By all the gods alive and dead, it's you, my blithering bovines! Now here's a riddle for you. If the one-eyed man is king in the country of the blind, is the halfwit the monarch in the country of the brainless? Think for a moment then render your answer accordingly, your most cloddish majesties!
In the meantime, we turn our attention to the task in hand which, of course, is prognostication of a vile and bitter sort that will illuminate the tortuous path you will tread in the nasty month of jactitating July. Tremble in your voluminous pantaloons, my little beeves in the buff. It is I, Asperitus, baffling bard, awful auspex and piffling pyromancer! In the practice of this last oracular pursuit, let it be known that I once, in the midst of a prophetic utterance, set fire to the great library of Thrace, burning both of its books to ashes. Oh dear! How sad! Never mind!
Enough of that! Let's have some of this instead! Last time we left, you were about to receive a communication from across the briny, though its sender and contents were unknown. Let it now be revealed that, as vamping Venus lasciviously entwines with grim Saturn and his knees and other knobbly bits, said communication turns out to be a missive from an elderly relative with a good fortune, a bad back and a worse disposition. It seems the creature is on a mission to catch up with each and every errant and truant family member before passing to the great beyond, the home for miserable bastards in the sky. It is also indicated that a flutter of wealth may fall into the grip of those who offer sanctuary to this ailing curmudgeon and also serve each of his nasty little wonts.
By my sainted aunt, teeny-weeny turnips! You instanter think you're onto a good thing and send back a flood of emails, texts, phone calls and notes by carrier pigeon in which you indicate a general feeling of welcome in the style of 'my home is yours', hoping only to get your puffy bovine fingers on some extra lolly. After much miscommunication, misunderstanding and delay, the busy messenger moves out of perverse reverse and said relative sends a missive in which he agrees to a sojourn in Bullish Manse, your ancestral home, just as the ghastly New Moon comes in slimy Cancer. As vamping Venus also slinks into anal Virgo at this time, you remove your overly ornate and lumpish furniture (all of it, given your garish taste), replacing it with crates, canvas and calico to create a most impoverished look. You cultivate a peculiar limp and take employment in a sheltered workshop.
By all that's hellish and unholy, the Heavens then erupt in a most nasty manner as the great Sol Invicti roars into lackwit Leo on a cloud of his own malodorous flatulence. An ugly and ill-dressed old coot arrives at your door, knocking peevishly and demanding ingress (eek). And, of course, the coot is your peripatetic relation, spreading wisdom and the smell of urine wheresoe'er he goeth. Instanter, he sneers in your general direction, demeans the simple life and rough furnishings of your abode and is insultingly derogatory with regard to your appearance, personal hygiene and the near relatives on the maternal side with whom he has no consanguineal link. Vamping Venus moves into perverse reverse and he imposes a severe restraint on matters dietary, insisting that you prepare and share his abstemious repast of dried locust husks, dock from the garden and organic chocolate made from badger dung. He forbids you to go out, demanding instead you remain at home to entertain him by doing comic impersonations of butlers and also by performing traditional dances from the imperial days of ancient Assyria.
As a Full Moon comes in idiot Aquarius and marauding Mars rams the rude bit into grim Saturn, you decide you can no longer bear the indignity and will slay the unspeakable creature in his (yours actually) bed. However, as you've had a long evening of Assyrian dancing, you decide to put off the felonious act until morning. But, lawks a mercy, you arrive at sunrise with a pillow, a bottle of chloroform and a heavy slat torn from your 'packing case' furniture, only to find the curmudgeon has slipped the coop. He has however left a note explaining that he has no money, would not give you any if he had and enjoys sponging off his relatives to make their days as miserable as his have been.
By my little brown bottle, is there no kindness in a naughty world? Sadly, no! All of this is just another disappointing chapter in the unreadable novel of your wretched lives! See you next time, my bullish chumps. And, by the way, things will be worse then! Ave!