What ho, bawling boofheads! It's New Year and I've overslept, missing the onset of jittery January and leaving you bereft of my invaluable criticism and advice! What will I do, my little turnips? I shall, of course, pick up the dropped baton and prognosticate, first in retrospective, then in predictive. As to the retrospective, we left you last time the newly appointed leader of the order of bovine boofheads, but sadly wandering in the wild and windy ruin of what seemed to be the broken dream of Bullish Manse.
In the interim, there has been a deal of ghastly farting in the lugubrious sign of the Goat, driving you to spiritual despair as you contemplate this strangely familiar yet unrecognizable wasteland. Vamping Venus is in perverse reverse, denying you the warmth of human companionship (and sex) you generally crave. But what's this? As we now move from retrospective to predictive, mischievous Mercury moves in goatish climes, inserting his supple digit into the nether regions of Uranus, idiot god and god of idiots. You curse the world and the insane gods for abandoning you, leaving you without friends or solace, neither knowing the past nor divining the future.
By my sainted aunt, my tiny twits of horn and hoof! What has happened to your plans? Have they 'gang aft aglae'? Has the grim reaper cut them to the husk? The Full Moon glowers in neurotic Cancer and you scream your discontent, but the wild wind whips away your empty words. As grim Saturn grips the vile body of Uranus, the idiot god, you find you're back at the ruined shell of Bullish Manse, gripping a hammer till your knuckles are white with rage. Again, you roar a bullish roar! But this time, your rage and frustration shake the lonely hills.
And this time odious planets congregate in orgiastic fashion in the gutters of Heaven; marauding Mars, jolly Jupiter, grim Saturn and narcotic Neptune, by epithet and name! The angular houses of your solar chart groan with ghastly grunting of cosmic fornication and other random and acts of planetary perversity. And by all the gods alive and dead, you decide there and then to set to work and make a mansion of the ruin, no matter what the time and effort required and no matter the cost! If you must build Bullish Manse single-handed, you will do so because that's the kind of bull you are. They breed 'em tough in the boofhead order, do they not, tiny tikes!
The great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury grind their passage (eek) into Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, and you set to work, boss and lackey, foreman and foot soldier, all in one! Mischievous Mercury slips in and out of swathe of insidious aspects with the great Sol Invicti and grim Saturn. You're here, there and everywhere, making miracles such as those performed by the blind carpenter who picked up a hammer and saw. Your life in the wild is a long round of joints, raw-plugging, dovetailing and short thick planks. And all the while, the wild wind whistles.
Is it gathering dreams or scattering them, my addlepated loonies? What does the future hold? Will you sit, singing 'Sunny' with the sunflowers? Will you cry 'marry' with the marigolds? Will your suck citrus beneath the palms as this tragic tale takes a happy turn? Or will it be 'rosemary and rue' for you, as the skeins of misery and failure interweave themselves yet again into the worn and threadbare garment that is risibly referred to as your life? Click here next time and see. In the meantime, ave!
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