Great trundling tea-trolleys and tempestuous termagants! It's you, tragic bullish types! We left you last time, bending every effort to build Bullish Manse from what appears to be its ghostly ruin. And, though you come from a long line of effort-benders, it's a topic for discussion here in Heaven as to whether you can accomplish this mighty task. Well, that's if we've nothing better to do, such as rolling ear wax into balls or weaving the lint from our navels into waistcoats for the mice that live in the cupboards.
That's enough polite banter for the nonce. What we must do is that which is incumbent upon us! Consult the vile and bitter prognostications for the month of fractious February, which I believe to be the current month, due to the number of knots tied in my handkerchief. Open wide your ghastly gobs, slack-jawed loonies! It's time to drink from the bitter cup! And, by my sainted aunt, it's gruesome from the outset! That's what it is! Jolly Jupiter is assailed by improper attentions from mischievous Mercury, the great Sol Invicti and narcotic Neptune and each thing you do with the sweat of bullish brow and muscle of bullish neck (eek) seems to fall apart the moment that you leave it. And yet, as vamping Venus moves direct and flaunts herself lasciviously before the crapulous lord of fortune, spirit winds and mystic presences urge you forward in the appointed task so that, sorcerously, you do not seem to see the deteriorating ruin.
Marauding Mars returns to his retrograde point, thrusting his rudest bit into the nether regions of dark Pluto, god of the underworld, and you expend everything in a ruthless drive to build the dream that calls to you. Mischievous Mercury hovers in damp and nasty Pisces and we find you talking to yourself as though a team of mighty fellows is there with you as you scheme and dream, and also complain about the non-delivery of the cups of tea you constantly order. Until, my tiresome loonies, the chill necrotic light from Lady Moon blazes forth at the Full in lackwit Leo. You lay down tools and look about you to find, as a traveller in an antique land once observed, there is nothing beside remains. Oh dear! How awkward!
As the odious shenanigans of cranky Chiron and grim Saturn exact their wretched toll, mischievous Mercury consorts with Uranus, idiot god and god of idiots, to incite you to rave and rant with insane fury at the very stars whose courses seem to ever do you wrong! Marauding Mars clatters into addlepate Gemini, clashing with the great Sol Invicti as he slithers into tear-stained Pisces. Thus, do you throw an almighty tantrum, chucking your tools about, as you look despairingly on a ruin every bit as ruinous as the ruin you looked on when you first began to labour! Now does mischievous Mercury clash with dark Pluto, god of the underworld, and you turn the air blue with a type of vile cursing that scatters the last few stones that stand upon stones, splitting them into shards. You fall exhausted to the ground, giving way to the sleep that comes only to those that don't have the brains to think of anything else to do.
But what's this? By all the gods alive and dead, it's a miracle, tiny twerps! And it comes with a New Moon in snivelling Pisces! However, as I'm feeling tired, unwell and overcome with ennui, you'll have to wait till next time to see what it is! Ave atque vale, O bovines and boofheads of the first water!
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