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

           

disclaimer: Satire is proof of M Theory.

this week: this might be the schnapps talking, but your ass looks like two ripe cocoanuts in those pants.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: laudanum... I prefer illusion to despair.

Aries-  Metaphorical balls: Let’s discuss. Firstly, how ironically patriarchal that one of the strongest parallels to courage and strength of conviction come from the softest, most kickable organ in genital history. Even the strongest man has the weakest, most bruisable body part. Junk on the outside, I love it. Secondish, ironic that the vagina is way tougher than either ball, literally or metaphorically. As Betty White probably never said, it can really take a pounding. Thirdmost, after millions of years of mutation, we arrive at balls having several meanings, the most ironic of which is strength, boldness, and derring-do. Had I not been legally banned from using an oven, I would bake you a cake in the shape of giant metaphorical testes, as a symbol of what’s to come. Happy Birthday.

ps: if you love me, read virgo.

Taurus- Muffin bottoms are bullcrap. The top is a delightful mix of crispy cake and soft muffin innards that makes it truly a wonder of nature; and if you add chocolate pieces to the top, it’s like a sweet taj mahal headed for my belly. The double top muffin®, however, only exists in theory. We are so close to eliminating muffin bottoms, if we can just fund the super collider with a few more billions. According to M Theory, all muffins have more than one top. They exist in other dimensions that would turn our atoms inside out, but they do exist. Sort of, anyway. Heck, our existence is iffy at best, considering the shady-biz sub atomic world, where apparently nothing really exists and time is a meaningless construct that propels our belief in our own existence, thereby creating-- the double top muffin®. If I exist, therefore the double top muffin® also exists. And we will find it together, danger and calories be damned.

Gemini- Lol. Fer reals. You’re not here where I’m at, but if you were in my location, you would see that my laughter is indeed vocal. It is raucous and ribald and life affirming. When you wrote ‘boobs’ on the calculator, it caused waves of silliness to wash upon my shores like… like something super entertaining and chortle inducing. Fer reals. Frak, that’s a lie. I didn’t even crack a smile at your attempt at humor. It’s not that you’re not humorous, or at least humerous, but I pretty much never lol at anything. It seems childish. For the record, I think you’re hilarious in a warped way that is only between us, and your smile reminds me of when all the world was green and I didn’t have to write down that I’m merely smiling at your beautiful mouth and your tender heart. No lol. Fer reals.

ps: if you love me, read capricorn.

Cancer- Age is occasionally not so suckballs. As entropy increases, my monday morning armchair quarterbacking blindly revels in hindsight, and I can feel you coming from a mile away. Those apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur = nice. You’re Barbarella barreling towards me like the future I didn’t know was waiting for me. You’re an improbability drive pooping in and out of spacetime at the speed of a fusion powered hummingbird. With age comes more perspective, more vision around corners that are now like repeats of 80’s tv shows. I don’t know where you are in the river of time, but the view only gets better, and up ahead, there are no corners. Your avenues go for miles with green lights all the way. Hit the gas like when the world was new.

Leo- Warning: Do not read the following: the list you’ve been compiling in your head vis-à-vis how much crap you’re full of, i.e.: the estranged sidereal period that strains your innate happiness as if it were noodles, like the ones my grandmother used to over-cook and call Eye-talian food-- is over; yet know this: the stars you embiggen float like asterisks, inviting you to partake of their tacit understanding of your tantric state, creating the following fallacies: 1) that your circularity is rhomboid, 2) that what you feel and what you do are disparate species, and 3) that this has anything to do with deserves: you are ensconced in a subatomic process that is both friendly and nurturing despite the occasional infliction of pain, emotional or otherwise that is associated with this ridiculous corporeal simulacrum: go forward in the direction of your beliefs regardless of extraneous prophecies portending doom.

Virgo- You are a recursive acronym, a grandfalloon, and a pugilistic boatman, who insists on chasing vorpal swords with runcible spoons. If we existed in any tangible sense, I would buy you a oversized stuffed wocky, probably of the jabber ilk and we would laugh together like inebriated children until the cows either come home or tip over and implode on their own. The dark matter associated with your self immolative tendencies do not negate, but rather expurgate your deific true nature. Your board has been waxed with juices of the undine, elementalized and set adrift amongst friendly water sans predators, where you and the ocean can be free, free to move with the moon and the stars and all the undersea vibrations of ever advancing life, regardless of how many garbage patches we make or how many sentient cetaceans we cut up for fin and blubber. Tell no one, but your spirit is advancing at an exponential rate.

