Egad! I'm awake early! Well, early for me! How revolting! Now I shall have address your frightful bovine lug holes before I've been sufficiently restored in the arms of Morphia. Shudder! Followed by a succession of mournful sighs! Oh well! How sad! Never mind! We each of us have a crass to bear! And you, my tiny turnips, are mine!
Well, not entirely. The other eleven join you in that curse on mine irritating existence, as I loll about in Heaven. Bugger this for a game of soldiers! If I don't stop wittering on, I'll end up in converse with you, tarnishing the mirror of my enlightenment with your bovine breath and bothersome remarks. That will never do!
Let us essay instead the prognostications, vile and bitter though they be, for the month of joyless July. Last time, we left you amidst a religious controversy and a sectarian split. On the one hand (or foot), you had the left boot and the supporters thereof, grim hordes given to the dark path and the evil nastiness that issues therefrom. On the other hand (also a foot) were the bastions of bovine tradition, espousing the cause of righteousness and demanding you eschew the left hand (or foot) and stay out of the left boot in which you're set to dwell. All this came with the building of Bullish Manse, a dream house that turned into a nightmare giant boot, and a lefty at that. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, it's no use asking me to explain because I don't either. Now, before I expire from grievous, griping ennui, let us finish this piffling tripe. No doubt, you would be thinking much as I do on this matter, were you capable of thought.
Enough of that! On with the show! Eek! And double eek! Marauding Mars gropes narcotic Neptune and authoritative persons come to your door to chastise you. However, you slam it in their faces and throw things about the house in chagrin till your back is sore from the exertions. Mischievous Mercury slithers into perverse and family members scream at you, criticizing your appearance and demeanour while your telephone trembles with a raft of wrong numbers and misdirected deliveries arrive to set your knockers knocking (you live in a 'two door' boot). Vamping Venus disports herself with Uranus, the idiot god, and allies and enemies alike offer sex and money as inducements if you will stay in the boot or leave it instanter. You're torn between a need for gratification and a need to make a decision.
Ye gods and little fishes, how cruel is fate? Jolly Jupiter launches his bulk forward yet again and persons of various religious or philosophical persuasions argue loudly, urging you to comment on the deep and meaningful debate in which you're unwittingly involved. Needless to say, they have not yet grasped the proper application of the term 'unwittingly' in relation to yourself. Mischievous Mercury cycles backwards into slimy Cancer and the ruckus with the relatives and authorities extends to riot in the streets as all and sundry caper erratically on the boulevard outside the boot where you dwell. A Full Moon casts her chill necrotic light from lugubrious Capricorn, sign of the Goat, and you're all at sixes and sevens! What will you do! By my sainted aunt, how can you sleep or eat or have sex with this racket? You're not a creature designed for controversy. You'd rather have peace and quiet, enjoying that silence of the mind which is your natural condition.
And what's this? Why, my brainless little ning-nongs! It's vamping Venus, exposing her private parts to dark Pluto, the underworld god. A property investor offers to buy the boot, the last remaining shred you have of the dream of Bullish Manse. You instanter accept, taking the money and running helter-skelter as you've had enough of this absurd 'carry on'. Vamping Venus gropes the Loony Nodes then rolls drunkenly into slimy Cancer. So, you walk away from the ruin of Bullish Manse, lost and wandering with no ray of hope to buoy you up. For, little ninnies, grim Saturn still roils in lackwit Leo and the miasma of your solar fourth house, urging you to find a sanctuary when all the dreams you had of such are come to dust. You importune people in the street or at bus stops for refuge in the hope they'll be sympathetic when you stare helplessly with those big 'cow' eyes of yours. However, as mischievous Mercury assails dark Pluto, most of them assume you're asking for money or making improper suggestions and scream at you to go away before they summon the authorities. And all you wanted was sympathy for your tragic plight!
Egad, my addled idiots! It truly is a naughty world, orbiting in a benighted universe and ruled by insane gods. But what's this? By all the gods alive and dead, it's marauding Mars, barreling his ghastly path into anal Virgo, and you find a bicycle abandoned on the street. Hmm! As the great Sol Invicti rolls into lackwit Leo, you see it's a brightly coloured vehicle with an umbrella fixed in place to shelter the rider from the elements. It even has a shiny bell! Ding! Ding! Ah! It's the simple things that please you. The gods are kindly after all!
At the New Moon in the sign of the Lion, you decide this will be your new mobile home. You will ride the edge of the kerb, threatening the lives and safety of workers and small animals, badgering pedestrians and weaving your way through traffic. As mischievous Mercury turns direct, you see the karmic rightness of it. If there is no Bullish Manse to house you, so you must be a Bull on wheels, taking your own private hell on a cycling trip to nowhere. Click here next time for the first exciting episode of Beef on a Bike. Hail and farewell, my brainless boofheads!