Dr. Pants McTurd's MORE Than True Horror-scopes

                       

                                 

disclaimer: Satire is extremely lucid, despite appearances.

this week:  Ke nono au, e kala mua mai, i keia manawa ho'i. And I mean that.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: There may be a clue of sorts somewhere below.

                                                    pettifog

Aries- Astrology probably exists because the world would be a lot less scary if we could predict the future. Just think of all the falderal, monsters, potholes and horse plop that you could easily sidestep. If only. Currently though, we’re stuck with odds makers. The future is at best a stab in the dark with a floppy noodle, which coincidentally was my nickname in middle school, for obvious reasons, mostly gym class. And how is gym a class anyway? Point is, if we could know the path we’re on, we’d have to invent a reason to walk it. Knowing what door you’ll walk through tomorrow is a hindrance, not a help; it’s a ‘verse full of illogic and backwards facing gnomes. What appears to be adversity is actually opportunity, just like the overused japanese crisis metaphor that so plagued us during the 1980’s. Don’t pettifog. Don’t equivocate. The path is yours for the stepping.

ps: Please read Capricorn. Or else…

Taurus- I hereby pledge all my remaining earthly days to creating in real time, the lost vision of one of my heroes, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, which after I get a robot body in 2069, could well last into the 22nd century; especially after Apple Corp. works through all the bugs of the first few generations and I can have a decent camera on both my front and back. Video chatting with yourself will be all the rage in the future; it’s like looking at your image in two mirrors producing an infinite amount of yous—super trippy. Anyhowdy, my mad genius Coleridge created--- The Pantisocracy® (patent pending). Sam won’t mind, he’s dead, and we’re cool like that and screw him anyway. A Pantisocracy is a utopian society. All I need is a frontier that I can head to and get my cult going--- I mean utopia. Those two things shouldn’t be so easily confusable. My advice is to observe what you think makes you happy. Interrogate it under the scrutiny of sane thought, and make sure that it suits you.

Gemini- I decided we should take umbriage at the word welch. As in, you’re a welcher for not paying me my extortion money. I did a couple minutes of intense research and found that dictionaries don’t want to discuss its origins. However, I surmise, probably correctly, that since the english have a pretty solid track record of destroying and/or assimilating other cultures, that the Welsh have had to bear the burden of being known as dishonest people, because of their refusal to bow before an English king. Located in mountainous

territory, Wales is a bit afganistanish, and probably difficult to root out all those darn insurgents/indigenous peoples. But maybe all cultures have the same basic instinct to kill or bring ‘the other’ into the fold; perhaps to prevent ‘the other’ from doing the same unto you. The english had better weapons and a finer sense of cruelty over the long haul. And maybe those ‘innocent’ ‘indigents’ had displaced other peoples before our obsessive record keeping, back when the world was passed orally to the future over the lips of shamans and story tellers. Don’t be a welcher. Be a WelshMan. And claim your kingdom in a weird language that sounds viking.

Cancer- The brown rat, aka the Norwegian rat (for obvious reasons), lives everywhere-- not just Norwegia. They’re the second most successful species on the planet after humans. They’re problem solving survivors. Except in Alberta, Canada. In the early 50’s, the government approved a naziesque eradication plan, that today has resulted in a nearly rat free province. The efficacy of industrial poisons is inescapable. I wonder if the Albertanians (Albertanites?, Albertanionians?) know what they’re missing? Certainly we would frown on any other sentient species being so thoroughly expunged. What if we decided to eliminate whales and dolphins? Or apes and monkeys? Oh wait, we are trying to eliminate them. What would the dodo say if he were alive today? Probably nothing intelligent, but nevertheless, I say we stand united against sentient massacres of all kinds, regardless of their disease carrying proclivities. Who else is going to live in the sewers? Not including certain alligators and eloi weirdos, of course. Speaking of, what lies in your fetid underworld that would be much healthier being brought into the light of day? Don’t expel, eradicate or banish. Rather, embrace, nourish and exalt.

ps: Please read Gemini, Or else…

Leo- Courtly Love allowed for a woman to have a mister. By which I mean, that it was allowable and expected that even a woman could and should be attracted to another man. Frak all, that marriage became so victorian, so controlling, so… monogamous. The very definition of zealot insists on taking things far too afield of the Middle Path. Although, projecting love and/or obsession onto a woman who is unavailable may be indicative of some backwards and unhealthy male projection, based on, most likely, maternal rejection. Why love a woman who is unreachable, unavailable and unassailably erudite, exotic and sex-built—you are an epitome of what should be worshipped and adored and wrapped around me like a snake in a garden in an arbitrarily designed matrix that says that love of another ist verboten und shaddenfreude. Ach tung, baby! What a flummoxing factotum of flux frik frakking my fractured fizzle fazzle finger farts… ah what’s the use, when you desire an untouchable. The queen’s hegemony is over and the world is ours for the tasting, if only in spirit and disguised smiles.

Virgo- You waylaid and deposed me. I was just trying to hitch across your great disjointed states, your union of beautiful trespass that I’ve so oft admired. You are a federation of islands, a micronesia covered in jungle and sand and surfboards, and cocoanuts the size of C-cups that plop softly onto your beach-- no two alike, and dedicated to the proposition that I wish to be indoctrinated into you, made citizen of your

lands, and welcomed with open arms whenever I slide onto your beachhead, exhausted from my kayaking ‘cross the vast oceanus. My ensconcement in your fjords and tide pools is a salty oasis from the dire straits of the open sea. The doldrums, and the trade winds are too rough for one as bonobo as me. And though global warming and penguin erasing may take us a bit under, making your land all the more precious, this time is ours, now and forever, love without end.

