Greetings, obnoxious types! Last time we left you in a fractured fairy tale, a bedtime story gone wrong. You were doomed to be the old Bull that lived in a shoe, due to the failure of your efforts and the efforts of your so-called friends to raise Bullish Manse to the great heights you once dreamed of. That was manic March and all you had built was a monstrosity fit for nothing but the odd jocular utterance by those that know no better than to add insult to injury. And there's a lot of them about!
But now, my bovine twits, it's awful April and worse is yet to come. Tremble in your baby booties, wittering ninnies! These are the vile and bitter prognostications that will spell your inevitable doom. Of course, they're late. I have such trouble getting up, you know! Oh well! How sad! Never mind! On with the show, as the old stagers say! Of course, they say 'break a leg' as well! Hmm!
Grim Saturn urges aging bones, creaking knees and wrinkled skin into forward motion as the month begins and you decide you'll just have to live in a boot for the nonce. Or is it to be in your head instead! After all, a second perspective on the recently completed manse was rather suggestive of that imposing edifice. And, on the plus side, if you are to live in your head, there'll be lots of room. After all, it's big enough and fit for vacant possession, there being nothing in residence there to date. Vamping Venus slithers lasciviously into odious Pisces and your friends begin to slink back to the site of your dilemma, anxious to see if they can snaffle any of the tools left lying about to pursue their own projects. Marauding Mars soon inflames this contretemps to fever pitch as he invades the private parts of dark Pluto, lord of the underworld. Fighting breaks out at the site of the ill-fated Bullish Boot (so renamed), as your pent up anger and disappointment become unbridled rage at the pilfering.
A Full Moon comes in lackwit Libra and the Easter celebrations take a gruesome turn. After a nasty affray, bruised and battered friends limp off, leaving you crucified on the edifice that may be either head or boot, nailed to the cross of your own sufferings with neither foiled egg nor hot cross bun to comfort you. Great gods alive and dead, little gewgaws! Do you know what this means? It may be a shamanic rite or a spiritual initiation of some kind, just as occurred with Christ or Odin or Merlyn the Optician. Certainly you begin screaming in a distracted and possibly spiritual manner (primal and all that) as marauding Mars crashes into slimy Cancer, delivering a glancing blow to mischievous Mercury that now cavorts in addlepate Aries. These two make such ghastly and obscene congress as would defy the efforts of a thousand scribes writing for a thousand years to describe it.
Suffice it to say you're left alone, deprived, in pain and of the cruciform persuasion. The great Sol Invicti groans and grinds his way into your idiotic sign. Eek! The loony lunar light then joins him in unspeakable fornication to bring a New Moon, yet again involving a bovine leitmotif.
Ye gods and little fishes, boofhead twerps! You're about to be spiritually transformed. Divine light will shine from your orifices! Eek! Divine speech will flow from your tongue! Egad! Divine thoughts will flow through your mind, with plenty of room to spare! Gadzooks!
Mighty occult powers bend their every effort from within the ghastly climes of your subconscious to liberate your inner bovine. Great tempestuous termagants! What's going to happen to you? As I'm exhausted and suffering from an attack of acute disinterest, we shall have to save these developments for the coming month, malodorous May, by name. Do click here next time and something will doubtless eventually appear on this page or somewhere near it. In the meantime, ave atque vale, tiny boofheads!
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