Boodle oodle oodle, bottom types! No doubt your undergarments are a proper match in colour and style for your valance, your socks and your handy handbag or purse. I trust there's nothing too frilly involved but I dare not enquire too deeply in case you respond in the affirmative. That would leave me with no recourse than to report you to the Frill Police, a powerful but plainly dressed sub group here in Heaven that occupies offices in the cellar. They never speak to anyone unless it's in passing and in a nasty, pejorative manner.
Anyway, that's enough of that! Let's have some of this instead, 'this' being prognostications of the vilest and most bitter kind that was ever known to man, woman or beast. Don't think stylish undergarments will save you from the worst! After all, they never have before! In fact, despite your undergarments, your life has been one long round of heartache and sorrow, much to the enjoyment of all that know you, it must be said. And I must say it!
As I'm late with the forecast and, in fact, getting later with each superfluous word I write, I'd best be about my prophetic foolery before I lose interest, cry for medicine and fall asleep. I would say that this is a familiar pattern in my life and may reoccur at any time. Behold my livid wrath and tremble in the darkest caverns of your ghastly goolies, little pests of the posterior persuasion. I am Asperitus, fearful to behold and worse to listen to!
The month began as Saturn wrestled obscenely with nasty Neptune. But that happened a week ago so I can't remember what it's supposed to mean. Perhaps you had sex with an old person, fantasized about being Swedish or simply sat about thinking of all the wonderful and inspired things you might do if you ever got up and did anything.
That was followed by a Lunar Eclipse at the Full Moon in irritating Virgo. Doubtless you became very tired and went to bed, trying to fall asleep by counting the leaves in the 'autumn' pattern on your bedroom curtains. As the great Sol Invicti and Uranus, idiot god, disported obscenely, you briefly thought of a lovely job you might get but fell asleep and forgot what it was by the morning. That brings us up to date. Thus, we take up the current cudgel and administer further beatings! Mischievous Mercury moves forward and you suddenly recall you are a fortune-teller in the midst of a psychic reading with a devastatingly attractive client that is enquiring about the proper use of the divining rod.
Ye gods and little fishes! How strange that you only recall this now. You must have been asleep for the last week, just like me! Still, a Lunar Eclipse in one's solar twelfth house (ugh) will do that.
But what's this? Egad! Marauding Mars cranks his shaft in cranky Chiron and a divining rod of jewelled and crystalline splendour appears magically in the air between you and the ravishing client. Vamping Venus slithers obscenely into brutish Taurus and ghastly but rapturous things occur between the two of you. Let me only say that the correct placement of the diving rod is achieved then I shall pass on to subjects less unnerving. Mischievous Mercury returns to tear-stained and addictive Pisces and you explain the finer points of angling said rod for the best that divination has to offer. Odds bodkins!
That in itself goes so well that, at the Solar Eclipse that comes with the Full Moon in the tragic sign of the Fishes, you decide to take a break from fortune-telling so that, as the great Sol Invicti rolls drunkenly into addlepate Aries, you can bed your new love and discuss the matching underwear you will wear at the wedding.
By my sainted aunt, little floosies! This creates a scene of rumpy pumpy and moral decline such as my sainted aunt would never look upon, were she alive to do so, which she isn't, all as marauding Mars bonks the life out of narcotic Neptune. Vamping Venus behaves in a ghastly and concupiscent manner, exposing her private parts to cranky Chiron, and the diving rod gets such a searing workout that unguents must be urgently applied, causing further activity and, predictably, requiring more applications of the unguent.
But what's this? Great gods alive and dead, it cannot be so! And yet it is! In amongst the fleshpots of your romantic fervour, it's a shock that's delivered! In fact, it's a shock so shocking the naming of it would be almost too much of a shock to bear.
Almost, but not quite! What shock can this be, I hear you cry. Well, if you'd stop thinking about 'you' for a moment and think of others, you'd hear I am falling into a deep and trancelike sleep as I expire from terminal boredom and creeping ennui. I can prognosticate no more! Thus it is that we must save the shock for next time! Will you be poised to click here next month! I suspect you will, given how empty and wretched your miserable lives are! Hail to you, bottom types! I shall see you, shockingly, anon!