Great barking bandicoots, my bumptious bottom types! It's fateful February already and yet you know nothing of the dreadful doings that even now creep surreptitiously towards your posterior to catch it in a moment of surprise and thus perform upon it alarming acts. Eek!
Now, as it's almost the end of the second week, you may think that I've been ignoring you. Au contraire, my teeny weenie twits! The fact is that I haven't been able to get you out of my mind, awful enough in itself, I must confess. But, by my little brown bottle, in addition to that, I keep seeing you before my very eyes. This is an unspeakably nasty upset which causes me to close my eyes instanter, whereupon I fall back to sleep. Falling asleep comes easily, as does waking up. It's only when I try and find reasons to stay awake that I'm overtaken by something akin to perplexity! Anyway, that's enough of that! You don't want to hear that kind of twaddle. You probably don't want to hear any kind of twaddle at all, though if you're reading this then the latter surely must be a moot point. I suspect what I'll have to do, for the sake of our respective sanities, is get on with the vile and bitter prognostications for the current month before said calendar subdivision takes the praenomen 'previous'.
Hear me now, little loonies! This is the recap of what we may call 'past events' that will in time give way to predictions that will relate to firstly current and then future events. As I recall it, there was a nasty Full Moon in lackwit Leo that began the month so no doubt we will have found you with your nitwit friends, talking loudly about how pleased you were with last month's impromptu performance that gained the applause of all who witnessed it, as well as tickling the collective merriment gland of the gathered crowd.
Apart from that, I can't remember what you've been doing, nor do I wish to. If you're at all concerned about past matters, kindly look up last month's forecast and note the inconsistencies. If there are less than forty-two, I shall be most disappointed as I have little interest in historical accuracy unless it's used to annoy someone by correcting them in front of their friends.
Sometime after, mischievous Mercury slithered into wretched Pisces, causing you to worry about work or contract a cold of the snivelling style that you favour. You may have had an essentially circuitous chat with a drug-addicted co-worker. As vamping Venus then conjoined obscenely with Uranus, the idiot god, you will have had sex with the co-worker in a water closet or decided to run away from work to play games, enjoy a lunchtime drink or have a psychic reading. As the psychic then told you you're a brainless wretch with no character, and that traffic accidents, arguments in bus queues, nasty incidents with foreigners and a change of job are the likely prospects for your immediate future, you became enraged, stormed out and went back for another drink. But, great gods alive and dead, who would believe what happened then! You stepped out of the fortune-teller's grimy shanty and walked straight into a crush of folk waiting to board a foreign tourist coach and fell into an argument over queue jumping! There was pushing and shoving of a terrifyingly foreign kind that left nasty stains on your clothing. You then fell into the gutter where a delivery boy on a bicycle nearly ran you over. Eek!
While clearly it was jolly Jupiter's ugly congress with vamping Venus and the Loony Nodes that caused these unseemly altercations, it was the fortune-teller that foretold it. Spooky! And also indisputable proof that psychic predictions definitely work and must be believed! But that was not the end of the mystic meanderings on the phantom express, my tiny ectoplasmic acorns! As the great Sol Invicti then worried at the private parts of grim and wrinkled Saturn, you wandered the streets, wondering about life and pondering your life's direction, occasionally knocking over old people as you were too self-absorbed to watch where you were going.
Thus, to the great relief of all sane and normal persons, we arrive in the present, just as mischievous Mercury moves to perverse reverse. Egad! Now there's a revolting development if ever there was one! You return to work only to be told that you're sacked for desertion of your post, inebriation, incompetence and because nobody likes you. The last psychic prediction is now fulfilled, but the loss of your job does not deter you one whit for you hated it and felt that your co-workers were beneath you. Oddly enough, several of them had been at one time or another!
Nay indeed, my garish articles! This is not a setback but an opportunity in disguise, a phrase that you read in one of the appalling New Age books you and your idiot friends are so fond of. As the New Moon comes in Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, you decide you will become a psychic and make your fortune from telling fortunes. As vamping Venus lays the secrets of her nether regions bare before the penetrating gaze of dark Pluto, you transform your appearance to that of a gap-toothed gypsy with wise eyes (snigger) and a well kept posterior. As the great Sol Invicti slithers into tear-stained Pisces, you set up shop and hang your hand-painted shingle in the street.
And what's this? By all that's hellish and unholy, vamping Venus batters her way into arrogant Aries and, instanter, you have your first customer, a rather luscious looking specimen with a speech problem, as the obscene joining of the vain and selfish Sun god with the busy messenger makes all too apparent with a tide of stuttering and mumbling. As marauding Mars barrels into idiot Aquarius, the air is electric between you and this captivating if ineloquent creature. The only future you see is one that should not be discussed in polite society, due to its unspeakably immoral character. But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's mischievous Mercury barrelling backwards into the sign of the idiot god! The ravishing creature finally utters a coherent phrase, one involving a desperate need to know about the correct placement of the diving rod in order to achieve the most accurate predictive results.
As my sainted aunt has just fainted, we must swear by all the gods alive and dead that this is a leading question of a most unsettling kind. Your blood is up, tiny turnips! Engorged to say the least! Your temperature's rising and you can hardly remain seated on your now somewhat inelegant posterior. Eek! I can go no further with this balderdash! Not through shock or moral outrage, but more because of the merciless assault of terminal ennui and screaming boredom!
Thus, we leave you on tenterhooks, poised to give a right royal reading of the most fortunate kind to your ravishing client. That's of course if all is as it seems! And is it, my bumptious bottom types? Or is it not? Click here next time and see. In the meantime, ave!