What ho, fatuous fishy types! Still floundering in the shallows, trying to find a place in the world? Still pondering the scale of the disaster in which you're involved? If you answered 'yes' to these questions, read on, tiny twits! For, by this means will you discover the nightmare of your life that was wavering on the verge of vexing vacuity now teeters on the brink bilious balderdash and is set to tumble into the abyss of awful anxiety!
As you will have guessed, the reading you're about to do involves prognostications of the vile and bitter sort. For the month of savage September! Lay on, fishy types! Read the stuff! And damned be he or she that first gripes, 'Hold, enough!'
You ended last time in the state of utter confusion, a perplexing realm with which you are entirely familiar, being a citizen thereof. You were invited to become an angel but had to decide to which order of these heavenly types you wished to belong. It seems that your dearest wish (to be an angel) can only be granted if you face your greatest fear (to make a decision)! Eek! What a cruel and inhuman punishment, typical of a benighted universe ruled by insane gods. What will you do?
Well, to begin with, there's wittering! Then there's whining! And there's also weeping and wailing! And that's only the beginning of the Ws with twenty-five further letters left to be explored. So much suffering! So little time! As ghastly planets aggravate in anal Virgo, you're pressed for a decision by the irritating angelic diminutive with notebook and golden pen. Mischievous Mercury clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, and you think you should be a Cherub till you're curtly informed Cherubs are large, muscular and forbidding rather than the pudgy little cute things with golden curls and silly smiles. Egad! That won't do at all! Perhaps you could be a Seraph as they're rather handsome and do lots of chanting which is quite intoxicating.
But, odds bodkins, if it's not another disappointment! The tiny angelic type tells you all the posts are filled and besides, you'd have to pass a vocal test and be adjudged as fit to chant, which is all the Seraphim do. Gadzooks! Chant 'holy, holy, holy' for eternity, just so that god feels suitably praised. One ponders the nature of a god that requires uninterrupted adoration. If the types I meet in Heaven are anything to go by, the nature of divinity itself could not truly bear the scrutiny of a severe technical examination. Enough of this! We return to the tales of piscine tragedy!
At this point, vamping Venus inserts her lustful self into the passage (eek) of anal Virgo. A prim and proper angelic type appears, informing you the only vacancies in the angelic choirs are in the Thrones, god's heavenly chariots, or in the Dominions, the deity's personal organizers, of which the 'holier than thou' twerp standing before you is one. No other posts currently require a candidate. By my sainted aunt, little twits! This cannot be! What you wanted was heavenly disporting, bliss, singing and such, forever in the presence of an adoring god that loved you before all others. And what's left is for you to be a chauffeur or a secretary to a god so busy being worshipped by the Seraphim that he won't even notice you. Oh no! This will never do.
As a ghastly Full Moon in your odious sign visits a Lunar Eclipse on a benighted world ruled by insane gods, you faint or become invisible or render yourself insensate by means of the intoxicants within reach. On awakening, marauding Mars has barrelled into loathsome Libra and you find yourself amidst the orgiastic attentions of what may well be the angelic beings that were there before. Or they may not! As you often have difficulty recognizing those with whom you're having sex, you surrender to the experience but keep babbling inanely so that if there are legal proceedings later on, you can plead temporary insanity. As mischievous Mercury gropes dark Pluto, god of the underworld, in the midst of ecstasy, you shriek vile abuse of the foul 'fishwife' kind. But as the busy messenger sleazily begs entrance to loathsome Libra, your utterances become smoother and more compliant. As vamping Venus grapples with Uranus, the idiot god, lithe limbs electrify you with dazzling strength. The great Sol Invicti subdues the dark power of Pluto and forces that are beyond naming or control sweep you along in a tide of consuming power. All the ecstasy you've known before is eclipsed by the ecstasy know now, as jolly Jupiter renders narcotic Neptune insensate with his frenzied attention.
By all the gods alive and dead, what's this? Great addlepate alchemists! It's a metamorphic marvel! Out of the press of bodies that envelops you in this crush of cantilevered coitus, a single being emerges, just as the New Moon comes in surface-wiping Virgo, bringing a Solar Eclipse. Why, my tiny turnips, the mass of angelic paramours has transmogrified into a lover that will be your darling till the end of time. Yea verily! An angel of the lord has come to earth to be your perfect partner! Great trundling tea-trolleys! This must mean you're special in the sight of god, my teeny-weenie twits! As the great Sol Invicti clambers into lascivious Libra, you scale the heights of passion as an ardent angel showers you with gold fountain pens, bejewelled clocks (set to your favourite time of twenty past two) and a cosmic rogering beyond description or belief. This latter is accomplished by use of an angelic implement as angels don't actually have sexual organs!
Golly gosh and hockey sticks, my sad fishy things! Is this the sublime fulfillment you have waited for throughout the depressing days and narcotic nights of your tear-stained existence? You'll have to click here next time and discover if this dream or nightmare be! In the meantime, hail and farewell, my tragic trollops!
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