Libra- According to Guinness, and possibly Hoyle, Mamihlapinatapai  is the most succinct word ever created and the most difficult to translate. It’s a Yaghan word  from the indigenous people of what is now Tierra del Fuego. It’s a look shared by two people, each wishing the other would offer something that they both desire but are unwilling or unable to offer themselves. That must have been a very deep society before the west trampled all over it in search of gold and/or a reason to exist besides a god that wants war all the time. What a moment in time for the ’verse to manifest. It may be someone you know, or someone you catch in passing, a random handshake that propels your imagination into a possible future, but one that cannot exist in our timeline. Opportunities passed up, because there is only one path, right? And ours is one of chastity and forbearance, because abstinence is the key to happiness, as well as quiet empty rooms. Right?

Scorpio- Ah, love… what a rub. Actually the rub may be the forced monogamy of our man-woman-marriage-dystopia, that provides no chances for even a figmentary moment of escape into the rapture of satisfying our inevitable desires because they lie outside the covenant of wedded bliss; feelings will be hurt and we’ll probably go to hell for eternity, which ironically is what every night is without you in my arms. Covenant: a pact, usually made before god. I proclaim us neo-Victorians, or to coin a moniker, the neo-Vics©. With 7 billion people on the earth, the odds of being attracted to, or even falling in love with more than one person over the course of a lifetime is even and/or steven. I’m not advocating any changing of horses midstream, I’m just making a comment on a possible future for the party platform of the neo-Vics©, WE who will change the morays to suit our occasional dalliances and kiss those who need kissing.

ps: Please read Leo and Virgo. Or else…

Sagittarius- Firstly, I am not a foot fetishist. Just wanted to get that out of the way because even though there’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just not my thing, at least with my own feet, which are, to no surprise, hobbitish. Secondly, let’s get to the elephant feet in the room and discuss the ancient practice of feet washing. Jesus allegedly washed his apostles’ feet and said do it for other folks. In parts of India, feet touching or washing has more to do with respect, particularly of elders. I wash my own feet everyday because otherwise they smell. But it’s my burden, and I don’t have any societal conditioning to force me to do it and justify why I like others washing my nethers, or my feet for that matter. I’m ambivalent to the whole thing. Thirdly, 1. Find some feet. I understand if you’re anti-hobbit. 2. Wash them. 3. Examine how you feel. I predict it will be as clean as the feet you just washed.

Capricorn- I know you’ve been looking for the perfect billiard metaphor to give as a gift, so feel free to regift the hell out of this one. Each pool shot seems like a distinct moment in time that can never be reproduced in exactly the same manner. Well… maybe if we invent a Minnesota Fats robot. Each ball configuration (you have no idea how hard it is for me not to make a joke about that clever turn of phrase— super hard) is unique. However, those balls are moving. Not only is the earth moving under the balls (Carole King’s alternate lyrics), but the atoms that make up the ball are moving, as well as the atoms in the table. There’s more space in those balls than there is balls. Nothing is ever still or distinct, except as a mathematically infinitesimal fraction of a quantum that upon defining, slips from existence. A blink of Shiva’s eye. The world seems stunningly precise, even if it doesn’t exist. Discuss.

Aquarius- You’ve missed my point once again, so open up your reading ears this time, will ya? While there are large principles at work, that mold our collective values, beliefs as well as our need for greed, speed, money, capitalism and oreo cookies; there are smaller forces at work in our very diverse global system that are beyond our current definitions, and certainly beyond our ability to pro- or pre- scribe any truly advantageous solution. Revolution is sometimes necessary, but a successful one has a clear goal in mind. Consider what you envision as your end result before you start making signs or agreeing with the logic of outrage, which I cannot deny is a valid emotion. The world is simply not as simple as hang the rich and feed the poor. If the meek inherit anything, it will likely be an ensuing generation of egos bent on building monuments and praise toward uneven psychology. Before we jump off the cliff, let’s you and I take deep breath and continue doing what we do best: figuring out how everything works (including yourself which is arguably the perfect micro that will serve as a bridge to the macro), and then we’ll tinker, futz, and revolt. One idea can change the world.

Pisces- Your spiral staircase makes my head, ass and joints hurt every time I tumble down it. Your attic, where you insist the rent is cheap, is musty and riddled with the ghosts of people who tried to contain you, box you in some ergonomic fashion, according to their feelings about you. Or rather their feelings of inadequacy that they projected onto you, perhaps in the hopes of sparing themselves yet more humiliation at the hands of a loved one, whom they probably worshipped and modeled themselves after, until they were betrayed by them. Your attic screams are from another time, and I don’t know how you can hear anything in there. Your trick staircase is only designed to keep people out. Ditch it and travel down the spiral and come out and play. All the world is green again and has been waiting for you.

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40 is not a real number, but rather a fraud and a charlatan and yeah, I'm saying it--- a carpetbagger.

         Dr. Pants McTurd's MORE Than True Horror-scopes
                                 
disclaimer: Birthdays are satirical in nature. But not all satire is funny.

this week: My earnestness is no casualty, nor causality of increased sagacity, which is an obtuse way of  saying, I'm how old??-- I call bullshit.

