Hail to you, my tragic clots! Still wandering aimlessly on life's poop deck until you fall into the drink? Still singing a sad sea shanty of a sailor cast adrift? Still marooned on this island earth, wondering what fate the insane gods are set to visit on your already wretched life?
If the answer is 'yes' to all three, then all is as is should be in a benighted universe! It's awful April, my wilting violets! And I am Asperitus, doctor of death with the doom-laden spoon of prognostication, vile and bitter. Open wide your ghastly gobs and so receive the dose!
Last time, we left you in the grip of an awful realization, to wit, that you own nothing, have nothing and thus are nothing! Awkward! Suitably tragic! And as true as anything in polite society ought to be! Thus, as the month begins, lugubrious Saturn grinds aging bones, creaking knees and wrinkled skin into forward motion and you realize that if you're ever going to have anything, you may have to get a job and work for it. Gadzooks! How unsettling! It almost inclines one to give up instanter and reach for the prescription.
Vamping Venus slithers, in lascivious manner, into your wretched sign and you fly into a panic! Eek! You'll have nothing to wear at the job interview and your general appearance is unspeakable after recent bouts of lunacy and ill-usage at the hands of others! Oh gods but your life is tragedy itself!
Marauding Mars then invades the naughty bits of dark Pluto, lord of the underworld, and you fly into a rage. You thresh and flail your way to freedom, smashing out of your confinement with diabolical rage and ear-splitting shrieks that scatter the restraining hordes like wheat before the scythe of Kronos himself.
But what's this? By my sainted aunt, you're not content with mere escape! No indeed! You assault everyone that stands in your way or has assaulted you (or even thought about it or looked as if they might). You sate your lust on unwilling victims, gorging yourself in the fleshpots of desire, unrestrained by normal human convention. This extravagant fury is due to the fantastical fornication and fearsome farting of ghastly planets in the gutters of Heaven. Loony Lady Moon ruts with the great Sol Invicti till her chill necrotic light engulfs the world in Full Moon madness. Mischievous Mercury indecently gropes dark Pluto and you shriek unbridled rage and vile vituperation, poisoning the air with nastiness of a most excoriating kind. You extend yourself with the use of expressions such as 'dunderhead' and 'fatty' to those that have offended you.
But, by my little brown bottle, worse is yet to come as the garish display of insolent cosmic contumely erupts in a pyrotechnic horror show. Marauding Mars clatters into slimy Cancer! Aargh! Mischievous Mercury barrels into idiot Aries! Eek! These two make such ghastly and obscene congress as would defy the efforts of a thousand scribes writing for a thousand years to describe it. Ugh! You bash people in the streets and demand money from them. And in that surge of psychotic rage you're seized by what you believe to be a brilliant inspiration. Please note the key phrase is 'what you believe to be'. It will be pertinent later. As it's Easter, you decide you will stage your own crucifixion to punish the world with the sight of your suffering, suffering the world itself has inflicted heartlessly upon you. That'll show them!
As unspeakable planets caper in nasty aspect, you use the money you've demanded (with menaces) to stage a piece of guerrilla theatre entitled A CROSS FOR TWO FISHES, which will simply be your sorrowful mystery, the crucifixion of Pisces. A New Moon comes in cloddish Taurus and we find you hanging in some street of woe upon your cross of suffering. But what's this? Great Caesar's ghost, it cannot be! Ah say not so! And yet it is, my fishy nincompoops! It is! As vamping Venus exposes her most private parts to dark Pluto while the great Sol Invicti thrashes cranky Chiron, the world just goes on as normal, passing you by or drinking cappuccino or talking about sports results or the latest war or hurricanes or tornadoes! Eek! Egad! Gadzooks! And other such quaint expressions to indicate surprise and alarm. Your suffering is being ignored, piscatorial nightmares! What will you do?
For myself, I'm tired and excruciatingly bored so I will leave you suspended. I will, if I awake in time, return next month to write yet another installment of this outrageous piffle. In the meantime, ave atque vale, my wittering fish-faced miseries!