Toodle pip, my tiny tweeters! I trust your buttocks will not be untimely ripped from one another by accident, misadventure or act of god. But that's enough of that! We don't want to waste time, indulging you in your morbid preoccupation with your posterior! We want to get on with the vile and bitter prognostications for awful August, the current month, as I understand it by counting the eight knots in my handkerchief.
Last time, we left you on the brink of disaster. And, it seems you've been on that brink an uncommonly long time! I fell asleep before I completed your forecast and have just been woken by the staff here in Heaven (they used a short baton), urging me to finish what I started, an injunction I've often heard in the chequered course of a delinquent life.
But yikes and double yikes, little loonies! So many things have occurred without you receiving the advice you needed to manage this cosmic chaos. For instance, grim Saturn ground his aging bones against the flesh of imbecile Uranus, god of idiots, and health concerns involving alcohol or other intoxicants may have caused you to alienate your friends (both of them). And then, what's worse, the great Sol Invicti interfered grossly with the private parts of jolly Jupiter (having first located them under the rolls of flesh). Thus, you spent too much money or behaved in that appalling manner that drives everyone to snorts of disgust in your general direction.
And, as if that wasn't enough (and clearly it wasn't), marauding Mars shoved the nastily erect facet of his personality into the unmentionable parts of cranky Chiron and you had improper relations with a psychic nun that once worked in the police force. By my sainted aunt, I could go on like this forever but I don't think I shall. Let us just content ourselves with the depressing fact that you must endure the necrotic gaze of a Full Moon in lunatic Aquarius. Thus, as you career about the roads on an eccentrically painted mobility cart, watching all from a place somewhere outside your body, a fellow driver sees the peril you're in. Instanter, this heroic person pulls in front of your vehicle, braking carefully to halt your impulsive forward thrusting. Needless to say, as the loony lunar light is in your solar fifth house of romance, you fall in love with the doer of the deed and, coming back into your body with alacrity, forward thrusting of another kind soon takes place.
Golly gosh and hockey sticks, my delicate delinquents! You're in love! Your shapely buttocks tremble with delight. As the thresh and flail of ghastly planets in lackwit Leo meets the assault of nasty planets in idiot Aquarius, you leave the home for the elderly where you were employed, embarking on a romantic adventure with your new love. You expend money and vital fluids as though tomorrow will never come, fantasizing about the wonderful and amazing life you will have with your lover, ignoring entirely the lessons of past disaster in what has been your house of pain. And yet it is these very lessons that come back to haunt you as the great Sol Invicti grinds his passage (eek) into anal Virgo, bringing a New Moon in that same vexatious sign.
Ye gods and little fishes! All is turned on its head in a moment. By my little brown bottle, your solar twelfth house is alive with an eerie glow. Little worries creep about this nasty realm of fears, anxieties, drug users, psychics and longshoremen. You lie awake at night and worry that you'll come to grief once more and heartache will overtake you just as you think you've found your dream. As vamping Venus then lustfully cavorts with a bevy of odious planets, you begin to wonder if you should not live your life alone and devote your solitary self to your unbridled passion that is the Swedish Cinema and the films of Ingmar Iceberg, iconic film director, recluse and lunatic. As mischievous Mercury wanders into the ghastly sign of the Virgin, you begin to dwell on the past, calling up the list of past lovers and your grievances with them, finding fault where none existed in case you missed the faults you should have found. Soon, you fight and argue with your new lover and the balloon of romance is pricked by the shrewish barbs of the odious energies abroad in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods.
As marauding Mars farts and fornicates fantastically on the Loony South Node, clashing with dark Pluto, god of the underworld, you explode with rage, break up with your lover and thumb a ride to god knows what darkest corner of the wilderness! All your hopes are broken on the anvil of ancient grief! Gadzooks! Egad! Odds bodkins! And other quaint expressions of surprise and alarm! Is your dream of romance shattered before it has even taken form? Is it back to painting mobility carts to look like parrot's bottoms? Or is there some grim journey that calls you into the darkest reaches of your solar twelfth house to worship at the altar of the god known only as 'Self Undoing'?
Eek! What's to become of you, my tiny twits? As I'm ready to pass out with sheer ennui and terminal boredom, you will have to click here next time to discover, thus giving me a necessary respite to prepare another round of this seemingly interminable drivel. In the meantime, hail and farewell, my champion chumps!