Aries=  I heard that broccoli can feel pain, especially when sauteed. Something about the boiling olive oil piercing its soul. But I don't care, it's going into my belly. It's not my fault that it evolved delicious and nutritious and full of vitamins that helps me enjoy survival, not to mention the colonic benefits of a veggie heavy diet. Broccoli was something else in another, more ancient time. And as it is wont, the river keeps flowing forward and a broccoli-like plants emerged, which we cultivated once the onset of agriculture really took hold, once enough knowledge and climate held steady for a few thousand years, the poles freezing for a plateau in spacetime, and luck being on sapiens' side; how simply amazing it is that broccoli exists. "If you will it, it is no dream",  credited to T. Herzl via Sobchak, ibid/:WikiWiki21572.msg. Pain exists for a reason, rise above, and even boiling along with your veggie melange cannot touch you.

Taurus= Allow me to explicate more specifically why I hate pedestrians. No--- not hate. Deplore, detest, and disparage, to the which I feel entitled. Excluding of course the elderly, or children under, say 12, which is arbitrary considering the discrepancy between draft status eligibility and drinking age. Rather I speak now of those able of body and deficient of courtesy, that if they just took into consideration the flow of traffic and the whole paying shit forward malarky that's creeping around the social scene lately- like a stink after a cat crap; that the world should not revolve around them and depose or dispose them to irresponsibility, and that maybe you should move your ass a little through the crosswalk because there's fifty frakking people waiting to turn right, while you sashay your way 'cross my visage and my time and every last precious second I have in this body, currently being spent in traffic. It is all too un-common sense that says, help others on their journey, so shall you be helped on yours.

Gemini= "The flatulence of the future will ever be a potent and potentially odoriferous mystery...until we get there and we smell them." -- credited to the Grippa, son of Agrippa, descendant of El Grippa the Eld, circa 314 BC, in or around the Tigris-Euphrates river valley, or what is now an oil/boon-doggle. These words, transient thoughts from a distant past, through ingeniously recorded material, lay in wait for each generation's interpretation and implementation. I'm in awe of the inherent brilliance of recordable data. Various forms of recorded knowledge aid our evolution, so inherently we 're driven to find new ways to save data, and hopefully absorb it, and even more hopefully, transforming it into a 'more advantageous' future, thereby driving our own evolution on a more conscious level, or at least I think so. I think so. 314BC. Like minds connected through stuff that we have in common that exists only on paper, or a cave painting, or on a degradable microchip, or DVR, or DVD, or whatever else we can dream up. Furtherlymore©, you are in a unique position. Please enjoy the life that has been waiting for you. The flatulence of the future is only a metaphor.

Cancer= We live under the constant threat that there is magically somehow a right and/or righteous way to dance, that is both proper and cool, and that is guaranteed to attract the femininas, to love me (hopefully) long time and mayhap eclipsing my proclivity towards a pornography more ovine in nature. I contend that right and righteous went out with the downfall of imperial christianity in this country. Full disclosure: I can't dance, not even in my own mind. I lack the capacity, the coordination, the freedom to perform any type of movement set to music, of any kind, style, or century. Simply put, I am a creature of mind and occasionally of body. Contradictorily, You are fluid. YOU are the tides. The moon. A symphony in G minor, that stair steps me skyward with deific leaps of thought, riding on coat tails of the truly munificent, inclined to pay forward the duty and exise, pushing the righteous ohm forward, ever forward, because the dark matter will always beckon us home, to return to a time of singularity, one that is a priori to all bangs, Big, small, multi-dimensional, or love/sex induced.

Leo= I don't watch America's Funniest Videos for the crotch punching. There's also animals who bite crotches, amateur jackasses who land on their crotches, and of course, toddlers whose wise parents have entrusted with a bat or a golf club and seem genuinely surprised when the little cur swings that thing right at, you guessed it... someone's crotch. Having been hit in the crotchal region is a time honored and inevitable rite of passage for all males, that while painful, teaches lessons that have to be learned the hard way, so to speak. And I don't know who I prefer more-- Tom Bergeron or Bob Sagat, but I would sit around with either or preferably both of those guys and talk crotch all day long. As hosts and people, they are delightful. How they keep crotch battery so mother fudgin' fresh is a gift. Crotches are like magnets for all the wrong objects. You have nothing to fret, while crotchward missiles are inevitable and unpredictable, everything coming at your crotchal region in the foreseeable future is well intentioned and lubed for everyone's pleasure.

Virgo= I remember every atom and moment about you, at least amongst those I've been privy and privileged to facing face to face, mouth to skin, all dripping and heliotropic, strewn liberally through the cosmos on stradivarian strings. In another life we're lovers, ostentatiously heartbreaking, bhuddistic and sex obsessed, tantric and inseparable. In this life, through which I'm speaking to you now, our dimension is fractal and debased, a shell of the iceberg that formerly subducted our mutual oceanus. We now exist at angles to each other, reflected through multiple prisms, defracted, and diffused. Needless to say or feel, I could stare at your geometric for parsecs upon light years. I am a novatic star, collapsing and expulsing my innards, morphing from energy producing bionic strings to matter and light inducting brain spasms, tingling from axon through dendrite to the ascendancy of genius and mutation; all my information gleanable when interlocuted as one, all dark matter fused from my jurisdiction and my sight, because you are the only thing I want in my vision, my heart, and my aenima exploding at the speed of light only to rest in your arms the morning after, and ever after, and until time has none left, and we continue as something else, equally inseparable.

