Dr. Pants McTurd's MORE Than True Horror-scopes
disclaimer: Satire does require a mayan calendar to know that the world is coming to an end.
this week: She is not my lost love, because I still love her.
Aries- The tippy top of our phallic ode2the G-Wash is both shiny and pointy. The crown on the Washington Monument is made of aluminum, which in the 1880's was almost as pricey as silver. And all over again, a faction calls for going back to a gold economy, because special interests (cough), the infamous "they" can afford to buy airtime, probably on (cough) FoxNews (cough) selling something (cough), who's owned by that super old aussie D-bag with the god complex and a gross lack of morality, who apparently thinks he's Nixon's down unda' brutha® reincarnated, BUT WE ARE NOT going to let some down unda' panda humpers get a hold of our precious sun ever again. Happy solstice, your birthday and psychic renewal will be here any minute. No cough.
Taurus- Comet Lovejoy was indeed discovered by a dude named Lovejoy. When I discover my comet or weird space rock that I get to name, that one tiny space rock that might be part of the early universe hurtling through space, well shit man, it causes me to feel even smaller and more insignificant than I already feel amongst so many billions around the world breathing my air and eating my sandwiches. Point is, Lovejoy discovered three comets, there's three Comet Lovejoys, and one of them just went right into the sun's corona, I space shit you not. We have one Lovejoy down. One down. The other two are safely in your orbit and bringing you strange cosmic ice from the beginning of the universe.
Gemini- William Randolph Hearst actually printed in his newspapers that someone ought to put a bullet in the President. And then someone shot the President. And then they made a law that said you can't say crazy shit like that. Hearst also wagged the dog and made his own war happen. He basically killed McKinley and started a war. And he made a star out of his mistress, put her in movies, real classy like. Nice. I like driven people who don't withhold their brilliance from the world because of silly sundries like ethics or morals. It's our innate right to do whatever we want, because we can. Freedom incarnate. Political will forged out of the bonds of centuries of slavery to a pharaoh, a king, a dictator, a despot, or tyrant who would use our individuality as a plowshare while robbing us of our limited time. Take some time off this week. Your pyramid will wait.
Cancer- The Italians and the Irish piss me off, regardless of their places in my genetic history. Both tomatoes and potatoes are New World fruits, that is to say, there were no taters nor t'maters in europe until 1500. It wasn't long before the Old World co-opted these delights for their own, as if pasta sauce was invented in Rome, or chips were first deep fried in downtown Dublin. As if they hadn't stolen enough from the cultures of Mesoamerica, they take Incan potato au gratin and Aztec gazpacho. Someday when an alien space pod lands in downtown Kankakee or Kenosha and we co-opt his weird smelling space grog and call it Jed's Homemade Space Gumbo®, then, my friend, then we can avenge our pre columbian asiatic brothers.
Leo- The most profound of the Brady Legacy's multiple crowning jewels is the episode entitled "Bobby's Hero". And, yeah, I capitalized Legacy, suck it, Alice. Anyhoo, Bobby gets obsessed with Jesse James, right and so they bring in this super old timey cowpuncher type straight out of one of the Duke's greatest oaters, and this old guy proceeds to tell Bobby how he knew Jesse, that Jesse killed his Pa, and that you shouldn't idolize a coward. Deep Brady shit. Embroil this slantwise Bradyverse®: you are Bobby, and there's a super old dude, probably driving a van, who's on his way over here right now to teach you a valuable lesson about cowboys and Johnny Cash songs. Buy him lunch.
Virgo- Palpitate this, despite its inevitable entropy: You breathe at the perfect rate to bring in the perfect amount of oxygen, nitrogen and pollutants into your hot little air bags to keep your heart beating and blood pumping to feed that big fat brain that regulates your perception of the 'verse as well as your entire being, like Shiva holding you palmwise turned naked toward accepting eyes, in whose reflection is you ad infinauseum®, over and over, infinite love, where does god end and you begin. It's perfect. You are the perfect prefect to peruse le stream du consciousness flowing endlessly to le cosmic eau. You are naked, and you are perfect.
Libra- You're Sam the Butcher bringing Alice the meat. You're a french boulevard that's really big and well lit that I can't remember the name of. You're an eagle in a world of blind mice armed with nerve gas. You're a mammoth-trapping tar pit, a new jingle, and a bar of soap made of heavenly oats and god's balls. Nothing can stop you. Nothing wants to stop you. No one is even watching you right now. Go nuts. Do something you've never envisioned yourself doing. Go jump out of a plane driving a motorcycle naked, or whatever. You have nothing to lose and a good story to tell your friends later. Bring the meat.
