and giggling gods, the great Sol Invicti inserts his flaming member into the private parts of loony lunar light and a New Moon comes in the dread sign of the bovine! And, in case you thought things could not get worse, vamping Venus exposes herself to dark Pluto as the great Sol Invicti thrashes cranky Chiron. What dread and horror-filled occurrence is set to occur?
Great Caesar's ghost, I can hardly bear to look, largely from creeping ennui, I confess. Ennui of the 'reach for the little brown bottle' variety. Thus, I close proceedings for the nonce and enter the titillating embrace of Morphia, the only deity in whom we may trust, except that she chucks us out of bed each morning, the heartless sod! Oh well! How sad! Never mind! If you wish to read more of this aimless piffle, click here next month! For the nonce, ave!
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