Libra= In the distant past, let's say roughly the late 1980's, a woman was still wooed with well written words, preferably inebriately penned, then delivered-- preferably to her boudoir at sun-up, possibly by a serf, smelling faintly of a man's scent or perhaps rose oil-- the letter, not the serf..., and seemingly spontaneous; constructed and devised in such a way that the woman would choose a more educated and 'savvy' alpha rather than a hulking hoosier (derived from ancient Indianian French), meaning "something large and/or stupid". Free will is a construct. An idea. An atom on the timeline of earth and humans and god, as we dioxyriboneucleicacidly© spiral into the 'future'; which I believe is also a construct, a device that assists our evolution, every thought a mutation designed by chance, or not, and 'dedicated to the proposition that all 'men' are created equal', or at least ambidextrous. But it was my mistake. No mere words could disrobe one so elegant as you.

Scorpio= I'm a terrible bhudda. I require far too much attention. My id is a lonely child who wants a brother or a sister and never got one; or friends that I feel truly safe with despite my obsessive proclivities and emotional vacancies. An oasis where betrayal is never an option, amongst whom I would walk naked sans fear, provided there's a heater on, and someone has filled my glass with a bourbon based elixir that will warm my cockles and cool my inhibitions. The terrible truth of my imperfections is a backpack laden with gold bricks, strapped to me by god itself. If over time, I release the gold back into the wild, simultaneously releasing my need for the gold, I can give the gift back to god, my id maturing as I walk. By the time I reach the red woods, I can float, the forest's canopy my anti-gravitic domain, and the aqueduct inside my chest carrying the only gold I need for this life to every brain cell and arctic tundra. god is oxygen, not gold. bhudda laughs because he is as light as air and wanton with the will of the wind.

Sagittarius=  Is that cinnamon I taste? Mmmmm. And blackberry, could be a hint of lingonberry too. Your vintage is a visage and a vista past my doldrumic straits and into the oxygenated waters of open sea lanes. When I drink you, I am transported to distant continents, with the added bonus of a just a taint of elderberry and quince at the back of my tongue. You are harmless hemlock in my mouth and an unknown pill downed with a trusting swig of your red, a sluice of your pinot, and a snort of your Zin. You go well with meats of all kinds, the fleshier the better, dipped in aioilic sauces, with a side of beignets sprinkled with sugar to compliment your hidden bitters. Fresh vegetables eaten at the farm next to the fields where they grew, and your alcoholic vapors swilling my snout equate to vino-ed veritasian vitality va-vooming via my vena cava. And hey, I know you're out to make a life, not a a living, but can I have please have a job as a sales rep at your vineyard?

Capricorn= “Value this time in your life, kids, because this is the time in your life when you still have your choices, and it goes by so quickly. When you’re a teenager you think you can do anything, and you do. Your twenties are a blur. Your thirties, you raise your family, you make a little money and you think to yourself, ‘What happened to my twenties?’ Your forties, you grow a little pot belly you grow another chin. The music starts to get too loud and one of your old girlfriends from high school becomes a grandmother. Your fifties you have a minor surgery. You’ll call it a ‘procedure’, but it’s a surgery. Your sixties you have a major surgery, the music is still loud but it doesn’t matter because you can’t hear it anyway. Seventies, you and the wife retire to Fort Lauderdale, you start eating dinner at two, lunch around ten, breakfast the night before. And you spend most of your time wandering around malls looking for the ultimate in soft yogurt and muttering ‘How come the kids don’t call?’ By your eighties, you’ve had a major stroke, and you end up babbling to some Jamaican nurse who your wife can’t stand but who you call mama. Any questions?”
--B. Crystal via the 1990's. (We only Riverdance for so long. Build your dog sled team, and ride the wild tundra.)

Aquarius= Bullplop astrology decries and proclaims that the part of the body associated with Aquarius is the ankles. When I was younger, my ankles were strong and virile, full of piss, testosterone and vinegar and I never gave them a second thought. As I age, My ankles require actual assistance. Some rubbing would be nice. Maybe some oil, or a healing unguent, mayhap the caress of a hand that loves me, and wants me to be safe. Before you flash backward to the crib, place your mind into the miracle that makes us ambulatory. Focus your con, un-, and collective consciousness(es), into your feet. An earth is moving under it in a greek spectacle of orbital flirtation. Millions of years it took the world to birth your feet. They are the wings of angels and mercy, and a warm dessert made of chocolate ostrich eggs and the french kissiest of toast. Despite the bullplop, nay to spite the bullplop, and in spite of the bulliest of plops, let's rub feet and pray for rain, together, until the savage soothing deluge arrives to assuage our unquieted souls.

Pisces= I am loathe to admit such foolery, but honesty will ever be my downfall. I will know my soul mate when I meet the woman who is willing to trim my ear hair for me, and then still be in the mood to 'get it on'. Alone, it's a onerous task-- the ear hair and the sex..., one to which and wit that even Sisyphus would say, 'Suck it, boulder, run me down and drag me to hell, what are you going to do, force me to push a boulder up a hill? Been there!' And yes, there's a physical attraction to discuss, and whether we have anything to talk about when the sex inevitably becomes routine, but if she would grant me extraneous hair trimming, and maybe even some help man-scaping, I'd be willing to do anything for her, no matter how weird and morally questionable. There are certain necessities in life in order to maintain the dignities of the victorian ego. Ear hair only becomes more unsightly, white, lengthy, and bazillionic©. And my love for you, only the latter.

stay tuned for the Dr.'s upcoming new logo! It's going to be fresh, or hip, or rad, and stuff.