Scorpio- All my topias are always dys, never u. Would I even recognize the u if I was sitting in it? And even if I did, would I find a way to destroy it, so that I could long for it, and crusade to regain it? Holy frog farts, dude, so I create the dys in order to destroy the u? Wtf is that cosmic buffoonery? Follow my bliss just so I can murder it later on? Destroy what I love, create what I destroy? Logic clusterf*ck-- brain folding in on self-- creating wormhole and parallel universe where I am acting rather reacting, where I stop fighting the tide, accept it and float lovingly downstream. But it's a mere shadow of the river I'm in now in this 'verse. You're right, Dave. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. You be u, I'll be dys.
Sagittarius- Dunce caps are a cruel punishment, usually reserved for free thinkers and creative types, who only put gum in Shelley Walker's hair because the teacher was hella boring and Shelley smelled like orange blossom and breakfast in May on some intimate Parisian rue. Iron maidens, however, are reasonable punishment for those who refuse to abide the common wisdom with all their fealty and soul. Personally I'm into tickle parties, especially when followed by pillow fights, bourbon, and orgies. You get this one life, right? So you have to be unabashedly driven to find your own delights and exploit the hell out of them. I'm sure you agree. See you at the party.
Capricorn- My life is Mystery Science Theater. There's three smart ass peanut gallery types down front, making snide comments about the bad 80's movie I'm in, probably about a ski competition and a group of friends who find a magic gnome who ends up eating their brains. I succumb to the flesh eating gnomes from the mountains where a ski lodge was built on the cemetery of ancient native americans who come back in the form of gnomes to eat the brains of virgin teens---ah screw it. The plot is odiously tedious. Your 80's movie is really good though, it stars Chuck Norris and Adrienne Barbeau. Ready yourself for ass whooping fun.
Aquarius- The purposes of groove and the necessity of funk is a state of mind not over matter, but inside of it. It is pure pompitus and worthy of prolonged exposure. You should be spending a minimum of 6.8 hours per week in multiple acts of getting down, funky, uncorked, freakified, sans pants, cheeky monkeyed, bar room brawled, bruised, screwed and tattooed. Your brain needs a chthonical reboot, not in the form of drugs or pointless self effacement, but a radical change of perception followed by a mythological reinstatement, a rebirth into whatever form you choose. I recommend a creature with the body of a red assed baboon and the head of a bhudda.
Pisces- You were nobody in way back olden times if you didn't have a nice rod. Take Aaron's rod for example, his rod turned other rods into snakes and then ate them. Moses used it to part the Red Sea. It also made magic almonds and could be used as a scepter that one could use to smite various people or cities, whole cultures even. I bet it could also help negotiate a better deal on that used Saab you've been ogling. Grab a hold of a really nice rod, preferably made out of sapphire, wrap a snake around it, go to that warehouse where the Ark of the Covenant is being stored, and then get inside of it, with your eyes closed(!), and stay there for one and a quarter fortnights. The regenerating sands of god's sarcophagus will and replenish your soul. And you will be young like when the earth was new.
a weekly Horrorscope, appearing every Thursday...
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Dr. Pants McTurd's MORE Than True Horror-scopes
disclaimer: Satire is a lighthouse, a beacon and a dessert after a crowful meal.
this week: You can crane your neck, but if you neck with a crane, you'll get pregnant.
Aries- We all step in poop. I choose to believe that it is the poop's origin which is the of the utmost of importance in determining one's fate, much like chicken bones in a tea cup. One's fortunes invariably vary according to the defecating animal in question. In the "business", we call that poop zero. Not to get tangential, but poop is always involved, am I right? Nevertheless I can tell by the state of your current underfoot poopprint® that possibly due to subconscious dieting or even a negative impact diagonal design that you are overdue for a sorely needed mojo enhancement. Your genitals are there to help you in times of crises. Scrape it off, put it in a brown paper bag, find your spiritual doorstep and.. light.. it.. up.
Taurus- In 17th century France, an invitation to a salon was quite the affair. Rather than hair and nails, it was a gathering of people (generally women) held to amuse one another, to refine taste and increase the knowledge of the participants through conversation, literature and ideas. A female think tank. Hoity and/or toity to be sure, but in olden times the intellectuals were those who could afford to be so. Flash forward in the evolution of the salon and you get the founders hammering out a constitution, or the fun loving guys who brought us the atomic bomb, or further still the folks who sat around and planned the Iraq war over coffee and eggplant sandwiches. When planning your next salon, invite smart people, make finger sandwiches shaped like real fingers and spread the breadth and wealth of your enlightened self.
Gemini- Try not to get your knickers in a twist, but you're in a deluge and riding naked in a barrel headed straight for Calamity Falls!®. Ah yes... hyperbole, the enemy of the fearful and the tiny of rectum. Don't take my word for it, plunder yourself a new future! Your mettle is beyond reproach and your intelligence superb even in its infancy. Abjure those who would fight against you, take no part in their little passion play full of fretful word barbs and oral slashing. You are a dignitary, behave as such, despite their apparent lack of manners. Show me, don't tell me that your crotch glands reek of awesome.
