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 Asperitus Casting Runes... |
Greetings, my virginal ninnies! Last time, you were aboard a plane headed for Tibet, only to be hijacked by persons, each one of whom wore a poisonous foxglove. It was, ironically enough, just as you were making a list of your favourite herbs that this incursion enforced itself upon your aeronautical excursion. The gloved ones then revealed themselves to be the Herbicidal Hoodlums, a radical order of monks and nuns, dedicated to overthrowing the pharmaceutical hegemony and so restoring herbal medicine to its right and proper place in the world. Your little heart leapt upon hearing this and it was all you could do to refrain from clapping your little hands with glee. The gloved ones, after collecting donations from passengers and crew, flew the aircraft to a secret encampment outside Hull in the Island of the Mighty where it is that they carry out their nefarious yet world-saving work.
Gadzooks, my virginal twits! It's an exciting new adventure, is it not! Tibet is out the window. Let lycanthropy reign as it will and must! You're off to grow herbs and save the world with organic gardening and the ascetic life! No more the temptations of soy 'cino and lite jellybean that come with cities and the dreaded city way. Attend me now, my virgin loons! It's obnoxious October and these are the vile and bitter prognostications that pertain thereto. Great gods alive and dead! It's dreadful from the outset! Marauding Mars shows his backside to the world and moves into a perverse reverse cycle, emitting a stream of deadly gases such as only the god of belligerent psychotics can produce. You land in the secret camp and are instantly put to work. Not tending herbs with gentle hand and discerning eye as befits your anal intensive sign! No, indeed! They give you pick and shovel and set you to break rock and hard earth for a retaining wall to shelter the more delicate herbs from sun and wind. Egad! Don't they know who you are! It seems not! The New Moon brings a Solar Eclipse in loathsome Libra and you're stripped of money and all but the most rudimentary of your possessions. As mischievous Mercury gropes the private parts of jolly Jupiter, you attempt some critical discussion of this matter. However, as the messenger moves to hag-ridden Scorpio, the waving of the foxglove dampens your ardour for debate. The gaseous mass of ghastly farting from the nasty back passages of larrikin planets now delivers noxious miasma to the paltry denizens of a benighted universe ruled by insane gods (that includes you). Chief among them is the Martian marauder. He forms yet another Yod (you had one last month), a grim configuration betiding woe of nine kinds and known to astrologers of yore as the Finger of God. As the Full Moon glowers in the addlepate sign of Aries, bringing a Lunar Eclipse to your solar eighth house, you submit to the powers that have you in their grip. You take your pick and shovel to a distant hill and accept conjugal relations with one of the cleaner (they're all quite clean in fact, but there are degrees) devotees of the herbal order. As mischievous Mercury grovels at the feet of narcotic Neptune, you settle down to the somewhat dull routine of life, as the Herbicidal Hoodlums have strict rules about silence and excessive converse. But what's this? Why, it seems that your very submission is also your salvation, a fabulous karmic lesson that, no doubt, we all should learn from if we have nothing better to do on the idle days. Yes, as the great Sol Invicti slithers in ungodly fashion to the hag-ridden sign of Scorpio, your work is singled out by those higher up in the order. Your excessive devotion to detail comes under notice, even in the breaking of humble earth. Soon, you're transferred to the garden itself. But, by my little brown bottle, there's more to follow! As jolly Jupiter, the giggling, drunken lord of fortune also inserts himself into that grim and ghastly sign of death, taxes and the anus (evil Scorpio), you're invited to join the monks and nuns for their daily teachings on the ministry of herbs! Gadzooks, my little virgin nitwits! What greater honour could there be? Well, it seems there is a greater honour! One high up in the order invites you to set aside all other attachments and come to her/his chambers after sunset. By my sainted aunt! What does this portend? Click here next time and all shall be revealed in every possible sense in which the phrase may be understood. Ave, my virginal poltroons! | ||||
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