 

            Dr. Pants McTurd's MORE Than True Horror-scopes

                                   

disclaimer: Satire was not invented by Sartre. He was too much of a realist.

              this week: My dinghy may be dingy, but never disreputable.

Aries-  James the Just, aka James the Less, aka James the Righteous, not to be confused with James the Great, aka St. James aka Apostle James, was the first Bishop of Jerusalem (nice!) and may have been related to Jesus, provided that the entire church history wasn't simply a well spun technicolor yarn from the Council of Nicaea in AD 325, in order to propagate the validity of the neo-jews, who preferred to be called christians, who used to be pagans, romans and visigoth barbarians. The term pagan inherited a negative connotation because christianity had better press. To my rambling point: can we not agree that using evolutionary and scientific terms and models, is the proper way to describe the evolution of religion, belief and even specific thoughts and feelings that we all share? Everything is science, which is why it's the new religion. god isn't dead. It's simply napping til the next incarnation of our collective psyches can attain a new level. Enjoy some figs and profligate in biblical proportions.

Taurus- I still say that the movie Golden Child could have been saved from its own banality. I grew up watching Eddie Murphy, and have only the highest opinion of him as a performer. That said, when, Eddie? WHEN THE FUDGE is Golden Child 2 going to delight my senses? I'm thinking JJ Abrams, with screenplay written by Orson Scott Card. BTW, don't let them make Ender, dude---they'll piss all over it, with their Taco Bell and Facebook sponsorship. However, there is also a desperate need for a return to Big Trouble in Little China. Maybe we could combine the two. I hear Kim Cattrall is looking for a project. So... the Golden Child grows up and has to save the world again, and he and Eddie and Kim, and that hot girl from the first Golden Child, who I fell in love with after her wet t-shirt karate scene, they all go to Little China and fight some demon dude while looking for Kurt Russel (Jack Burton- duh), who was last seen driving the Pork Chop Express downtown for some dim sum, cause that's how he rolls. Call me, the treatment will literally write itself.

Gemini- The wiring in my apartment is pre-war. Crimean, I think. Case in point: there's a porch light that I share with my next door neighbor, that both apartments have a controlling switch to. We both agree that having it on when stumbling home in the pitch dark which envelops our en-jungled building, is a big fat plus. And since she and I both have off hours, the light remains on all the time. As in any relationship, there are terms and conditions that ideally create balance. After much cud chewing, I realized that our relationship is based on the predicate that I would rather flip my switch, and foot the bill for it's constant shine, because it's just easier-- less headache I guess, but hey, where's the equanimity, the camaraderie, the shared-- ah screw it, I'll flip my switch. I hear chicks love passive aggressive guys. Bear in mind that the channel of least resistance does not mandate that you bear the burden. You are not the victim, but rather the vixen. You're a minx with an alley cat's stare, desperate perhaps, but ultimately a world-wise jazz cat fresh from the forests of azure and a hankering for the god tuna®.

PS: you probably need to read Aquarius and Aries. Sorry for the extra work, but do as I say.

Cancer- The Messinian Salinity Crisis was hardcore and not very bitchin'. The Strait of Gibraltar closed due to tectonic activity about 5.5 million years ago, and the Mediterranean dried up. Luckily humans hadn't been invented yet and the tomato was still a 'new world' fruit that was only being eaten by central american nothosaurs with highly developed palettes. Even to this day, the Mediterranean is saltier than the Atlantic, which is probably why my ancestors always salt their tomatoes before they eat them. Columbus came back with tomatoes and hey, we have a lot of salt, let's use some of that! Which eventually lead to a history of heart disease and hypertension that persists in my bloodline to this day. Your salt crisis is more metaphorical and sublime and doesn't involve salt, but a more divine element for life to develop around. No, not arsenic or silicon, that's only for the weirdo outer planets and old Star Trek episodes. You're made of neon and gypsum, titanium and krypton, einsteinium and blue lotus flowers. And your straits will remain open to cleansing abundant rain indefinitely. NaCl in da house!!

Leo-  It took me many years to fully appreciate the genius of snot. Mucous is the most beautiful of all the slimy and sticky fluids in our lives. It's a brilliant invention, even if it is due for a mutation pretty soon. It coats you innards, killing infections, and then drains from your favorite orifices, taking the lousy virus with it, broken and defeated. For years, the logic eluded me. When you get really sick, you need rest, so you try to get some sleep, which we do in a prone position, which results in snot flowing into the lungs and making us even sicker. That's what I mean by mutation. Maybe a quicker release system, like having a better oriented snot valve, probably somewhere near my genitals, that would allow excess snot to exit the body and prevent build-up. It always seemed counterintuitive to me that the defense we evolved over millions of years can make us sicker and even kill us. Or we should only sleep sitting up. Either way, I guess we leave it to the engineers. For now, keep tissues nearby and remember that every time you survive a virus, you prove to the world that you are invincible. Me and my mucous, we killed that contagion together! You might think it's funny, but it's snot.

Virgo-  To know the how of everything, find some animals. And some rocks and trees; and water and the skies-- for seasons upon seasons, the 'complete' cycle of the forever elusive. Even the Mayans are basically full of ye'e. Calendars are pejorative and biased, like that gay transvestite commie hunter from the 50's who 'blackballed' all those people. No group of humans has ever been advanced enough to know the full cycles of everything, especially considering that the Grand Unification Theory is still a thousand years from grokability©; current estimates place it in the year 2988, right after the war with genetically modified dragons that eat Mars. Find some bears, find some bees, eye the tides, and our morphemic moon. Somehow, humans is the only specie that has forgotten where they live. Intelligence has an isolating effect. Individualism goes up, the more the 'natural' world slips away, and we become an illusion of our former selves. Evolution is a sadistic mongoose, who wants to build his house on your face. Be the bear and the eye of the cobra. Find the fish; and the plants that won't kill you with their wicked poisons. The knowledge is innate, but you have to dig it out.