Cancer- The 1990's were the 1920's. Now it's the 1930's again: endless crises struggling for air in a meatless ragout of questionable capitalism, soaring unemployment, and dangerous experimental politics. I'm hopeful that when we get around to repeating the 1970's, I will still be young enough to enjoy the drugs, the risky sex, the rebirth of disco, a young Spielberg and Lucas before they started to piss me off, the re-release of the improved Ford Pinto (no explosions!), and a simpler time when you could buy fake guns for your kids to play with that looked pretty much identical to real weaponry. The new Cold War with China is already getting started, so I'm getting excited about the prospects. Stand by me because-- next stop, the 1950's. Prepare your El Vis ®.
Leo- Never Say Never Again is double-OO-awesome. Even though it's a remake of Thunderball, and it's the only Bond not produced by Eon Productions, and you bet-- lawsuits, acrimony and the not unanticipated prick waving. Anyway, Connery had this great toupee, worked even under water. Also an early role for Kim Bassinger and weird cool Max von Sydow temper tantrums, who I'm willing to bet is creepy in real life too. And directed by Irvin Kershner, yeah... Empire Strikes Back, so derrr- awesome, right? And Rowan Atkinson, Mr. frikkin' Bean is in it too, so yeah probably my favorite Bond. As for the title, Connery said he'd never play Bond again. Never say never. You're next. What what was it that you foreswore again?
Virgo- I have a new bug policy. Bugs that I find inside my house, provided they possess some measure of non disgustipating® respectability like spiders and crickets, I will do my best to capture in some hastily devised contraption, such as a cup and a piece of paper, and then release outside, back into the wild where they may be free to copulate or do whatever. Call me racist, but ants, despite their close kinship to our own worker engrossed society, will all come to a squashing end under my fist of justice. In fact, I freely admit that I enjoy killing ants, not everyday mind you and never while pleasuring myself, but when the time necessitates and they have invaded my domicile uninvited. Spiders and crickets do good by us, they eat other bugs. Ants are only out for themselves. Adjust your bug policy appropriately, including all of your human-bug relations.
Libra- The coffee houses of the 1600's were what Starbucks aspires to. Coffee was relatively new to the west; ideas and thinking were popular back then, not bullshit like now times. They were places for discussion, "a place for virtuosi and wits, rather than for the plebes or roués who were typical patrons of the alcoholic drinking houses". I do not, however advocate teetotalling® your world until you see the clear sober light of day. As Homer said, "I prefer illusion to despair", but I would recommend that during your typical engagement of mind bending alteration, that you find some moments to discuss the ins and outs of the philosophy of the evolution of your person within the con and sub texts of the 7 billion sharing air with you right now. The world is not what you think.
Scorpio- You are a mythological mustilid. You are a scintillating scimitar, slicing and scavenging on carcasses avoided even by carrion. Eat of the dead. Eat of their history. Chew thoroughly and swallow and digest and defecate, and ponder. You are a dragon, a wyvern, a wyrm and a cockatrice, eater of snakes and crocodiles. Your mouth is electric and your feet reverberate with the syncopated jumps and sprints and jigs and air walking that your conscious mind wills into being out of string theory and breakfast cereal and sitting up in bed out of a sound sleep knowing, sensing that this is a moment of your own mortality, but only of the body; the spirit is infinite and ever existing. You are a neuronic string dancer and the king's most prized fool.
Sagittarius- My propensity for discounting the assets and blessings in my life is rivaled only by my short memory and lack of focus. Speaking of which, I like cinnamon rolls, in fact I'm a bit of a connoisseur, a cardamonaphile® to turn a phrase, but eventually I sate myself with sugar, or alcohol, or sex, or or self pity, or running full speed into whatever wall I can find, and then when I'm retracing my steps as to how I got such a concussion, I remember briefly the blessings that I'd discounted and forgotten, as if they were only the beginning of my ego's leaps into obsession. Not good enough, never going to be good enough, are they? Will I ever be good enough? Never. Wait. Breathe. A brief sky dalliance and and then return to alight on this earth, this grand firmament, albeit only a temporary refuge for my spirit.
Capricorn- 23 Across, Kyrgyzstan border town, three letters. Crap, all I know are Kyrgyzstan border towns with four letters. Up yours, Will Shortz. Really, that's seems like a relevant enough clue? Sounds like you got into a corner and had to punt, and got lucky that there actually is a town called Osh, which I assume is the headquarters for the eponymous home supply company. I call bullshit anyway, with your Wiki-degree and your fancy pants, and hey, there's no secret puzzle here, pal. I mean = you stink. I pray that you can recover more relevance than Will or I in your search for epic truthiness.
