Tally ho and yoicks, fish-faced twerps! Last time we left, you were hanging around, crucified, suffering and being ignored. In case you ever decide to do something new with your life, do email someone that cares and let them know. In the meantime, we'd best consult the vile and bitter prognostications for malodorous May before I lose track of time and have to get into my pjamas, the ones that button up the back.
As I'm late with the forecast (hmm), I'll catch you up on what's already transpired. Not that it's much. But then it never is in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods. 'Same old same old' is the third immutable law of tedium. I can't remember what the first and second ones are. As they're more tedious than number three, no one ever recalls them. There are nine in all but folk usually give up on reading them after three because they lose interest at that point for obvious reasons. Anyway, on with the show!
Vamping Venus moved into addlepate Aries at some point in the last few days. Thus you decided to get off your cross and look for a job to earn money. However, as the great Sol Invicti then groped the private parts of jolly Jupiter, you immediately began to wonder what it is you want to do. NB: the third law of tedium applies here! As mischievous Mercury clatters into cloddish Taurus, you wander the streets, muttering darkly and under your breath. Ghastly planets form a grand trine in the water signs and you decide that, as you don't want to work, someone should give you the money you need to do what you want. As marauding Mars parts the weakening thighs of narcotic Neptune, you indulge in the wildest fantasies you have involving sex, food and substances deemed suitable for ingestion by those without discernment in regard to moral conduct or personal hygiene. Spurred on by this indulgence, as the great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury expose their private parts to the darkest appetites of Pluto, lord of the underworld, you ask those with money and power to support you. Just because you're beautiful or deserving or a great unrecognized talent or any of the lies you tell so sweetly when you want something!
And what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's sweet success as the great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury clatter into supple yet perverted Gemini. You're offered nice well-furnished premises to live in by an interested and compassionate party, an amiable and talkative person of youthful appearance. And, what's more, it seems that the usual sycophantic grovel and sexual favours aren't a requirement of the deal. Hoorah! And double hoorah! Little fishes jump for joy! You may live and work here as you choose, for artistic implements (coloured pencils and paper) are freely supplied. Perhaps this is your Shangri-La, a deserved sanctuary after all the years of suffering. However, the one condition that is imposed is that you can't have anybody to this new home. Oh well! That just means you'll have to have sex at parties or other's people's places but they're conditions that you're used to. It all seems good for you, my frightful little persons. Or should that be 'too good'.
For what's this? Quelle horreur! It's a ghastly New Moon in the odious sign of the two-faced one, just as mischievous Mercury has carnal knowledge of Uranus, the idiot god. You awake one morning (well, afternoon actually), ready to face the day (well, sort of). You're set to totter into the sunshine of the court garden, have a coffee and stare at your favourite coloured pencil (a gold one) when you find the door is locked. Eek! You try another door but that's locked too! Egad! You're feeling claustrophobic so you try to open a window! That's locked too!
Great gods alive and dead, what can be happening? You're locked in! Entirely surrounded by a lack of egress! What will you do, my fish-faced wretches! You have no idea, do you! But then neither do I! The only idea I have pertains to what I'll do now which is lie down with my brown bottle, my silver tube and the pjamas that button up the back. As you will have guessed, I'm feeling unwell.
Click here next time and, if I have recovered sufficiently, I may write more of this unmitigated drivel. Next month we begin a tragic tale, tragedy being the suitable format in which to study your life when farce is off the menu. And the title of the tragic tale shall be 'The Goldfish Bowl'. Ave, my piscine types!