Hooray to you, O cloth-eared galoots! Welcome to the month of manic May! I am the doctor of doom, Asperitus, bringing you the dread cup to drink, one that brims with the searing ichor of prognostications, vile and bitter! Take your medicine, silly Centaurs!
Mischievous Mercury moves to nitwit Gemini and instanter gropes the wrinkled skin and aging bones of ghastly Saturn. Thus do partners and family members verbally assail you for being a lazy irresponsible clod and a lout. They nag you until a New Moon comes in Taurus when you have to go out and get a job or face eviction from the fold. Thus, as narcotic Neptune makes obscene congress with the Loony Nodes, you take employment with a spiritual group selling sacred texts and relics, door to door. However, as jolly Jupiter moves to perverse reverse, there are no wages, only commission, should you happen to effect a sale.
But, great gods alive and dead, what's this! Why, it's marauding Mars, battering his bumptious way into loathsome Leo. At your first encounter, you manage to offend a devout group of obsessional young males by offering them literature in contravention to their faith. They chase you down the street, howling for your blood and your immortal soul. You scatter bones and splinters in your wake, hoping to trip these fervent devotees but, sadly, you stop looking where you're going and run straight into a telegraph pole, knocking yourself cold.
As the Full Moon comes in morbid Scorpio, you awaken from the netherworld of your unconscious mind (ugh) to find you have an excruciating headache and a circle of menacing captors ranged about you. By my sainted aunt, tiny twits! You've been abducted by foreign zealots! What will happen now?
In fact, the young gentlemen politely introduce themselves and begin reading to you from their sacred texts, just as the great Sol Invicti clatters into loony Gemini. You become excruciatingly bored instanter and pretend to have a fit, alarming your captors. Several claim you're having an ecstatic experience and should be left while the balance incline towards calling a proper medical authority. As mischievous Mercury gropes the twitching limbs of Uranus, the idiot god, your family track you down and storm into the room, demanding to know why you're not out working and earning money to pay for your keep. A furious argument erupts with the devotees and, as the busy messenger sidles into perverse reverse, you sneak out, leaving them to it. You run back home and hide under the bed, hoping all the fuss will blow over. Ta ta for now, silly Centaurs!
|
|
|
