- Persons of the Pisces persuasion, men and women both! Hola to you! And hooray, of course! Last time, you were on the brink of tragedy of a Gaulish kind. You had been cast back in time by the Virgin at Lourdes and become the Dolphin of France. You were behaving in a foppish manner amidst a nest of French fops, one of whom was robed as a cardinal and therefore probably was. It's all very confusing but then your life generally is. However, confusion is not the reason I'm late with the forecast. I overslept, that's all! And, in my opinion, the extra rest I gained was insufficient to prepare me for the task of addressing a naughty world on the topic of the futile and vacuous meanderings to which it is unwholesomely devoted.
Nonetheless, we do as we must rather than as we will. A basic tenet in the study of irritation! So here I am. Ready to spit venom in your general direction like the oracular serpents of old. Attend me, O tragic fishy things! I am Asperitus, bard of baffling bosh, magus of miasma and auspex of the addlebrained (that's you, in case you didn't realize)! This is doleful December (what's left of it). And these are the vile and bitter prognostications thereof.
First, I'll bring you up to date. As mischievous Mercury reversed his motion, you became dazed and distracted. As he did this in hard aspect to miserable Saturn, you became quite depressed as well. Vamping Venus and marauding Mars made nastiness with narcotic Neptune and you drank copious quantities of alcohol while trying to grasp the doings of these ancient French fops. You also had sex with several persons whose names you didn't catch and whose faces you can't now remember. Suffice it to say that, by the New Moon in loony Sagittarius, your life is much as it would be in any other era. As Mercury is in reverse and conjoining in unseemly fashion with underworld Pluto, you keep wondering why, if you're the Dolphin of France, they don't give you a tank to swim in and a brightly coloured ball to bounce on your nose. Distantly, you remember that it's not that kind of Dolphin.
But what's this? Egad! They're bringing a young woman into the court and they expect you to speak with her. And, what's more, she doesn't fop like all the other fops! Who is she? The town of Orleans is mention and you wonder if she may be a jazz musician, though you can't remember if anyone would have yet invented jazz. You muse on this knotty problem, hovering in a borderland somewhere between amazement and unconsciousness.
But great gods alive and dead what's this! The Heavens rattle with ghastly planets in nasty aspect! Mischievous Mercury moves forward while the great Sol Invicti grinds his way to lugubrious Capricorn (merry Christmas), announcing to the world at large that another miserable bloody Solstice has occurred. The fop in cardinal's robes now steps up to the young woman's side. He smiles in an unctuous manner. The young woman speaks up boldly and says that she has heard the voice of god. You idly mention you have recently conversed with the Virgin. The unctuous grin becomes oleaginous and it appears that, once again, you have said something clever without knowing what it was.
And suddenly, little nincompoops, you see what this is all about! The Heavens rasp with the shift of cosmic gears! And you, my little urchin things, realize this is Joan of Arc, maid of Orleans! She says that she can defeat the cursed English and make you king! But, by my little brown bottle, you'll have to give up being a Dolphin! Well, they never gave you a coloured ball anyway! Have at these English and hurrah for France, you cry! The cardinal looks suddenly displeased. There may be a liturgical crisis looming.
What will you do, my tiny clod-hopping ninnies? Why, you'll sing 'auld lang syne', pass out and then awake to read next month's forecast. Until then! Ta! Ta!