Libra- No offense to the dairy industry (I don't want my legs broke), but cottage cheese will never come into my mouth. That came out wrong, sorry. Forgetting forever that I ever said that-- it's the curds. Even the word, curds... sounds like someone who's about to throw up Taco Bell. It looks like it's already been eaten, friend, and I hate it. And I don't care much for cottage cheese enthusiasts either, I don't trust them, and they too will never be allowed to come into my mouth. Frak, I did it again. While we're on the subject, cole slaw--- aka barf times four, also does not pass mustard nor muster, nay not even Colonel Mustard in the library with the Maid, who doesn't appear to be wearing any bottoms, the both of which will also never come into my open mouth. Yep, still sounds bad. I will never be so hungry that I will eat food that looks pre-masticated. And if we join forces we can beat them at their own curdly and probably flatulence producing products... but only if we work together. Slay the slaw!

Scorpio- The Sargasso Sea will eventually be no more. It simply cannot be forever. It's an underwater rain forest in the middle of the Atlantic, with currents swirling around it, containing it, corralling it into existence within a safe embryonic environ. An ocean of calm within an ocean of movement, structure surrounded by transoceanic freeways. A pity our hubris emits so much CO2, unintentionally speeding up the process. Add to the mix that continents move on plates, the earth slowly cooling to a frozen solid, and our internal thermostat eventually turning off for the long night into whatever the next brane is, and galaxies collide and we are stardust again. Seaweed, then, must be the string of life, which in theory, is bhuddistic© and strangely comforting that despite my ignorance of the true giantness of the 'verse, all we are is moving up strings, time without limit, and life without end; because hey- the 'verse digs that. Have a soda.

Sagittarius- The definition of freedom is everything. Which includes anything. And not un-ironically©... nothing. Balls. Back to square one. Or zero, which binarily speaking is the only other thing there is-- anywhere. And I suppose, conversely, nowhere. Balls. The micro must equate to the macro. There has to be a train that passes between the two, so that our understanding can come full circle. As long as we retain the knowledge of our forbears, grok it and pass it on to our post-bears--- or no... it's that technology and knowledge build up exponentially like layers of sediment, and our knowledge is a mountain, but we are only part way to the top. Meanwhile the erosion keeps us from growing too high too fast. And maybe that's what dark matter is-- a force that pulls when we push, sets limits, so that we don't rip through this 'verse and into another string or brane or dimension or whatever the fudge is beyond this plane, which I've nicknamed 'wack-adoo', patent pending. Unless there's nothing beyond... Our imagination is deific energy guiding us through a field, whose nature is quantifiable only after it's all said and done. Which is never. And always. You're perfect right where you are.

Capricorn-  My condition's condition lies somewhere between titty face rad© and the fact that there's a Battleship movie about to come out. Battleship. The movie. That Rock 'Em Sock 'Em thing I heard was good, but I don't have a five year old, and even getting really high before seeing it wouldn't be worth even matinee price, considering how much weed I'd have to buy to make it interesting and regardless of how scintillating Hugh Jackman is. I'm a Jumanji man anyway. Movies based on board games: what brillianty genius brillianceness. However, truth be told, I wear clothes until they disintegrate. I hate shopping more than anything, more even than using someone's guest towel to dry my hands; staphylococcus manna from germ-town, right? I can't think of a more filthy place. BTW, digression is the sincerest form of flattery. It means that I'm pretty sure you'll keep up. My number one advice this week: avoid australians bearing ridiculous movies, they only want to further your time suck.

PS: read Leo and don't let anyone tell you what to do.

Aquarius- To grok evolution is like reverse engineering literally everything, which somehow includes nothing, unless nothing is some esoteric concept that has no meaning, if meaning even exists, and god forbid I even think the word god. Great Odin's Beard, right? We look at what got built and having to figure out how it got built, in a process that seems to have no why, or a who. Frak, full circle. Knowing, remembering, nay- grokking the past tells us the future. We will bring Asimov's dream of psychohistory into reality, probably in the future, at least I assume, because time's arrow insists on ever going forward, so that the past simply doesn't exist, or it exists as something else, the future-- no the present, yes, this is where the money is. And where there's money, there's usually sex, right. All I'm saying is that if we were a global matriarchy, the inverse of our last 40,000 years, rather than dropping bombs from drone planes and eating processed cheese spread on frozen toast made of government surplus wheat, sugar and corporate and profit born preservatives, I would hope we'd be making lots more naked monkey love, eating aphrodesic berries and experimenting with wild mutations that align with as yet unknown energies.

PS: read Sagittarius and Leo and have a happy frakking birthday.