Libra- There is some necessary roughness in your future, which will seem like a paid vacation to the Riviera, where scantily clad French harlots with pinot goggles will vie for your attention as if you’re the Maharishi on viagra. Even the swedes will envy your pornographic skills. Silver tongued anteaters will sit in stunned abeyance of your Pan-riffic skill sets. You are a stellar orgy of infinite cosmic replenishment, that somehow creates a Joyce that creates a quark that namesakes a theoretical particle that engenders what it means to be alive-- and not alive at the same time, like that cat in the box with the poison, an experiment that could only be thought up by a german. God gave you a tongue so you could taste the cosmos and report back on the inter-dimensional flavor train that travels the width, breadth, and insane depths of a twenty three dimensional multiverse. Cleanse your palette, it be time to sup. 

Scorpio- I have been a member of The Worshipful Company of Bakers since mid 12^th century. Some historians prefer to call it the precursor to scientology, but they don’t squat, I was there, and it was all about the baking. Or rather it was about the king setting an assize of baking laws to keep unscrupulous bakers like me honest. Hence, the invention of the baker’s dozen. Just to make sure I’m not a cheat, I give you 13 instead of 12 muffins, it keeps your baked goods even since odds are good that at least one of your pastries is hollowed out so I could feed my ducks and/or my thirteen children. This week, keep in mind the following: 1) for our purposes, 13 = 12, 2) bakers are all cheats, and 3) don’t mess with a guild, or risk being baked into a pie. Worship me and be fed.

ps: if you love me, read capricorn.

Sagittarius- The history of clothing styles is the history of our psychological development. I cite as my first case, the burka vs. the bikini. The spectrum doesn’t have more opposite ends than that. Ahh, the female form… some cults demonize it, some worship and pray at its temple mount. Some test A-bombs on its beautiful atoll, creating radioactive boobies that still glow orange to this day. How we treat what we ascribe as beautiful and valuable is a clue to our inner workings. SHE is the source, the giver of life, she is shiva the creator and shiva the destroyer, either absurdly concealed or barely covered. How we judge and clothe HER is who WE are on the inside, our intentions and how we clothe our love. Wear what you want; conformity is the short road to tyranny.

Capricorn- The fine line between lust and love does not exist. Only humans would make attraction between two people so difficult. The construct of monogamy requires sacrifice. Therefore it’s sinful to want another person. Even to imagine your beautiful form hovering close to mine, so near that our breaths embrace together, is tantamount to an eternity in hell. Frak, where was I… some moments are not meant to be commandeered, but rather enjoyed only from afar. It’s the same reason I don’t stare into the sun, too much of a good thing blasts my brain with photons that would impair it, stealing my real sun from me forever. Thankfully you rise and set every day. Sometimes we need not possess, but merely to watch and love. This week, I recommend not getting grabby.

Aquarius- Those that work forces, benefit from the mis- education and information of the general public. The dirtier the airwaves in our collective conscious, the more certain forces can manipulate the conversation. Make the jungle so loud, that no one can hear anything, and we numbly sift through white noise just to get a hard on. The bigger the world consciousness gets, the easier it will be to fill it with nonsense and falderal. The hoi polloi cannot speak in one voice, as is your wish. It’s like the ocean—the ocean can’t be one thing, it has to be infinitely complex full of varying temperature and salinity gradients, as well as an ever evolving surge of life which knows know boundaries. All you can do, effectively, is to watch the currents, know the stars and keep steering your canoe.

Pisces-  Megadeath isn’t just a heavy metal band. The term was coined back in the good ol’ days when war was cold and parking nuclear missiles up the ass of our commie neighbors was hot. The original Professor Falcon was a real guy named Herman Kahn, a nuclear war strategist and future predictor known primarily for his statement that, ‘after a nuclear war, the survivors would envy the dead!’ (I added the !, just to drive a point home). He also surmised that it was hard for the average person in the 1950’s to distinguish between 2 million people dead and 200 million people dead. How quaint. In today’s world, I know exactly what 200 million dead would be like. It’s only .02% of the current world population. The new megadeath, after adjusting for inflation, is an even better megadeath that I like to call super mega-rad death. Wow, this got dark. But I know you like rambling nonsense, so dig this: like your love life, everything is right here waiting silently for you.

