- Avast ye lunatic fish-faces! It's Captain Asperitus, terror of the seven seas! I'm here to sail you into the very teeth of the icy gales of vile and bitter prognostications that surge out of the freezing south to seize your yardarms in their fearsome clutches. The gales of savage September they are! Trim your sail and haul on your bowlines (egad) as we set forth in the manner of fearless nautical persons!
Mischievous Mercury is still in reverse motion as the month begins, leaving you wondering if 'Long John Silverfish' is really the name of your true inner pirate or if you should come up with something more sensitive and tearful, in the keeping with the general pattern of your tragic life. However, as the messenger moves forward again, you forget about this and, as vamping Venus moves to loathsome Leo, you amuse yourself, trying on pirate costumes as your rag tag and bobtail mix of brigands and headstand devotees drink and brawl, whilst plying the freebooter's art. They even engage in a little physical congress, in a 'getting to know you' fashion, and the art of the headstand is put to some uses that astound even a hardened buccaneer. So, my little fish-faced miseries, there you are, sailing the briny! Ha ha, me hearties! And all that!
But what's this! By my little brown bottle, it's a disaster in the making heading your way as marauding Mars clashes with underworld Pluto. Your pleasure craft (for you are the first houseboat buccaneer) ploughs straight into a fleet of tiny fishing smacks, scattering the fisher folk and their catch in all directions and depositing on your foredeck a bundle of packages of mysterious white powder. Your crew drags the stronger swimmers aboard and commends the rest to Davy Jones locker. This is done in the manner of toughened swabs of the sea from time immemorial by indulging in a little target practice and inventing witty and poetic epithets with regard to the parentage of those busily engaged in drowning. The packages themselves turn out, on closer inspection, to be not so mysterious to drug-besotted folk of the piscatorial persuasion such as you are.
Great gods alive and dead, little tragedies! The fishermen were drug smugglers and you have, unwittingly, landed a prize of cocaine with a street value counted in the millions of dollars. The newfound crew of brigands salutes your daring! The devotees of the headstand realize there are more profitable things in life than the inverted position. And the recently rescued smugglers snarl and sneer, determining on a fierce and terrible revenge at the earliest opportunity.
This takes place under the ghastly auspices of a New Moon in anal Virgo, entwined in unseemly fashion with underworld Pluto and a raft of unspeakable planets too tedious to name. Vamping Venus clashes with nasty Neptune and you parade before your adoring crew in your best pirate gear, beginning to feel a need to sexually sate yourself, preferably with a bit of nautical 'rough' with seaweed in their locks and the smell of salt strongly upon them.
And, by my little brown bottle, everything happens at once then. The cosmic gears grind and scrape! The wheels of Heaven squeal as they turn and the great Sol Invicti visits yet another horror upon this benighted world by entering the odious sign of Libra and your solar eighth house. Jolly Jupiter follows suit. So too does marauding Mars. In two shakes of a fishtail, you thrash every ounce of recalcitrance from the captured smugglers by turning them on their heads. Gods, the poor wee creatures don't have the strength and endurance cultivated by the disciplines you have mastered! Thus do they confess where and when they were to deliver the contraband so you can capitalize on your fortuitous buccaneering. Then, you flit below deck with the myrmidon of your choice to indulge in a bit of piratical rumpy pumpy! And then another to follow that!
By the time the Full Moon comes in arrogant Aries your pirate chest is bursting with doubloons and you've bonded with more than half of your crew in a way that would have left Peg Leg Pete gasping for breath or Captain Morgan reaching for a second tot of rum. Everything seems shipshape, me hearties! You know the ropes! You've fathomed the situation! You're the pilot of your vessel! What could go wrong, my little fish-faced tragedies! Click here again and read the next episode of Avast Behind or the Nautical Adventures of Loony Fishface the privateer. Thus will you discover what the vile and bitters have in store. Ta! Ta!