Dotards, dullards, dolts and dithering dunderheads! And that, tiny twits, is the kindest greeting I can conjure as the japes of jaded June seethe like a fungus born in the heavenly sewers. Greetings, bumptious beef on the hoof! The game’s afoot! This latter is an utterance most germane, as it was last time revealed the boot you live in is of the non-right variety (eek), making it a left boot!
Gadzooks! What spiffing logic! Is it a left boot that will send you trundling on a dark path and the road to Hell? To answer that we need to study your travail more closely. And so we shall as we imbibe of the bile of the vile and bitters! Ugh! They are the grim prognostications pertaining to the current month, the sixth, I divine from the numeration of the pocket handkerchief, the only calendar I can rely upon! Enough pleasantries! On with the show!
As mischievous Mercury slithers into neurotic Cancer, you spout your ire and frustration to the world at large with a string of obscenities that are mostly related to parentage and farm animals. Marauding Mars enters loathsome Leo and you stamp back inside your boot and smash a variety of fragile things in a display of frenzied willfulness. As vamping Venus gropes miserable Saturn while the great Sol Invicti clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, you sit amid the ruin while friends ring to explain they can’t come for tea and scones as they won’t enter a left boot on religious grounds. You give them a serve about their exaggerated manners, foreign ancestry and pretentious couture then hang up on them.
As a Full Moon comes in silly Sagittarius and your solar eighth house (eek), you fly into a fury, resolving to become a black magician and occultist as befits a dweller in a ‘left hand’ boot. You perform a variety of odious sexual acts while indulging in fantasies about people of high estate being drunk or naked in public places. As the great Sol Invicti rampages into the private parts of dark Pluto, underworld god, you spend money, abuse persons working in the financial sector and go on the internet to see if you can find out how to be an occultist. After several failed endeavours, you finally work out how to spell the word. However, you have become severely depressed and so give up on your mission, largely due to the unspeakable sexual athletics of marauding Mars and grim Saturn but also due to your dull nature.
But what’s this? Great thundering camels and terminal insanity! It’s the great Sol Invicti, grinding his selfish way into neurotic Cancer to visit another Solstice on an overburdened world. He does so as Loony Nodes forsake the signs of Aries and Libra, moving into Pisces (aargh) and Virgo (ugh). As ghastly planets cavort in nasty aspect, persons gather without (that’s outside, in case you’re not familiar with the expression). Right-minded folk posture, railing against the left boot. And yet you have supporters clamoring for you to come forth and deal with the infidels by booting them with a decent lefty, right up their schism.
Egad, O cloddish things of horn and hoof! As the New Moon comes in slimy Cancer, you’re in the midst of a religious controversy, in a very personal manner as many of those against the boot are of the boofhead order. Bulwarks of the bovine tradition! To espouse the left boot and the occult path, you must eschew the boofheads and your leadership thereof! Vamping Venus slithers into perverted Gemini and persons mill about, offering money and sexual favours in the hope of influencing your decision. You greedily accept but won’t be swayed one way or the other. Mischievous Mercury clatters into loathsome Leo and you withdraw into your boot. You ruminate upon your family, your fading dream of Bullish Manse and the great traditions that have made you the boofhead that you are today! Eek!
These thoughts seem to paralyze you. To walk away from the boot is to end the dream of Bullish Manse with nothing to show at all. To espouse the ‘left hand’ path is to embrace a ghastly darkness that is the betrayal of years of brainless and pedestrian adherence to the simple values.
Great gods alive and dead, what will you do, cretinous types? As I’m ill and must lie down instanter, you’ll have to come back next time to discover the stunning dénouement that caps this endless piffling, drivelling yarn. Kindly do so! In the meantime, medic! Bring me my brown bottle and that lovely silver tube you have! I’m sinking fast. Ave!
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