Great toads and urinating donkeys! It's you, my tiny bullish types! And, it's nasty November as well. Put the two together and what do we have? A dose of vile and bitter prognostications! That's what!
Have at you, things of horn and hoof! Open wide your gobs and swallow the remedy of Asperitus, doctor of doom! He that bears the death-dealing spoon that holds the bitter brew.
Last time, we left you in the realms of nightmare. You had fallen into this abyss due to the stresses brought on by the impending sacrifice of your childhood friend and teddy bear, Mr Stripey, a blood price you had to pay to raise up Bullish Manse, the edifice that will be your ancestral seat. As obnoxious October ended, dark forces loomed in your house of partnership, ready to take you on a journey to death's kingdom, that of evil Scorpio, where unspeakable body parts, tax-collectors and black magicians all disport themselves in an obnoxious manner. Eek!
As a New Moon comes in the grim sign of the ruler of the anus, the great Sol Invicti and loony Lady Moon caress the wrinkled flesh of miserable Saturn and dark shadows hover, beckoning you. Mischievous Mercury gropes the private parts of Uranus, the idiot god, as vamping Venus slithers into lugubrious Capricorn. The world of Bullish Manse, builders, loved ones and teddy bears fades as a mystic river and a vessel, poled by a dark-eyed hag, appear before you in a ghastly visionary manner. Egad! How outre and bizarre! A storm of cosmic flatulence erupts! Wild winds rage! The sulphurous farting of nasty planets (marauding Mars, nasty Neptune and the great Sol Invicti all gruesomely conjoined) fills the air with a rancid reek. The winds sweep you into the hag-ridden craft and sweep said craft down the river.
By my sainted aunt, my little bullish types! Where are you going? And for what fell purpose? You try to question the hag but she only poles along, smiling in the enigmatic manner proper to entities on occasions such as this. Mischievous Mercury adds to the chaos by moving into perverse reverse, filling the air with strange voices and eldritch chanting. Great gods alive and dead, my bovine boofheads! The Full Moon blazes in your own cloddish sign and you wonder if you're going mad. But rest assured! A functional brain is required for that. Thus will you be spared the indignity! Marauding Mars thrusts his attentions upon grim Saturn and you fall back exhausted in the boat, dreaming feverishly of the rising edifice of Bullish Manse and the torn body of Mr Stripey, stretched out upon a blood-stained pagan altar. Mischievous Mercury flaunts himself in unseemly fashion before the throne of Uranus, the idiot god, and a sudden bend in the river hurls your craft into rapids and wild water. But the black-eyed hag poles you expertly along. As the great Sol Invicti enters the addlepate sign of Sagittarius, you come hard against the bank and are thrown sprawling ashore. You look about you and see a gathering of spectral figures.
Gadzooks, tiny bullish types! What game is afoot? And then you recognize some of the faces you see, dimly remembered from the almanac of the ancient order of Bovine Boofheads, the sacred order to which you belong and whose ancestral robes you wear. Egad! These are the shades of boofheads from the past. And who is the grim figure at the centre of this phantom herd? Why, it's the greatest of them all, Shadrach Surefoot, the patriarchal founder of this elder tribe of idiots. And, as mischievous Mercury now backpedals into morbid Scorpio, Shadrach opens his bovine maw, preparing to speak.
Great barking backsides and belching bellies, tiny bullish things! Do you know what this means? No? Well, neither do I. And, as I'm tired and somewhat distracted, I must rest! Medic! Bring me my brown bottle and that lovely silver tube you have! Oh, by the way, if I can think of any explanation for this, no matter how ridiculous, I shall relay it to you when you click here next month. In the meantime, ave atque vale, my future steaks and leather jackets. Ta! Ta!
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