Pip, pip, O my poltroons of the posterior persuasion! We left you last time trying to choose a valance under whose auspices you could write the mighty film script that would bring to the silver screen the life story of Saint John the Bastard, visionary author of A POKE IN THE LIPS NOW. A copy of this ancient tome, as writ by the prophet himself, arrived in your hands by mysterious means many moons ago. This deliverance and the subsequent revelations set you on a path to revive the 'revive the merkin' crusade that was your very meat and drink in a more distant past than this.
But we shall not idle away our remaining hours in sentimental reflection. Nay, as the horse god says. We shall launch ourselves into the dread draught of vile and bitter prognostications for jactitating July, whilst a little of the month remains to us. I was intending to deliver this bilge in a timely manner but I was ambushed by ghastly planets farting in nasty aspect and so fell back into the deep repose of Morphia, the goddess nonpareil. By my little brown bottle, I did! Perhaps it was the ghastly intercourse of vamping Venus, narcotic Neptune and gloomy Saturn that sent me into 'soporifics'! Certes, this gruesome event made sure that life was as dull as ditchwater and very near as vile upon the palate. After that, nothing happened until mischievous Mercury went forward, ensuring that everyone could understand each other once again, an unspeakably tedious situation if ever there was one. Sometimes, darling Scales types, there is no better state than that of incomprehension, as you of all should know.
It was then that a hideous New Moon came in slimy Cancer, which doubtless enabled you to make a start on your great mission after several weeks of sitting about and doing nothing but listen to others moan and complain more loudly and plaintively than yourself. Vamping Venus has now moved into vexatious Virgo, making life tedious in the extreme as everyone cleans their shoes and wipes a variety of dirt encrusted surfaces with a variety of cleaners and cleaning implements, though nuns and priests across the globe have secret and illicit sex or commit dietary violations in the privacy of their cells. There was also an eructation of crapulous concupiscence between marauding Mars and cranky Chiron that found you obscenely engaged with a Swedish fashion designer or a cowherd from the Caucasus or a Prussian tram driver or, in fact, all three, as you played 'what's under the merkin' into the wee small hours.
And now, tiny bottom types, we resume normal (eek) communication with the cosmos, just as the great Sol Invicti sets himself to enter lackwit Leo. Should you have friends of the pussy persuasion, you will doubtless have to buy them expensive presents whilst vigorously praising their coiffure and other accoutrements, otherwise there will be tantrums loud and long. Still, you may not have any friends at all, in which case you may ignore this warning. Though, of course, other warnings should be taken seriously, such as that which pertains to the unseemly swithing of marauding Mars, narcotic Neptune and grim Saturn as they commit unspeakable violations of the unmentionable bits of their person or persons (as the case may be). Thus, you're thrown into a mighty rage as you can make no decision whatsoever as to the right valance for the job of inspiration. You storm about, saying nasty things to your soft toys, your family and your celebrity pictures. You throw fragile objects into the air with careless abandon. You then ingest a quantity of intoxicants or hallucinogens or red lollies, set fire to the bed linen in a fit of pique and, as vamping Venus moves into perverse reverse in neurotic Virgo, flee, raving and temporarily insane to hide in the woods, wearing only a merkin and a lunatic grin. Your dear ones call the police or change the locks or both while you disport yourself like a wild thing in an arboreous retreat. You dwell in a shelter of rough bark and leaves, with only teddy, Pat the python and woolly blankie for comfort.
But what's this? As you raise and lower the merkin in a regular, rhythmic fashion whilst an unspeakable Full Moon comes in Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, an extraordinary thing occurs. You begin to see visions such as St John the Bastard described in his tome.
By my sainted aunt, little persons of the posterior, do you realize what this means? You have discovered the secret 'merkin manipulation' technique used by this ancient prophet to open his third eye and contemplate his navel or something anatomically near to it. Raise the merkin! Lower the merkin! You practice into the night, despite the freezing air! You see a magical valance in all the colours of the rainbow! You see a merkin, made in the shape of an ankh and know that you are a 'wielder of the ankh' or Wankher, as was Saint John the Bastard and all those that followed him. Thus you experience the ecstasy known to gods and prophets as this mighty yet mechanical visionary trance holds you in its thrall. Perhaps you will see the prophet himself and speak with him on mighty matters. Or perhaps it is ghastlier visions than this that will come, my brainless bottom types.
As this awful month creeps to a worse state at the end than it was at the start, I am seized by ennui and cannot continue! So shall we return next time to see what hideous events will unfold as marauding Mars and lugubrious Saturn grope grimly and obscenely in the dark night of your soul. Don't get your merkin in a twist, my cheeky little loonies. Until next time, ave atque vale!
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