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

                 

                                 

disclaimer: Satire, like flatulence is assumed (incorrectly) to be mostly ignitable methane.

this week: In your face, aussies… the sun is ours once again.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: selcouth. It’s as strange as its definition.

Aries- No one can predict the future. I mean, I can, but without me, you’re up crap creek and it’s hot and heavy deep in frog mating season. Your future is coming. It’s coming at you like the accidental drop of a toilet seat that wakes up everybody in the freakin’ house, and they all know you’re the clutzy a-hole, the same jerk who once woke up peeing into the washing machine and doing worse in the dryer. As always I’m replete with caveats, so feel free to unbelieve the following: I can tell you your future, but you won’t believe me—my own Cassandra Complex. There’s twelve monkeys on your back that prevent me from telling you how close you are to a hidden booty of the most divine nacre. Prepare to get lacquered, smackered and totally tally wackered.

Taurus- Statistically, more blueberry muffins are sold in the world than any other kind of muffin. Before we debate, let me hit you with an evolutionary viewing area. Blueberries are the most economically adapted to our societal, cultural, and dietary needs more than any other fruit-- at least in terms of muffins. Sure... an apple muffin, a cran-upsidedown-pineapple, or my personal preference, chocolate chocolate chip with added chocolate chunks and pieces of dark chocolate covered chocolate beans, would be swell and/or nifty, but they’re a niche market. Blueberries have cornered the market in the muffin world. They are the Google. They’re the Apple and Microsoft. The Corleone family. Blueberries are powerful entities steeped in primordial bogs. Be the berry. Be the bog. Dominate the evolution.

Gemini- Based solely on the ability to levitate, my favorite saint by far is Joseph of Cupertino. And no, it’s the original Cupertino in Italy, not the techno d-bag enclave in the bay area. Granted, most religions have cool flying fat guys who like to proselytize and spread the good word either through this martyr or that, or through the teaching of mindfulness (what a waste of time...). But Joe was described by his ‘friends’ as ‘remarkably unclever’. He often stood gaping, just staring into space. And then he’d start levitating, elevating his status to airborne and unclever. Consequently, he’s the patron saint of astronauts, aviators, and test takers. Up there, in the sky, it’s you, not breathing in a high altitude test that you think determines your future. Your sainthood is assured. Breathe easy and just fall. The earth will catch you.

Cancer- A guy asked me one morning, ‘Hey, pal, how are you going to make today special?’ I couldn’t detect any sarcasm, which threw me off. He was serious. Okay, well first I’m going to do my level best not to take this guy’s positive attitude and crap all over it. Then I’m going to consider and see if I can be less of an a-hole and give a reasonable answer, which is possible but doubtful. So I asked him the same question. He said, ‘On Sunday we always go volunteer at this shelter downtown, and then we go to the hospital and bring kittens for kids with cancer to play with.’ Yep, I’m the a-hole. My plan was to include several beers, some light pouting, maybe a bag of cookies and then bed. Somehow, there’s people out there who don’t feel the constancy of my anger, dissonance and defeatism in the face of man’s inhumanity to man. Go figure. So, sans sarcasm, what are you going to do to make today special?

Leo- Joseph Pujol, I fart in your general direction. You might know him better as Le Petomane, the 19^th century vaudevillian, who had an innate ability to expand and contract his intestines and rectum at will, becoming history’s most famous professional farter. I prefer the term of art, fartiste. He was adept at such crowd pleasers as blowing out a candle from several feet away, performing ‘O Sole Mio’ on an ocarina through a rubber tube shoved you-know-where, and an artfully done impression of the 1906 San Fran earthquake, which never failed to bring down the house. I doubt you have his innate gifts, but I guarantee that whatever your weirdest and most secret talent is, you will find a perfect outlet for it. It may even put wind in your sails that will take you to never imagined ports of call. Vive Le Petomane!!