Pisces- Firstly, my apologies. The MORE than true 'scope´® I had going for you turned out to be a boondoggle. A snow job. A guy in a fat suit, who's not really fat, just a big liar. I had this whole theme about NYC, and digital cameras juxtaposed with a shoddily restored third reel of a 1920's sex tape that somebody pried from the cold dead hands of William Randolph Hearst, whose super secret safe word and email was 'sexmonkey6969'. I came up with cool stupid things to say, like interstellar jet pack zip lines© and Naked Fart Zombies™, and somehow I was going to make a relevant, yet unusual point about Moore's Law and wrap it up with a fortune that would have really knocked your amygdala into high orbit. Luckily, my pseudo esoteric horse plop had a salient climax that still applies even though the whole house of cards became smithereeny. (entropy--what a diva, right?) The future is ever unknowable. The only thing certain is love. Blast off, open your heart and don't forget your camera.

 

Bring me the Groundhog!!

                  Dr. Pants McTurd's 
    MORE Than True Horror-scopes
                                 
disclaimer: Satire is not my fault. It squirts out of me naturally.

this week: I channeled this week's 'scopes from the undead ghost
                                    of Harold Faltermeyer.

Aries-  Nevertheless, natheless is the selfsame. I shit you not. Notwithstanding the sanctimonious sanctioning of semantics, (an arbitrary fight at best), the whole nonetheless debacle is an ongoing national nightmare, that in hindsight I think we can all agree was caused by deregulation and a shortage of penguins, aka The Great Penguin Drought©, which really relates to a dire dearth of icebergs and a surplus of floating oceanic garbage patches, notwithstanding my need for a lot of different kinds of plastic and weapons manufacturing. Try not to get caught up in the outskirts of your own society. Being you is awesome, and nobody does it better, not even Ian Fleming. PS: read Sagittarius.

Taurus- Harold Faltermeyer knows of a secret passage that leads directly into my brain like in that movie where the boom box Say Anything guy plays a puppeteer married to an animal fetishist. Who the fudge is Harold Faltermeyer, you ask ignorantly? He wrote theme music for movies that in a most profound way shaped my teenage years, most notably Beverly Hills Cop, and Fletch. Nothing gets into my head like his arrangements, and luckily, at the end of his songs I don't wind up in a ditch in New Jersey. Find your Faltermeyer. Find your theme song, and play it throughout the day whenever you doubt yourself. We can work out your opening montage with scenes of you doing stunts and looking cool later on.

Gemini- Animal husbandry is no way to start romantic dinner chatter. Cud should also remain off the menu in terms of potential date conversation. Yes, the steak you're eating came from a ruminant with four stomachs and a masticating fetish. (So nice, they chew it twice!) Cud that is, farmer's gold, onshore tea, aka turf & barf. So, to sum up: animals barfing up their own food AND getting sperm and eggs in or out of animals is no way to treat a lady. My late great Uncle Al was a veterinarian and I saw the dude stick his whole arm up a cow's butt to get the coagulated bolus out. (That tidbit is also verboten at dinner.) Woo your mate with cunning, smooth love and hands-on pleasure.

Cancer- The first time I wear a new pair of pants is a solid guarantee that I will spill on them. It's a private joke between me, myself and god. Yep, I said god. Not the beardy dude, or the one you're forbidden from showing his image, and not the smiling fat meditating guy, and certainly not out future overlord Brindelsniffer VII®, whose invasion we will not repel in 2132. Yeah, our great grandchildren will be slavish vassals to an alien being with no genitalia and really big laser weapons. Sorry. The good news is that we come from the same species that invented "dry" cleaning, so I don't have to take my new dungarees down to the rock by the river, and scrub and scrub with homemade soap that I rendered from my own body fat. Mostly from my thighs. Pound of flesh aside, don't fret. If you break it, stain it, or vaporize it, it's okay. No matter what, I promise you-- there will always be more pants and soap from someone else's fat.

Leo- The packet of "cheese" inside a box of mac n' cheese is not made of paper. It's a weird plastic, no... it's metallic, like foil, and here's why: stoners and mac n' cheese are amigos, nay-- they are lovers.  It's easy to make, and if you mix in a can of tuna, it's nearly healthy. Point is, I made some the other night, opened the box and dumped it right into boiling water, cheese packet included. The corporate bastards have been ahead of my penchant for dumbness for years now, out thinking me, out planning me and loading me with their transmogrified "cheese", laden with salt and chemicals that take me back to my youth, when mac and/or cheese was the perfect thing to shut your kid up. And you could mix in hot dogs-- no need to add rat parts! What a life! Point is, keep an eye on your flavor packets, they serve you well, but could be made to serve the emperor.

Virgo- Whaaaaaaaa--? At the top of the financial hegemony that determines the fate of billions, there's greed, corruption, dishonesty, amoral behavior and whatever the opposite of compassion is? You have the gallstones to tell me that greedy self interest inhabits every niche in our society because it's in the "Constitution"--- surely you jest. Maybe you're just bitter because you're poor and you despise bowing to your social betters, the people who brought you manners and etiquette and table cloths and eating utensils that are not your hands. One theory says that the uber rich and powerful are sociopaths, Dexter-like adepts who manipulate reality to their own needy ends-- love and affection, in the form of money and power, that every heartless homo craves. Homo sapien, dude, don't be a hater or a secessionist from decency. The rich deserve our love. It's the only thing they don't have. Give generously.

Libra- As soon as you land on Fantasy Island, that Khan dude has your specific favorite or ironically apropos drink ready for you, usually in a cocoanut shell with a minimum of two umbrellas, and your first thought is, how the fudge did Khan know that I love Crabtinis®?? All vacations should be planned that way. Some weird dude, who's magic is never explained, knows everything about you and exactly who to set you up with, and dig out your inner demons and snuff 'em into 'blivion, using what I can only assume is the 70's version of the Smoke Monster. That's the guy I want planning my time off. We tend to push all our demon cleaning into a mandated relaxation period instead of taking advantage of all the epiphanic opportunities that exist everyday all around us. Be your own Khan. Allow yourself to find what you really need right now, in your own hometown.