Aquarius- Should you find yourself of a mind, as oft I am wont, that none of this be real, our legs dependent upon strings of questionable fictional samsara, then you will surely reflect and emulate my obsession with nondisambiguation™. Rather than clear, I muddle. I oppose order, until I don't, until clarity is needed, then I don my best stout zephyr and blow moroccan fog to its saharan demise to be dispersed like my brain's effluvium after a much needed enema. Find your muse, and use the crap out of it/her/him. It's your only hope.
Pisces- When I orders a pizza pie from my local paisan, I always tips big, see. I figure, hey-- you know me, I like pies, I tips yous nice right, yous makes it hot and spicy, capiche? Give and freakkin' take, you dig, spartan soul child? Random intersecting points, nucleic nexii where we can interface with each others' individualitinessocity®, and grope each other sans eyes searching for our soft wet spots in the hopes of satisfying these reptile brains and limbic loins. For yous only da best. But hey, don't forgets my tip. Pizza ain't free. I heard from this schizoid minstrel that only love is.
disclaimer: Satire is a lighthouse, a beacon and a dessert after a crowful meal.
this week: You can crane your neck, but if you neck with a crane, you'll get pregnant.
Aries- We all step in poop. I choose to believe that it is the poop's origin which is the of the utmost of importance in determining one's fate, much like chicken bones in a tea cup. One's fortunes invariably vary according to the defecating animal in question. In the "business", we call that poop zero. Not to get tangential, but poop is always involved, am I right? Nevertheless I can tell by the state of your current underfoot poopprint® that possibly due to subconscious dieting or even a negative impact diagonal design that you are overdue for a sorely needed mojo enhancement. Your genitals are there to help you in times of crises. Scrape it off, put it in a brown paper bag, find your spiritual doorstep and.. light.. it.. up.
Taurus- In 17th century France, an invitation to a salon was quite the affair. Rather than hair and nails, it was a gathering of people (generally women) held to amuse one another, to refine taste and increase the knowledge of the participants through conversation, literature and ideas. A female think tank. Hoity and/or toity to be sure, but in olden times the intellectuals were those who could afford to be so. Flash forward in the evolution of the salon and you get the founders hammering out a constitution, or the fun loving guys who brought us the atomic bomb, or further still the folks who sat around and planned the Iraq war over coffee and eggplant sandwiches. When planning your next salon, invite smart people, make finger sandwiches shaped like real fingers and spread the breadth and wealth of your enlightened self.
Gemini- Try not to get your knickers in a twist, but you're in a deluge and riding naked in a barrel headed straight for Calamity Falls!®. Ah yes... hyperbole, the enemy of the fearful and the tiny of rectum. Don't take my word for it, plunder yourself a new future! Your mettle is beyond reproach and your intelligence superb even in its infancy. Abjure those who would fight against you, take no part in their little passion play full of fretful word barbs and oral slashing. You are a dignitary, behave as such, despite their apparent lack of manners. Show me, don't tell me that your crotch glands reek of awesome.
Cancer- The 1990's were the 1920's. Now it's the 1930's again: endless crises struggling for air in a meatless ragout of questionable capitalism, soaring unemployment, and dangerous experimental politics. I'm hopeful that when we get around to repeating the 1970's, I will still be young enough to enjoy the drugs, the risky sex, the rebirth of disco, a young Spielberg and Lucas before they started to piss me off, the re-release of the improved Ford Pinto (no explosions!), and a simpler time when you could buy fake guns for your kids to play with that looked pretty much identical to real weaponry. The new Cold War with China is already getting started, so I'm getting excited about the prospects. Stand by me because-- next stop, the 1950's. Prepare your El Vis ®.
Leo- Never Say Never Again is double-OO-awesome. Even though it's a remake of Thunderball, and it's the only Bond not produced by Eon Productions, and you bet-- lawsuits, acrimony and the not unanticipated prick waving. Anyway, Connery had this great toupee, worked even under water. Also an early role for Kim Bassinger and weird cool Max von Sydow temper tantrums, who I'm willing to bet is creepy in real life too. And directed by Irvin Kershner, yeah... Empire Strikes Back, so derrr- awesome, right? And Rowan Atkinson, Mr. frikkin' Bean is in it too, so yeah probably my favorite Bond. As for the title, Connery said he'd never play Bond again. Never say never. You're next. What what was it that you foreswore again?