Virgo- Men do things for women without necessarily expecting sex in return. I can’t keep a straight keyboard, I’m just kidding. Any interest men show in women otherwise is based on a spiritual desire to fill the unfillable void that exists within all of us as our hormone levels peak, and then slowly decline over time. We are biochemical machines, an amino acid here, a slight twist of the genetic code there, and voila—I’m spend an inordinate amount of time trying to decide which shoes to wear because I hear that women actually notice a man’s shoes, and then realizing that if that’s true, the kind of woman who I will attract will either have terrible taste or immense amounts of pity. Which may be exactly what I should be looking for—someone to understand my fashion disabilities, disinterest and disdain. Point is, maybe you too should stop looking for what you think you want, and lead the life that’s been waiting for you. Life isn’t in your shoes, it’s all around you.

Libra- George Carlin once said, ‘Maybe god created humans because he wanted plastic, and he didn’t know how to make it for himself’. I love and miss that man. Which brings me and my fellow irishman to a common point: seems like we do tons of stuff that god can’t do himself, like cliff diving, nation building, crossword puzzles, new and creative web porn, and the American Kennel Club. However, belief in god, and the desire to please god is a hard-wired process in my brain. At some point it became advantageous for us to create a god figure, usually according to the dictates of whatever wack-a-doo society we’re in. For example, I grew up in a small town in remote Taffypullastan, where tradition dictated that this huge rock in the center of town was in fact, god. I think it was god simply because it was too big to move. Anyhowdy, I’ve spent my time rock polishing! Repeat after me: Now, it’s me time. What am I going to do for me today?

Scorpio- I can see the depravity behind your smile, but I find it gamesome and passing courteous, and more than a turn on. Your eyes are well meaning and full of cylindrical holes, that strain your noodle, all the while preventing it from slipping down the drain. Reverse your polarity and engage the magnetic field that your planet had forgotten existed. Deflect and deny the solar fusion rays that bind your anatomy to rotten soil. You’re no comet, passing blindly ‘round the ‘verse, hoping that one day, you’ll be close enough to hit my planetside and loose your water and magic upon a thirsty world. You’re my moon, my satellite, my tide maker and life producer. We are bound together chemically, despite the space between us. Shine on, you crazy diamond.

Sagittarius- There has already been a patent approved for underwear that contains a charcoal filter and an “escape hole” designed for… well, obvious reasons. I’m wearing the charcoal filter right now and it is so comfortable, I hardy know I’ve got it on! They weren’t cheap, though. So I also have the poor man’s version of the charcoal filter, a dryer sheet that I just shove into the back of my pants. I get lots of comments on how I smell like rotten eggs on a spring day. Patents can be the stupidest money makers. Your ridiculous ideas may not be so delirious. However, the Slot Machine Shaped Toaster, Motorized Ice Cream Cone, and the Tomato Raisin are already taken—no kidding, look ‘em up. Go boldly forth, propagate your strange reality upon our agape maws, and get filthy filthy rich.

Capricorn- The professional farters of medieval Ireland were called braigetori. I’ll just let that statement sink in a sec before I make several salient points. There’s been professional level farters throughout history and I’m just learning this now?! The indigenous Innu of Canada got this spirit guy, Matshishkapeu, literally the ‘Fart Man’, who can inflict gastrointestinal pain or relief upon unsuspecting humans. I want this power. There’s something righteous about it. I think the future is all about control of one’s own bowels and hopefully the bowels of others. Sign up now for my special yoga course, where I teach the ‘ins and outs’ of at-will-flatulence. It’s real, and it’s the future-- your future. Together we will revolutionize the lost art of the flatulist, aka the farteur, aka the fartiste, which I believe is the sequel to 2010’s Best Picture winner. Together we will pass the mightiest of winds, so batten your hatches, bring out your dead, and light a scented candle.

Aquarius- I don’t get artichokes. Firstly, it’s in the thistle family. It’s a flower. What? I’m already lost. Secondish, you have to dig the meat out from the involucral bracts, aka as the heart, which I find strangely symbolic. I dig and I dig for the heart of a flower only to cook it, scrape it and serve it as hors d’oeuvres like a heathen from Castroville, the self proclaimed artichoke capital of the world. I just don’t get it. What weirdo was the first human to scrape the insides of a thistle and think, yeah this would be good on a pizza. Also, the word choke is right there in the name. Not exactly confidence inspiring. And yet, they’re pretty delicious and nutritious. Thistles in my belly today make for good poo poo platters tomorrow. Whatever your artichoke is right now, make friends with it, put it on a pizza and devour it, thereby releasing its power unto you.