Scorpio- You are a circean draught I ought not to have drunk. Or drank. Have drunken? Whatever, point is that Circe was a goddess who was into mixing magic potions that she used to befuddle her enemies, like when she changed Odysseus' crew into pigs. Swine and men are oft wont of wine, such an obvious weakness, and so easily administered, two drops per glass will drop even the meanest warrior right on his ass. It's at this point that I should be clear: I am NOT advising anyone to give anyone else a ruffie. At least, not without prior consent. In which case, go to town on their ass while they're off napping in Lotus Land. Different strokes for different folks, ja? I am saying that you should be mixing up a proper witch's brew for your next enamorado. Hint hint, I prefer whiskey to wine.

Sagittarius- Sagittarius comes from the latin word sagitta, which means arrow. You are half human and half horse, with an eagle eye and a quiver full of id-tentions®. Your quarries are generally fast moving, and occasionally even you will miss. Even the gods need a reason to keep trying. Failure is the only route to success despite your god-ish powers. Embrace your wrongness. Love your faults. Eat your broccoli. In the words of the Great One: “I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I shoot with my mind. I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.” Just make sure your bullets are only made from love and spread no blood, only pleasure.
PS: read the addendum at the bottom.

Capricorn-  In the kitchen's where I keeps my beers cold and the living room's where I keeps my feets warm with a heater. The bed can stay tepid til me and my love get in there and start up the Whoopee Machine®, which as you get older, you'll need more and more, preferably in pill form. Everything in its place, keeps my head space from going into deep space, which is wheres I keeps my pulsars, quasars, microwaves, as well as my hopes, my dreams, my unrepentant wish for more life, more time, more everything. I want a million hours in each day, cause out in the backyard's wheres I keeps my spaceships that I'm gonna use to lasso that mother truckin' black hole at the center of our galaxy, and make it mine, just like all of time, which they say is all happening right now. And right now. And again right now. But we burn daylight, friend-- man the warp drive! No time to waste. Carpe omnus.                 PS: read Sagittarius.

Aquarius- Before you explode into space, like a true nature's child, that was born-- born to be wild, you better stop-- hey, what's that sound, you better look what's goin' round. Do a proverbial check of yourself in order that you do not wreck yourself from lack of being thorough. I suggest you put on your finest Sunday bonnet and go to town. Not literally of course, you'd be ridiculed and stared at because the bonnet era officially ended in 1923. Take a load off, Manny, or Annie, or whoever, take a load for free. Shortsightedness is a blessing, one that doth like a poisonous mineral gnaw my inwards, because: Hey, I've listened to preachers, and fools, and all the dropouts who make their own rules. I recommend you focus on the very small for a very small amount of time. The grand scheme of things relies on your grokking of the wee schemes going on under your nose.

Pisces- We were not always the kings of the jungle. Our relationship with animals is an ancient one, originating in a world where our species was not the top of the food chain. Ergoingly© the zodiac is based on the iconography of the animal world. Animals are our cousins, we grew up together, and eventually got really good at killing all of them. As we continued feeding off the world, they became us, we incorporated them. We embodied those animals, made them a part of our consciousness, and then placed them in the sky so that we would always remember from whence we came, until the stars themselves are no more. Unpack and unfurl your beasts, cloven or otherwise: the packs, the pods, the murders, the gaggles, swarms, hives, clowders, exaltations, congregations, dissimulations, sleuths, drunkenships, businesses, broods, rabbles and rookeries. They are part of you, inhabiting your deepest jungles and can still be heard if you shut your fat mouth for 5 seconds.




                                The Groundhog Addendum

The hour is nigh, when we bring forth the hibernating rodent. Or bear, or badger, or any animal that's been burrowing in for a cold winter's six months, probably disturbing some really quality REM sleep, and then forcing said mammal to prognosticate the future, so that I may properly prepare for my crop planting, not to mention when I can start wearing white again; I mean, Labor Day was a while back, and being a slave to fashion is uber importante to me, as is etiquette. Sadly, there's never a good time for gaucity©, or lack of manners.

Punxsutawney Phil gets all the credit because he's such a big shot movie star---"I've worked with Bill Murray" (I can't abide name dropping herbivores)---, but let us not forget the contributions of other future telling giant rats: French Creek Freddie from French Creek, WV, Chuckles the Groundhog from Manchester, CT, and Stormy Marmot from Aurora, CO. And of course no vermin list would be complete without the most oft ignored Octoraro Orphie from Quarryville, PA. What a great, and powerful rodent is he, united the Force he did.

Most importantly on this special day, I'd like to acknowledge my ancestors: the Celts. Though they never knew the glory of basketball, it is this day, roughly February 2nd, sometimes the 1st, depending on the ol' Julian vs Gregorian debate which has raged for nigh on centuries now, (countless calendars have given the ultimate sacrifice), that we celebrate the halfway point between the winter solstice and spring equinox. If we could but predict the future, or at least the future weather, I could better provide for my family and the families of those who work with me, grinding our way, season after season into the future, where only no one knows our true destinies, except that we are all equal and all at peace, through knowledge, love, and bellies full of kale and apricots.

PS: Happy Birthday, Will Kim-Cara...may fortune bestow upon you the greatest of gifts and the humblest of gratitudes. Live long and prosper.