Virgo- I have a new bug policy. Bugs that I find inside my house, provided they possess some measure of non disgustipating® respectability like spiders and crickets, I will do my best to capture in some hastily devised contraption, such as a cup and a piece of paper, and then release outside, back into the wild where they may be free to copulate or do whatever. Call me racist, but ants, despite their close kinship to our own worker engrossed society, will all come to a squashing end under my fist of justice. In fact, I freely admit that I enjoy killing ants, not everyday mind you and never while pleasuring myself, but when the time necessitates and they have invaded my domicile uninvited. Spiders and crickets do good by us, they eat other bugs. Ants are only out for themselves. Adjust your bug policy appropriately, including all of your human-bug relations.
Libra- The coffee houses of the 1600's were what Starbucks aspires to. Coffee was relatively new to the west; ideas and thinking were popular back then, not bullshit like now times. They were places for discussion, "a place for virtuosi and wits, rather than for the plebes or roués who were typical patrons of the alcoholic drinking houses". I do not, however advocate teetotalling® your world until you see the clear sober light of day. As Homer said, "I prefer illusion to despair", but I would recommend that during your typical engagement of mind bending alteration, that you find some moments to discuss the ins and outs of the philosophy of the evolution of your person within the con and sub texts of the 7 billion sharing air with you right now. The world is not what you think.
Scorpio- You are a mythological mustilid. You are a scintillating scimitar, slicing and scavenging on carcasses avoided even by carrion. Eat of the dead. Eat of their history. Chew thoroughly and swallow and digest and defecate, and ponder. You are a dragon, a wyvern, a wyrm and a cockatrice, eater of snakes and crocodiles. Your mouth is electric and your feet reverberate with the syncopated jumps and sprints and jigs and air walking that your conscious mind wills into being out of string theory and breakfast cereal and sitting up in bed out of a sound sleep knowing, sensing that this is a moment of your own mortality, but only of the body; the spirit is infinite and ever existing. You are a neuronic string dancer and the king's most prized fool.
Sagittarius- My propensity for discounting the assets and blessings in my life is rivaled only by my short memory and lack of focus. Speaking of which, I like cinnamon rolls, in fact I'm a bit of a connoisseur, a cardamonaphile® to turn a phrase, but eventually I sate myself with sugar, or alcohol, or sex, or or self pity, or running full speed into whatever wall I can find, and then when I'm retracing my steps as to how I got such a concussion, I remember briefly the blessings that I'd discounted and forgotten, as if they were only the beginning of my ego's leaps into obsession. Not good enough, never going to be good enough, are they? Will I ever be good enough? Never. Wait. Breathe. A brief sky dalliance and and then return to alight on this earth, this grand firmament, albeit only a temporary refuge for my spirit.
Capricorn- 23 Across, Kyrgyzstan border town, three letters. Crap, all I know are Kyrgyzstan border towns with four letters. Up yours, Will Shortz. Really, that's seems like a relevant enough clue? Sounds like you got into a corner and had to punt, and got lucky that there actually is a town called Osh, which I assume is the headquarters for the eponymous home supply company. I call bullshit anyway, with your Wiki-degree and your fancy pants, and hey, there's no secret puzzle here, pal. I mean = you stink. I pray that you can recover more relevance than Will or I in your search for epic truthiness.
Aquarius- Should you find yourself of a mind, as oft I am wont, that none of this be real, our legs dependent upon strings of questionable fictional samsara, then you will surely reflect and emulate my obsession with nondisambiguation™. Rather than clear, I muddle. I oppose order, until I don't, until clarity is needed, then I don my best stout zephyr and blow moroccan fog to its saharan demise to be dispersed like my brain's effluvium after a much needed enema. Find your muse, and use the crap out of it/her/him. It's your only hope.
Pisces- When I orders a pizza pie from my local paisan, I always tips big, see. I figure, hey-- you know me, I like pies, I tips yous nice right, yous makes it hot and spicy, capiche? Give and freakkin' take, you dig, spartan soul child? Random intersecting points, nucleic nexii where we can interface with each others' individualitinessocity®, and grope each other sans eyes searching for our soft wet spots in the hopes of satisfying these reptile brains and limbic loins. For yous only da best. But hey, don't forgets my tip. Pizza ain't free. I heard from this schizoid minstrel that only love is.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Dr. Pants McTurd's MORE Than True Horror-scopes
disclaimer: I drink your milkshake.
this week: There's no 'end' in 'friendship'. Except that there is.
Aries- After a heated debate I had the other night regarding the differences vis a vis sweaters vs sweatshirts; vis a vis zipper, no zipper, hood, no hood, my grandma made this for me, or simply that I'm allegedly "stalking" Bill Cosby... anyhoo, the conflict nearly erupted into fisticuffs, probably due to the scotch that started the time sucking vortex of mootlessness™, and then epiphany: the pursuit of minutia is advantageous to our survival, even though it occasionally leads to war. Everything we experience we catalogue, we dissect, we study, we eat information with our eyes and poop it out our brainholes. And friend, not to get weird on you, but your brainholes need a good scrubbing. You have... dense build-up. Unclog, brother, unclog.