Pisces- I’m on to your lame game of thorny crowns and gastric swords of intestinal distress; as well as your higgledy-piggledy wayward sons who end up prodigal, not by their own choosing, but rather your royal edicts. Come hither, and tell me what you’re afraid of and I will not discount it. I will disprove it. Instead, I will prove you a loveable fool, my blue and funny valentine, and a shedder of crocodile tears as a defense against the big bad wolf you’ve cooked up in your head. Hook, line and sinker you’ve been reeled in by the evil twin of the fisherman in the yellow rain slicker on that fish sticks box. Long John Silver and his fast fish food have captivated your torso for too long with fishy tales that you’d have to be stoned to believe. Meet me at the beach and let’s come together where the air, the water and the land find common ground.

                      Dr. Pants McTurd's

             MORE Than True Horror-scopes

         

                                 

disclaimer: Satire has a habit of getting into your Pants, that never fails to result

                                      in you doing that funny chicken butt dance.

this week: Truth or fiction… we might find out.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: TRUCULENT. I double dog you to look it up.

Aries- We exist as a direct result of diaspora. Millions of years ago, our species needed increasing resources to support growing numbers and larger brains. Leakey was right, we began as a singularity, somewhere in Africa. And then we dispersed; colonizing as far as the earth could hold us, just like koi grow to the size of their container. We headed in opposite directions, promising our caveman kin that we would meet up someday on the other side of whatever we’re standing on, and the world will truly be ours, because we will know it fully. The dissemination took thousands of generations, resulting in different phenotypes, cultures and belief systems. But we have forgotten the face of our fathers. East has met west. We could annihilate our other selves, but what a waste. Up and out. To the stars. Together. A new diaspora for a new age. I’ll meet you on the other side of the ‘verse in say, all the time we have left, which is infinite. Don’t you… forget about me.

Taurus- It’s a good thing that the name of the first european allegedly born in north America was Virginia Dare. Our mythology would be so much douchier had it been Krabnor Frogflicker instead. Virginia Dare sounds like a kick ass way to start a new continent. Take no prisoners, take no sh*t--- but wait… ignore my unnecessary reference to obscure Megadeath lyrics; it was a dubious start at best. Virginia disappeared along with the entire colony at Roanoke when she was just three, a mystery that likely will remain unsolvable, unless time travel is possible and Doc Brown can explicate this jam without getting us into a paradox where the descendants of Krabnor Frogficker have ruled Krabnorland with iron fists, and we are his spirit broken vassals reeking of our bloody plaguing offal. Virginia Dare-- mucho mas cajones. Find her spirit within yourself and get some balls. Frogflicker is the past. The future is Dare.

Gemini- The moment was growing dire. My amigos needed spoons that lay behind the deli counter, in order to eat their yogurt parfait granola crap before a long day of volcano doings. But passage behind the counter is verboten, sinful even. I don’t work here, who do I think I am? But at the Sack&Save in Kona, HI, island time is pervasive and ubiquitous, like pineapple and sunburned tourists. And then like a rainbow after a gentle morning rain that lasted just long enough not to be annoying, a sexy Hawaiian descendant of polynesian gods strolls casually by, hips moving like bobbing hula waves, undulating like quantum energy of her most private dimensions. She zeroes in on our mainlanders’ dilemma. ‘Just go back and grab one’, she said, ‘this is Hawaii, everything’s open.’ Most isolated island in the world. Everything is open and self serve, provided you respect the life you’re given and the life around you. Desperation is a mirage. Get your spoon.

Cancer- The pineapple was the first bromeliad to hit the “New World”. Wowee wow wow! Wait… wtf? A bromeliad is a type of plant-- totally irrelevant. And I hate to harp on the fruits of the “New World” becoming the base for the tyranny of the “old world”, but here’s yet another example of something to NOT be credited to the “west”. Anyhowdy, if you eat pineapple, your sexy time juices will smell and taste better, the opposite of eating asparagus, caffeine, or straight motor oil--- again, totally irrelevant. Point is, they were named pineapple because they resemble pinecones. And then you cut’em open and they got fruit! What a remarkable bromeliad!--- that, technically, was indigenous to south america, and deemed valuable by cultures with no moral guidance, as was everything the “old world” sought, including people.And again with the harping… I say, merge the buddha with the pineapple, and your world will be new again, and you will taste divine.

