Tally ho, my little yoicks! I greet you without the slightest urge to engender any other form of contact between us. And so, with no further ado, we shall have vile and bitter prognostication, pertaining to devilish December. Attend me, my cloth-eared galoots! I am Asperitus, damnable and debilitating declaimer. And you are the bovine boofheads, in case you've forgotten!
And that's where we begin for, last time, we left you being poled down the river. Or was it up! I can't quite remember. Nonetheless, a hag with an enigmatic smile poled you along a watercourse to a gathering of phantoms. Said spectres, on closer inspection, proved to be the great Bovine Boofheads of the past, members of that same ancient order of frocked idiots to which you yourself belong, as master-builder and cretin.
Chief among the shades of these long dead loonies was Shadrach Surefoot, greatest of the boofheads and founder of the order. As we closed the books on nasty November, he was opening his ghastly maw, apparently to address you. No doubt, it will be an address that pertains to the more convoluted aspects of secret 'boofhead' business, a subject on which you know much or little, depending on how one sees it.
Sigh! We'd best get on with it then before one or the other of us goes mad with this interminable waffling. The New Moon comes in addlepate Sagittarius as marauding Mars gives jolly Jupiter the heave-ho on the cosmic backstairs and Shadrach welcomes you among the shades, inviting you to join the arcane rites that will open the meeting. And so you do. What then follows is a performance of a gruesome and unspeakable nature (bovines are earthy folk) whose sole virtue is that it is completely beyond description. After the obligatory post-ritual ablutions (ugh), mischievous Mercury moves direct and Shadrach addresses you personally.
Egad! What's afoot! Or should that be a-hoof'? Either way, it seems you are to become the new head on earth of the ancient order of Bovine Boofheads! Gadzooks! What an honour! And a fair achievement for one with an IQ and inside leg measurement that match perfectly! Of course, all this takes place as cranky Chiron returns to Aquarius, sign of the idiot god. As marauding Mars now grinds into forward motion again, looking for any breathing warm blood to thrust his parts upon, you accept, in the stoic manner popular among boofhead types. The busy messenger returns to silly Sagittarius and there is another unspeakable arcane rite to induct you to this high office. Once again, it is beyond description. And yet, it must be said that even several of the hardened shades of elder boofheads turned away while the dark hag in the boat found something interesting to study on the far bank. Such things are clearly born from a noxious encounter between jolly Jupiter and grim Saturn, as big belly meets ancient drying skin and bone. No doubt there will be more and worse of this issue as a grand cross afflicts the Heavens, driving the insane gods to unprecedented bouts of gibbering, raving, dribbling and subsequent imbibing which latter naturally leads to yet more bouts of gibbering, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera!
As vamping Venus clambers across the nether regions of Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, you're given robes of office. A Full Moon blazes in nitwit Gemini and everyone talks of mundane matters whilst offering money for the order's coffers. However, as it turns out to be phantom money, this being an enclave of such, your initial smiles of delight soon turn to scowls of irritation. Shadrach Surefoot makes a speech to urge you on the path of boofhead righteousness, keeping the ancient principles of the order. No one can actually recount what these are though one or two of the members (of the phantom variety) were sure they were discussed at a meeting several centuries ago. Nonetheless, Shadrach witters on interminably about his trust that you will hold to the principles of the order, even if nobody can remember them. As you can see, boofheads are a scintillating lot, a truth you must realize each morning when you look in the mirror. Actually, tiny cloddish things, you're suffering from terminal boredom by now, as you're anxious to get back to the workings of Bullish Manse. As mischievous Mercury gropes Uranus, the idiot god, several shades begin to look at their phantom watches and yawn. And, by my sainted aunt, that's the end of it!
The great Sol Invicti wanders into grim Capricorn, visiting another gruesome solstice upon a naughty world, and you're back in the boat being poled down the river while the shades seek their place in the sun for a post ritual snooze. Ready for your triumphal arrival back home, you fail to notice the screeching of cosmic gears as vamping Venus moves into perverse reverse and marauding Mars pushes his private members bill into the parliament of aging Saturn. The hag deposits you on the banks of your land then poles away, cackling insanely in a manner entirely proper for such entities.
But what's this? Great gods alive and dead, you look about you, aghast, my bullish types! Neither loved ones nor building crew are there to greet you, ready as you are to announce your triumph as head on earth of the Bovine Boofheads! And, what's more, wild rain and winds roar about the desolate shell of Bullish Manse so that, for a moment, it seems not the promise of a great edifice to be but the ruin of a thing whose time is past. Eek! How unnerving! Is your house to fall before it has even risen? And where is everyone?
A New Moon comes in the lugubrious sign of the Goat. 'Save Mr Stripey!' shrieks the wild wind, 'or all that you build will come to naught!' Gadzooks! Could your runic prognostication have been erroneous? Is some outré force at work in the cosmos to defeat your efforts? Or are you clearly out of your mind, a thing easily proven by the fact that you have read this piffle through till the end?
On that note, I shall conclude my efforts for the month by retiring with the strongest prescription to be found in the confines of Heaven. Should I awaken in time, I shall continue this seemingly interminable tale, beggaring your beliefs and giving the principles of sublime irritation their severest technical examination to date. Ave, bullish types!
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