Taurus- A most hidden perfect fruit of democracy is your right to verbalize any crazy political thought regardless of how stupid it makes you look. Despite their defunctitude™, the Know Nothing Party of the mid 1850's has had many bigoted incarnations, most recently the birther movement. Within the strata of any society, there will inevitably be a layer of rock so intolerant, so fearful, so ignorant that their logic mandates proselytizing their political will onto others in an effort to form a perfect society, which of course sounds like such a great idea, right? Ignorance is the enemy of compassion. Engender knowledge and you will be truly free. Know something, know anything and all.
Gemini- In The Apotheosis of George Washington, our first president and british ass kicker, the G-Wash is depicted as man becoming god, hence the fresco's catchy title. I love artists who don't need to fall back on hyperbole to make a point. I'm building my own pedestal out of a paste I make from old espresso grounds and bat guano, which is no fun to harvest, but makes great pedestal cement, despite of the constant threat of a rabid infarction trauma®, and of course the ever present miasma of bat guano wafting heavenwards toward my enlightenedness. Forge your own pedestal material and become Rodan, embody Bernini, channel Chillida, and ask Dali for a dance. Ascendancy is your birthright. The guano is mine.
Cancer- Raintree County, posit: the multiverse is so big and so old that all of this has happened before. You are but one part of one cycle of the ever weaving cosmic fabric. You are a semi-sentient grain of sand on a cosmic beach, tossed about by crashing branes. That said, it's time to speak of rock solid foundations and the floating piece of broken off glacier on which you've been squatting. Soon you will sail into more tropical waters, and the need for a permanent base not made of pre-cambrian ice shelf will become imperative. When you find your mainland, decorate it to your taste and then eat some cocoanuts to cure your ice scurvy.
Leo- A bunghole is no laughing matter. It's the hole drilled into a cask or a barrel so that you can get the booze out, get your drunk on, and then you stuff the hole with a cork, also known as... a bung. Now, I know what you're thinking. How am I going to ruin this perfectly well meaning 'scope about how cool history and words are and shit, into an orgy of butthole references using childish imagery of peoples' nethers, replete with taint jokes that will prove nauseatingly puerile. Yeah well, you don't know me. You don't know the one who dreams of you at night, who longs to kiss your lips, and wants to hold you tight. Your bunghole is your business.
Virgo- This week I recommend you strive to be a little more Boss Tweed and a little less Andy Gibb. A little more Paul Newman, a little less Darrel Strawberry. A bunch more David Copperfield, but not the magic one. Timothy Leary, not Squeaky Fromme. Bite into a chocolate torte of Scarlett Johanssen, but not the paella of Eva Peron. And for crap's sake, not any, repeat, nary a molecule of Red Skelton, he weirds me out despite his national treasurosity™. Furtherlymore® you can bring Tesla or even that greedy jerk Alva Edison all the way downtown, but stay away from Newton, he has nothing to do with figs or any sweet fruit filling, and his theories are as outrageous as his choice of knickers. Find the middle path. Be the tightrope.
Libra- No.5 is alive and Ally Sheedy is hot on your trail. No disassemble. No disassemble! And yes, butterfly pretty. but keep your eye on the ball here: Ally is coming for you. She will stop at nothing. You and your precious little breakfast club will be nothing but fodder for her wargames. Saint Elmo will avail you not, your armada is in a stormy sea of peril. I recommend you return to spain, tell the king to get over her, I mean I thought the dude is gay anyway, so what does the king of spain want with a wife, right? Also keep an eye out for a NOVA Robotics van and/or anyone named Gutenberg. Steve gets "hungry" during the full moon.
Scorpio- Heads up and fair warning: this may sound a bit like an alarum back-asswards®, but you are about to go ass over tea kettle, arms akimbo and dangerously close to the margin of error plus or minus two jigawatts. Just one more double bonus leprechaun four cherries no lie straight up winner winner chicken dinner, and you will double forfeit all terms and conditions void where uninhibited, etc, etc per anno domine in the patrae ad infinauseum® and suckem the big fat one, amen, and so say we all. However, despite overwhelming odds, the dragon-mounted serpent king will not be victorious over your soul. Henceforth and forthwith and in all known dominions, as per the Treaty of Xargon 7 circa 2417, you are free and clear as of etc, etc, et. al., circa this thursday. Party on, Garth.
