Great elephants and farting camels! It's you, noxious bovines! Egad! I shall have to speak to you at once, for grim and grievous indeed are the ghastly doings in the Heavens at large! Last time, you were about to sacrifice Mr Stripey, your favourite teddy bear, in an outré runic rite that would ensure a strong foundation for Bullish Manse, the new home you're building that soon shall be transformed from skeletal erection to pagan palace. Therein you will recline in antique grandeur, bedecked by columns of the dreaded Doric or odious Ionic and other such architectural awfulness, too hideous to be described by sensitive persons.
To perform the sacrifice, you donned priestly robes that symbolize your membership of the ancient order of bovine boofheads, a secret league of imbeciles from which you cannot actually resign. Your paramour bared ample flesh (egad) as you bared the blade of a rune-engraved sacrificial knife and Mr Stripey bared a woolly bosom (stripped of striped waistcoat), preparing (in a manly, bearish manner) to receive it. Thus were you poised as we left, barely holding back your tears as you readied yourself for this heart-rending (for Mr Stripey in particular) ritual.
So what will happen this month? We shall consult the vile and bitter prognostications for obnoxious October and discover. But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's a shock at the outset, just as I predicted. Marauding Mars turns retrograde in your own gruesome sign and you find you cannot plunge the knife into Mr Stripey's bosom. But without the sacrifice of the thing you love the most, Bullish Manse will not stand the test of time. The runes have told you this! What will you do?
As a New Moon comes in loathsome Libra, bringing a Solar Eclipse in your house of work, you suspend all labours. Neither brick will be laid nor board nailed until this grim and occult puzzle is resolved. Mischievous Mercury gropes the private parts of jolly Jupiter and idle workers swap jokes about cavities, crenellation and the vertical member. As vamping Venus then moves to Sagittarius, you begin to worry about the cost of idle laborers as you agonize over the fate of Mr Stripey. However, as your lover is still naked in preparation for the rite, a typically bovine response diverts your attention from matters purely fiscal. But this is only for a time and, soon, you're back to the worried contemplation of how to save Mr Stripey and yet bring Bullish Manse to be the pillar that will uphold you and yours in the twilight of your years. Vamping Venus clashes with Uranus the idiot god and you speak to several eccentric persons that don't have a useful idea to offer. Mischievous Mercury then clashes with lugubrious Saturn, god of ill-health and old age, and you become depressed as you contemplate the conflicting prospects. Save Mr Stripey or build the manse that will stand the test of time?
As the grinding of your tiny brain begins to grow into a belligerent roar, so do the Heavens erupt with ghastly sound as the gaseous emissions of the insane gods form yet again the dread configuration called a Yod, the finger of god. You had god's finger last month and now you're going to get it again, my cloddish little ning-nongs!
'You must choose!' cries the gathering storm in the cosmos.
'But what shall I choose?' you roar back in obdurate reply. A Full Moon comes in addlepate Aries, bringing a Lunar Eclipse to your solar twelfth house. This latter is, as you will doubtless know, a ghastly realm of fear, drug addiction, nasty dock-workers, naughty psychics and a vast array of other affronts to the moral rectitude of all right-minded persons. No one in their right mind would go there so, needless to say, you proceed in that direction, post haste, falling into a faint as the distress of what must be done confronts you.
The last thing you see before your fluttering eyelids close is the bared bosom of ever-faithful Mr Stripey as he waits, uncomplaining, for the thrust that will end the dearest union of your long and chequered emotional life. Mischievous Mercury simpers at the sight of narcotic Neptune and you fall into a dark and dreadful nightmare!
Gadzooks, my tiny things of hoof and horn! You're transported to another realm! The messenger enters hag-ridden Scorpio and desperate voices try to raise your spirit from the deep well into which it has untimely sunk! To no avail! Eek! How narcoleptic! The great Sol Invicti slithers into that same grim sign of death, taxes and unspeakable private parts.
But what's this? Great gods alive and dead, say not so! But yet it is! Jolly Jupiter, the giggling, drunken lord of fortune also lurches into that fell sign. Soon shall the whole world become occultists or suffer from bizarre infections of the sex organs if this ghastly god has his way in the hag-ridden sign of the Scorpion. Things of a dark and mysterious nature are set to transpire in your house of partnership, my tiny bullish types! Click here next month to see what dark gods choose to walk with you as you sink further into the oceans of Morphia! Perhaps they will resolve your dilemma! Or perhaps they will only make things worse, as the insane gods so often seem to do. Until then, ave! I salute you and the entire chapter of priests and priestesses that constitutes the high order of bovine boofheads!
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