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    Go Back  The Jittery Journeys of November 2004  Go Forward
    Salutations, bullish types! It's naughty November and your odious hoofs are hopping up and down to get into the action. So let it be written! So let it be done! Thus speaks Asperitus, prophet of poppycock and doctor of drivelling doom. Here are the vile and bitters for naughty November, measured drop by drop into the prognosticating glass of nasty medicine. Open your bullish lips and swallow. And, may you feel well and truly prognosticated when this dark and dirty drink is drunk!

    As I'm late, the month has begun, as all things do. Doubtless, it will end, as all things do. And nothing said or done in between will really make a jot of difference. But here we go anyway! Up to this point in time, nasty planets have cavorted in ghastly aspect, farting in the cosmic winds, and so on and so forth. Once again, as all things tend to do! Thus, you dream of orgies, talk of orgies and have orgies, in preparation for the masterwork you're set to do, one that will establish you as a great artist and free you from the cruel and heartless manipulations of your mother and her standard lamp.

    Talk of what you're doing races through the cosmos of the arts scene like wildfire. There's even criticism of your burgeoning plans. Great gods alive and dead! How dare they! In fact, several highly critical individuals throw stones onto the roof of your rehearsal studio. However, as there's so much banging going on already, you hear nothing but the tides of pleasure racing through your bullish body. Great Heavens! It must be deafening! For, as marauding Mars enters morbid Scorpio, sex, my little bullish types, takes on a whole new meaning.

    The New Moon also comes in the odious sign of the lord of sex organs and anus and you are engulfed by a rush of willing seekers of this orgiastic ecstasy. Vamping Venus wrestles with cranky Chiron and sober Saturn and you suddenly discover you're in a glorious ménage a trois with the bisexual doctor and the shaman you hired last month. You flinch at first, but then you see them differently. Great gods alive and dead, a mystic fire seems to surround them. Mischievous Mercury conjoins in unseemly fashion with underworld Pluto and you see this fire blazing in their deepest hearts. Your body and spirit are filled with love for them and all the world.

    Oh gods, I'm feeling ill! Fear not! I shall recover sufficiently to allow me to finish. By my little brown bottle, bullish types! You're having a religious experience through sex! It's what you've wanted all your life. The great Sol Invicti enters Sagittarius as vamping Venus slithers into Scorpio. Entering and slithering is thus done multitudinously and with gay abandon. The great Sol Invicti clashes with idiot Uranus as the Full Moon comes in feckless, addlepated Gemini and everything happens at once.

    Ye gods and little fishes, my bullish types! You're filled with understanding. You feel as if the entire press of bodies is one single living organism, born from the pleasure of being and being together (in the conjugal sense). By my little brown bottle, there'll be no works of art, neither show nor film will there be. There will be rather a living orgy in which all the world is invited to participate and thus know the ecstasies you are feeling. You rise to your feet to deliver an inspired oration (NB oration) on this subject and indeed on the matter of sex and religious ecstasy generally. You feel you can pluck words from the limpid clouds of pleasure that float in the air about you and so speak the divine understanding to which you have come by this road of the flesh and her fluids.

    But what's this? Quelle horreur! It's almost too gruesome to contemplate. Oh well! How sad! Never mind! The doors of the studio burst open and vile bodies, wearing clothes, come in among the beautiful naked bodies that are your solace and your comfort. Yuck to them! This, of course, is due to the agency of vamping Venus and marauding Mars as they conjoin in unseemly fashion and clash with nasty Neptune. Ye gods, will the travail never end! The clothed ones are studio officials, police and various nameless persons in authority. They come with leering countenance to forbid this lascivious activity, withdraw the funds and tarnish your reputation as a bright young thing. They do so with all manner of accusations related to lust and, in fact, the other six deadly sins as described by mother church!

    Eek! What will you do, naked bullish types? Sigh! The creeping illness overcomes me. I will retire to the land of anaesthesia, one of Heaven's many realms. There I will sleep in the arms of Morphia. Click here next month and see if I have awoken. Farewell, cretinous cow impregnators (or bulls as you are otherwise known)!

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