Sagittarius- Transdermal®, subliminal, and sub-irregular-fontainebleau are the wicked ways of your sorcerous plots and chaotic deus ex machiavellian machinations. You are hypersonic and sonambulatoriously® absurd. Lest I run afoul of your hair trigger temper, forgiveness I beg, but your abrasions and your damning evidence and your bunny socks are distracting me from the point at hand. We are individuals, you and I. As usual, Captain Kirk's wisdom is deep and wise, "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known." Damn the Dickensian world of yesteryear, go forth, Sky-Archer. Fill thy plate with mannic® honey as reward for thy true arrow's work.
Capricorn- "Humor is the spiciest condiment in the feast of existence", or so said, Lucy Maud Montgomery. I say the spiciest condiment is Uncle Chester's Jalapenopallooza Sauce®, the number one cause of blindness in Calaveras County! And it clearly says on the bottle, KEEP AWAY FROM EYES. Also don't spill any on your lap, especially if you're eating tacos at three in the morning while sitting naked in your kitchen. I am often without pants and find it liberating and mentally stimulating. However, and this is sage advice so I expect you to actually read this part: KEEP AWAY FROM GENITALS. Uncle Chester is a pallooza for your mouth, not your junk.
Aquarius- There is no such thing as a solid. What appears to be solid is actually composed of a ridiculous amount of space. Atoms may seem packed together creating matter, but there is actually more space between those atoms than there is anything solid. Furtherlymore™ our bodies may be 78% water, but we are 99% empty space. Well... it's not empty space, but that is an entirely other kettle of fish of a different colour, sub-nuclearly speaking. your current manifestation of self is spiritual energy gathering up atoms and squashing them together in a way that makes your ass look super good in those pants. Trippy shit, space cadet.
Pisces- One of the Great Smog Events of the 20th century occurred in Donora, Pa. in 1948, when an air inversion trapped pollution from the local zinc smelting plant covering the town for a day, killing 20 and nauseating everyone else. Coal burning and an anticyclone are responsible for the Great Smog of London in 1952, which lasted several days, killing an estimated 4,000 people. Ergo, smog events suck. Your current brown out is about to be swept out to sea, however, and in the clear light of unsullied atmo you will find your biggest desire (and ironically your biggest fear) to be standing right in front of you with open arms and waiting lips.
disclaimer: I drink your milkshake.
this week: There's no 'end' in 'friendship'. Except that there is.
Aries- After a heated debate I had the other night regarding the differences vis a vis sweaters vs sweatshirts; vis a vis zipper, no zipper, hood, no hood, my grandma made this for me, or simply that I'm allegedly "stalking" Bill Cosby... anyhoo, the conflict nearly erupted into fisticuffs, probably due to the scotch that started the time sucking vortex of mootlessness™, and then epiphany: the pursuit of minutia is advantageous to our survival, even though it occasionally leads to war. Everything we experience we catalogue, we dissect, we study, we eat information with our eyes and poop it out our brainholes. And friend, not to get weird on you, but your brainholes need a good scrubbing. You have... dense build-up. Unclog, brother, unclog.
Taurus- A most hidden perfect fruit of democracy is your right to verbalize any crazy political thought regardless of how stupid it makes you look. Despite their defunctitude™, the Know Nothing Party of the mid 1850's has had many bigoted incarnations, most recently the birther movement. Within the strata of any society, there will inevitably be a layer of rock so intolerant, so fearful, so ignorant that their logic mandates proselytizing their political will onto others in an effort to form a perfect society, which of course sounds like such a great idea, right? Ignorance is the enemy of compassion. Engender knowledge and you will be truly free. Know something, know anything and all.
Gemini- In The Apotheosis of George Washington, our first president and british ass kicker, the G-Wash is depicted as man becoming god, hence the fresco's catchy title. I love artists who don't need to fall back on hyperbole to make a point. I'm building my own pedestal out of a paste I make from old espresso grounds and bat guano, which is no fun to harvest, but makes great pedestal cement, despite of the constant threat of a rabid infarction trauma®, and of course the ever present miasma of bat guano wafting heavenwards toward my enlightenedness. Forge your own pedestal material and become Rodan, embody Bernini, channel Chillida, and ask Dali for a dance. Ascendancy is your birthright. The guano is mine.
Cancer- Raintree County, posit: the multiverse is so big and so old that all of this has happened before. You are but one part of one cycle of the ever weaving cosmic fabric. You are a semi-sentient grain of sand on a cosmic beach, tossed about by crashing branes. That said, it's time to speak of rock solid foundations and the floating piece of broken off glacier on which you've been squatting. Soon you will sail into more tropical waters, and the need for a permanent base not made of pre-cambrian ice shelf will become imperative. When you find your mainland, decorate it to your taste and then eat some cocoanuts to cure your ice scurvy.
