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.
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