Ave, fiendish articles! I've left you until last, as usual. That's because your ghastly sex drive and unconscionable desire for power make it almost unbearable to think about what you might be doing. You'll be relieved to hear I've increased my prescription strength to such a degree that the possibility of thought in any form has vanished from the horizon. Like the dinosaurs! Or the dodo! Or the path of compassion! And penny postage, of course! Besides, an enlightened being, such as myself, does not require thought to pass judgement on the world. Sublime irritation will do the trick every time.
And thus, it is with the greatest of irritation that I bring you the vile and bitter prognostications for devilish December. Slightly late, of course! But I think I shall just ignore that fact and carry on as if it were last week, a thing I have done for most of my life, if truth be told!
Last time we left, you were falling into the grip of an enemy who had set their cap against you, my tiny arachnids! You were drugged, giving away money and behaving in a less than sensible fashion, amid a furor of riotous behaviour and the minions of the law. And, to top it all off, you tripped over the furniture, cut yourself with a favourite scalpel and then swooned, your swan song for nasty November.
Much of this is, of course, due to the farting of ghastly planets as they cavort in nasty aspect. In this instance, marauding Mars, jolly Jupiter, gloomy Saturn and narcotic Neptune all come together in an obscene congress known as a Grand Cross. And, by my sainted aunt! It's worse this month that it was in the last!
So what will you do? Well, I'll tell you. As you weaken under the influence of retrograde Mars assailing jolly Jupiter with his reversed perversion, your enemy senses triumph and moves in for the kill. The New Moon comes in addlepate Sagittarius and you find your generosity has cost you dearly, little tikes, as you examine your bank accounts! The shock of finding so much money missing and so much profit squandered brings you out of your swoon and back to your senses. Mischievous Mercury moves forward once again and you begin to see that something is rotten in the state of Denmark! And it's not too flash in the mansion of Doctor Caligari either!
But what's this? Great giggling gods and hairy little demons! It's cranky Chiron, turning up the loony index as he moves back to idiot Aquarius. Last time he was there, you felt divided, emotional and gave way to the impulse to be nice to your intended torture victims. Gadzooks! What a turn up for the books that was! We trust that, in your employ as an ambassador for Hell, you won't fall prey to such squeamishness this time. Marauding Mars resumes his characteristic forward thrusting, terrifying the elderly and reducing religious persons to a sermonizing frenzy, and it's as if the psychic blindfold you have been wearing falls from your eyes. You remember a dim figure, a religious obsession, muttered instructions and you see before you an image of someone from your past.
It's your enemy, my fiendish articles! But as all is known to you now, the tables will be turned. There's nothing like the game of revenge for you to get that look in your eye that can reduce a cross stitch hanging of the Ten Commandments to ashes at fifty paces. Mischievous Mercury returns to silly Sagittarius, making unseemly congress with cranky Chiron, and you realize the events of all those months ago have taught you a lesson. You can fake weakness, debility or emotional pain in order to turn the hunter to the hunter with a clever snare. And so you will.
As Jolly Jupiter rubs his corpulence against the wrinkles of aging Saturn, you play the long game, waiting and watching for your enemy to come close with that soft insistent voice and the anaesthetic dose in your elixir. There you are, in the manse of Dr. Caligari, set to choose a victim for the cabinet when you espy the quisling in the crowd at last, just as vamping Venus enters idiot Aquarius. Your snake eyes perceive the deep layers of pain beneath the disguise. There stands the shattered shell of some nameless woebegone that you once tortured in a passionate embrace (with heated tongs and knotted cords if you remember rightly) then cast aside for a suitable replacement. But you're playing the deep game, little ning-nongs so you simply sidle up, as the Full Moon comes in loony Gemini. You dust your brow with a fine spray to make it look as if you're sweating, complain about your perilous finances and express (in a subtle almost whining manner) your weariness with the whole charade of Dr. Caligari. You see a hidden (but not so well hidden) flicker of interest in response.
Mischievous Mercury gropes Uranus, idiot god and god of idiots, and the great Sol Invicti grinds his way into lugubrious Capricorn, visiting yet another solstice on an over-burdened world, and you express with cunning deceptiveness a desire to be with good friends and turn your life to a different path. The light of interest now is barely concealed in the eyes of she/he that has been your enemy, poisoner and tormentor. And so your spring your snare! At your sneer of cold command (a well-practiced expression), your myrmidons step forward and bind the creature. It shrieks and struggles but to no avail.
A furious tide of flatulence befouls the cosmic winds as grim Saturn rubs his aging bones against marauding Mars while vamping Venus moves into perverse reverse. You announce to the watching world of television that you have caught a quisling in the house of Caligari, come to release the prisoners and (foolishly, of course) essay harm against you. 'What shall we do with this one? Will it be freedom or will it be torture? You decide!' Your insidious and masterful hypnotic voice rings out over the cyber waves, bringing several service providers to their virtual knees with the tide of texts and online voting that inundates their systems. 'Torture' is the overwhelming response from your adoring public. You display the instruments to the quivering quisling!
But, by my sainted aunt, what's this? Great giggling gods and hairy little demons! It's the New Moon, right on New Year's Eve, falling in gloomy Capricorn and your solar eleventh house, a placement that's all about doing good. Suddenly you find your old trouble has returned. Eek! That monster from the Id that has re-emerged! Ugh! That saccharine, pusillanimous weed that wants to be nice to people and win their favour. And this time, the creature not only wants to be nice but also wants to forgive the tormentor! Aargh!
You look about you, distracted and confused! Inner voices of love speak against the innate cruelty of your nature. You hear choirs of angels singing! Your intended victim smiles beatifically! Are you losing your mind? Are you losing your touch? The world waits on the inimitable manner in which you lift a scalpel and you're considering forgiveness?
I think I'd better lie down and rest. This sort of nonsense cannot continue! Medic! Bring me my little brown bottle and that lovely silver tube you have! If you wish to know what's going to happen to your black heart, relentless sex drive and campaign for the devil, kindly click here next time to read more of this outrageous piffle! In the meantime, ave atque vale, tiny arachnids!
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