Hola to you, my wretched carping ninnies! Last time we left, you were rising high in the esteem of the Herbicidal Hooligans, a monkish order devoted to the overthrow of the pharmaceutical hegemony and the restoration of natural medicine for the masses. Said band had captured you (and your fellow passengers) on a flight to Tibet and carried you off to a secret encampment outside Hull. There you had worked your way to a place of trust with your usual carryon of calibrations and analysis, delivered in that irritating 'anal intensive' manner that makes normal people fall asleep or reach for a stun gun.
Thus, you had been invited to join in with the herbal teachings and meditations of these right-minded lunatics to become part of the inner sanctum. And you had also been invited to visit the chamber of one high up in this monkish business, making said visitation after dark for who knows what kind of naughtiness or shenanigans. After all, many things are called 'holy' by those with the power and money to enable the doing of them.
And so we find you now, as we tilt the cup of prognostication, vile and bitter, to the unwilling virginal lip. It's the month of nasty November, you noisome addlepates! Drink deep!
A New Moon comes in ghastly Scorpio, crashing against the wrinkled hide of aged Saturn and the mighty one invites ingress at the sound of your timid knock. Mischievous Mercury clashes with Uranus, idiot god, and you find you're charged with emotion as you step into a shadowy room, unable yet to see the figure that has called for your entrance (eek). Vamping Venus clambers into gloomy Capricorn and you are transfixed by romantic feelings the like of which you have not known before.
It's the herbs, my dears! The herbs that do it for you! For the air is filled with exotic fragrance, invigorating beyond description and stimulating to those parts of you that benefit from stimulation (as it were). The Heavens erupt in such a rancid explosion of flatulence that the very stones of the earth (and indeed all other such benighted worlds) tremble in the hurricane winds thus generated. Marauding Mars, nasty Neptune and the great Sol Invicti are caught, in flagrante delicto, in an act of a startlingly supple yet most perverted nature. And so too are you, my tiny surface-wipers! In fact, your surfaces are wiped and wiped again by acts of sexual congress you had not dreamed were possible.
Jolly Jupiter wrestles obscenely with vamping Venus and the mighty one delivers terrifying secrets on the nature of herbs, herbal magic and the world itself into your ears whilst delivering other things to other parts of you. The other things are of a nature and manner of delivery that would make the sensitive retire to bed with a cold compress and a pair of earplugs.
Egad! Mischievous Mercury gropes idiotic Uranus and grim Saturn, moving into perverse reverse motion in silly Sagittarius. You're in love, tiny virgin lunatics! And all of a tizzy! You're gasping for more, heaving and panting in the bosom department but grim reminders soon overtake this ecstasy! Egad! It's the Full Moon. The ghastly chill necrotic light illuminates the cloddish sign of Taurus. You must fly! And so you do, fly from the chamber instanter, unwilling to allow your hirsute transformation to be witnessed by this doyen of herb magic. As your canines grow to fangs and fur bursts forth from your virginal skin, you worry this will ruin your chances of initiation to the inner circle of herbal monks and, what's more, to the furtherance of the delights of herbal love. You roam wildly about the hills of Hull as a werewolf, lamenting your state and gathering twine to experiment further with the bondage rites that can restrain your lycanthropic frenzy. The night and its unspeakable ordeal finally pass.
As the great Sol Invicti moves to addlepate Sagittarius, you return to your humble dormitory, free for a time from the dread affliction. Lugubrious Saturn stands still in the sign of loathsome Leo and your solar twelfth house. Thus does grim depression come, as the black dog grips you in merciless jaws! And then too comes the expected summons. The mighty one of herbs invites your presence, an invitation to which there is no demur. Again you knock, timidly. Again you are invited to enter. The mighty one sits in shadow, very still. As mischievous Mercury returns to grim Scorpio, mighty lips are licked as if in preparation for speech.
What will be said to you, my surface-wiping loonies? Will you be heaved back to the hills of Hull to wander in the wild due to the nature of your dread affliction? Or, as the great Sol Invicti gropes the private parts of Uranus, the idiot god, will there be a surprising outcome for this contretemps? As I'm tired and somewhat distracted, I'll call the staff and have them bring my brown bottle and my silver tube. Perhaps sufficient rest will incline me to continue this unmitigated drivel for another month. In the meantime, ave atque vale, odious virgin types!