I salute you, ghastly horses' behinds! Last time we left, you were off on a mission to the other end of the globe to find out if you were truly descended from the lost congregation of the great god, Gobhole, the lord of bombast!
Thus, as befits your native impatience, we shall waste not a moment in banter or persiflage but, instanter, fill the dread cup with prognostications of the vile and bitter sort, ones that pertain to the month of jaded June. Have at you, centaur fluff! And damned be he or she that first cries 'Hold! Enough!'
Certes, it won't be me that does so, for I am Asperitus, the 'mad as a hatter' magus and master of the morbid meanderings of sublime irritation. And, by my sainted aunt, what's this? Why it seems the first cab off the rank is a ghastly Full Moon in your odious sign. Great galumphing galoshes and dampening underpants! What unspeakable horrors will unfold under this unwholesome influence?
Well, darling nitwits, I shall tell you! You bellow deafeningly, eat everything in the refrigerator and behave with insufferable exuberance as you crash about the house in preparation for your departure. However, as this is no different to your normal behaviour, no one makes comment, except to throw things at you and tell you to 'shut up' from time to time. You begin hastily scrawling illegible notes to explain your absence to those that care, stopping of course after one (to yourself in case you forget what you're doing). As vamping Venus rolls and leers her way into lackwit Leo, you dress yourself (an achievement) in your best bright and shiny travelling clothes, pack the rest of your ill-matched apparel and close the case by jumping on it. You shout a loving 'farewell' to your nearest and dearest then slam your way out of the house, just as the great Sol Invicti rogers Uranus, the idiot god.
The concupiscent coition of marauding Mars, grim Saturn and narcotic Neptune sees you cheerfully greeting strangers then bidding them 'au revoir' as the streets of your town fall away behind the staunch yet jaunty figure of the trekking Centaur. That's you, by the by!
And, as if these cosmic shenanigans are not entirely sufficient, there comes a New Moon in supple but perverted Gemini, whereupon you fall in with a verbose companion as you surge ever onwards towards the black mountains of Thrace, the last known location of the lost congregation of great god Gobhole. However, as mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse, you and your companion fix upon taking refreshment at the nearest watering hole. You soon run up a fearsome tab whilst discussing whether the ancestry of the Gobhole worshippers would have been Burgundian in origin. It seems your companion is of a philosophical nature, much like yourself (snigger), inclining to aimless converse about meaningless topics. However, once you've drunk the burgundy, you change tack, deciding that they must have hailed from a claret country. As the great Sol Invicti writhes and swithes with dark Pluto, the underworld god, you're ready to fight anyone in the bar to defend the honour of the claret swilling worshippers of Gobhole. But, after being knocked to the floor, you recover consciousness and start on the ale and brandy, causing you to declare that Gobhole is the only true solace in your life. You begin singing hymns in his honour and weeping down the front of your bright shiny travelling suit.
As the great Sol Invicti slithers into slimy Cancer, visiting another ghastly Solstice on an overburdened world, the security staff drag you into a back room, give you another thumping and then lock you inside. However, as it turns out, the watering hole is also a house of prostitution, so you avail yourself of the services, praising Gobhole during the all too brief moments of transient pleasure. Needless to say, this occurrence is due to a gaggle of planets, cavorting in a lewd and hideous manner in your solar eighth house. You emerge in the morn, depleted but a little more sober, only to be presented with the bill for services rendered, a blow by blow account as it were! With your funds already gone courtesy of the liquor bill, you're forced to take a job (marauding Mars in Taurus) right there and then to work off your debts. Your loquacious friend has deserted you (another illustration of transience) and no one answers your desperate calls, texts and messages for fiscal aid. Your quest has run aground at the first hurdle which, as usual, is your own imprudent extravagance.
As a second Full Moon comes, this time in lugubrious Capricorn, we leave you desperately trying to fiddle the family accounts to see if you can embezzle funds to pay your bills and set off once more on the trail of the lost congregation of Gobhole. Will you succeed in fiddling the family or will you remain, as predicted by all those that know you, a skivvy in a house of ill-repute? Click here next time and see. For the nonce, ave!
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