Leo- A bunghole is no laughing matter. It's the hole drilled into a cask or a barrel so that you can get the booze out, get your drunk on, and then you stuff the hole with a cork, also known as... a bung. Now, I know what you're thinking. How am I going to ruin this perfectly well meaning 'scope about how cool history and words are and shit, into an orgy of butthole references using childish imagery of peoples' nethers, replete with taint jokes that will prove nauseatingly puerile. Yeah well, you don't know me. You don't know the one who dreams of you at night, who longs to kiss your lips, and wants to hold you tight. Your bunghole is your business.
Virgo- This week I recommend you strive to be a little more Boss Tweed and a little less Andy Gibb. A little more Paul Newman, a little less Darrel Strawberry. A bunch more David Copperfield, but not the magic one. Timothy Leary, not Squeaky Fromme. Bite into a chocolate torte of Scarlett Johanssen, but not the paella of Eva Peron. And for crap's sake, not any, repeat, nary a molecule of Red Skelton, he weirds me out despite his national treasurosity™. Furtherlymore® you can bring Tesla or even that greedy jerk Alva Edison all the way downtown, but stay away from Newton, he has nothing to do with figs or any sweet fruit filling, and his theories are as outrageous as his choice of knickers. Find the middle path. Be the tightrope.
Libra- No.5 is alive and Ally Sheedy is hot on your trail. No disassemble. No disassemble! And yes, butterfly pretty. but keep your eye on the ball here: Ally is coming for you. She will stop at nothing. You and your precious little breakfast club will be nothing but fodder for her wargames. Saint Elmo will avail you not, your armada is in a stormy sea of peril. I recommend you return to spain, tell the king to get over her, I mean I thought the dude is gay anyway, so what does the king of spain want with a wife, right? Also keep an eye out for a NOVA Robotics van and/or anyone named Gutenberg. Steve gets "hungry" during the full moon.
Scorpio- Heads up and fair warning: this may sound a bit like an alarum back-asswards®, but you are about to go ass over tea kettle, arms akimbo and dangerously close to the margin of error plus or minus two jigawatts. Just one more double bonus leprechaun four cherries no lie straight up winner winner chicken dinner, and you will double forfeit all terms and conditions void where uninhibited, etc, etc per anno domine in the patrae ad infinauseum® and suckem the big fat one, amen, and so say we all. However, despite overwhelming odds, the dragon-mounted serpent king will not be victorious over your soul. Henceforth and forthwith and in all known dominions, as per the Treaty of Xargon 7 circa 2417, you are free and clear as of etc, etc, et. al., circa this thursday. Party on, Garth.
Sagittarius- Transdermal®, subliminal, and sub-irregular-fontainebleau are the wicked ways of your sorcerous plots and chaotic deus ex machiavellian machinations. You are hypersonic and sonambulatoriously® absurd. Lest I run afoul of your hair trigger temper, forgiveness I beg, but your abrasions and your damning evidence and your bunny socks are distracting me from the point at hand. We are individuals, you and I. As usual, Captain Kirk's wisdom is deep and wise, "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known." Damn the Dickensian world of yesteryear, go forth, Sky-Archer. Fill thy plate with mannic® honey as reward for thy true arrow's work.
Capricorn- "Humor is the spiciest condiment in the feast of existence", or so said, Lucy Maud Montgomery. I say the spiciest condiment is Uncle Chester's Jalapenopallooza Sauce®, the number one cause of blindness in Calaveras County! And it clearly says on the bottle, KEEP AWAY FROM EYES. Also don't spill any on your lap, especially if you're eating tacos at three in the morning while sitting naked in your kitchen. I am often without pants and find it liberating and mentally stimulating. However, and this is sage advice so I expect you to actually read this part: KEEP AWAY FROM GENITALS. Uncle Chester is a pallooza for your mouth, not your junk.
Aquarius- There is no such thing as a solid. What appears to be solid is actually composed of a ridiculous amount of space. Atoms may seem packed together creating matter, but there is actually more space between those atoms than there is anything solid. Furtherlymore™ our bodies may be 78% water, but we are 99% empty space. Well... it's not empty space, but that is an entirely other kettle of fish of a different colour, sub-nuclearly speaking. your current manifestation of self is spiritual energy gathering up atoms and squashing them together in a way that makes your ass look super good in those pants. Trippy shit, space cadet.
Pisces- One of the Great Smog Events of the 20th century occurred in Donora, Pa. in 1948, when an air inversion trapped pollution from the local zinc smelting plant covering the town for a day, killing 20 and nauseating everyone else. Coal burning and an anticyclone are responsible for the Great Smog of London in 1952, which lasted several days, killing an estimated 4,000 people. Ergo, smog events suck. Your current brown out is about to be swept out to sea, however, and in the clear light of unsullied atmo you will find your biggest desire (and ironically your biggest fear) to be standing right in front of you with open arms and waiting lips.
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