Leo- What purpose does cruelty serve? Who is its greater master? Probably not Satan, these days he too busy surfing the Napali coast with Loki because evil is so rampant among us regular humans. Evolution is a cruel mistress. It is thru cruelty that we evolve. Imagine how many of our ancestors were taken over by foreign invaders. All of them. Every culture that has ever lived, with some small exceptions based on geographic isolation,  have either been conquered or been conquerors. We are the genetic offspring of people that either by force or occasionally peace, have merged with 'the other', the tribe across the way ho is different from us and threatens our survival. Cultural isolationism simply cannot exist. Cruelty, therefore, must serve a higher purpose. Maybe not whatever the hell god is (no pun intended or achieved),  but to our greater purpose. Divine and conquer. Then coagulate. The pendulum is ever swinging, both cruel to be kind and kind of cruel. What time is it where you are? And what purpose do you serve?

Virgo- The Old Lady Paradox is two fold while on the path of destiny. You’re hanging out, maybe in a nail salon or a friend’s Scottish bathtub (don’t ask, but yeah, it’s outdoors), when you notice an old lady in a parked car sitting in the passenger seat, with her head leaning against the window in a rictus that my eyes decry as not so alive. And the windows are up. The “good samaritan” (a highly suspect phrase considering our habit of repeating history) inside you could tap on the window and check on granny’s state of undeadness. Undeadedness? Anyhowdy, if you do tap on the window and scare granny into a coronary thrombosis, and she drops dead, and the family sues you for a million years and you spend your remaining years living with trolls in Ballona Creek, near a warehouse that smells eerily of bacon and tears. Grampa surely will be out any second, and his wife is probably fine. Don’t fall for the paradox. There is a third option. Kirk it.

Libra- Full disclosure, I'm a dude and I've got a johnson, and sometimes when I pee, I flush before I’m done. It’s a race against the physics of the toilet. In a guest bathroom, the race is even more exciting because I’m unfamiliar with the nuances of its foreign flush. If a second flush is needed, I feel the guilt-- the wasting of water, all in the name of pointless etiquette, and yes, I did eat a “buttload” of asparagus jello shots earlier and this could be considered a state of emergency. The next thing I know, FEMA shows up with matching funds that help divert my excess urine, until a future time when we use futuristic sea shells to clean our backsides… or holographic bidets™. How insane that we flush perfectly potable water in uncountable gallons simply to avoid smelly pee, and/or unusually large art movements, unpredictable ones like Picasso’s blue period, or Van Gogh’s earless era, or the mish mash of Warhol realism that mocks the bubble we blow around ourselves vainly attempting to protect us from a well intentioned multiverse. I suggest you pee out loud. Pee out free. Pee with impunity and righteousness for those who can’t pee at all. Open your fly to the possibilities.

Scorpio- Discretion is a higher octave of valor, not the running of your fat mouth to the delight of all who would mock and calumniate, branding you a snitch, a rat, a loose lipper and sinker of shippers: a slipper and subtle knave, a finder of occasions, that has an eye that can stamp and counterfeit advantage though true advantage never present itself. Or so I heard. However—balls on the table here: I’m not telling you to shut up, even if you need to be told that, which isn’t my decision to make; so grow up—I’m not your mommy nor your master. Theoretically, a wise person speaks slowly, with direction of intention, and sans a suicidal scuttling of one’s own ship on rocks of desperation and crushing loneliness. Neither am I saying you should speak freely, afraid of no consequence save the fear of using a friend’s toilet that breaks on you right in the middle of a serious art movement, refusing to flush, because the chain isn’t attached to the rubber thingy. I am saying to use the bathroom now though, because it’s a long ride to the higher octaves.

Sagittarius- The time when the frontier still existed flashed like a green sunset, burning brightly my retinas; and newly emboldened, my compadres and I grabbed our sporks, and set forth for check out lane number three, not realizing that the coalescence of our land-lubbing fears and need for an ego-istical clean and jerk, replete with unflattering squats and groin ripping, was waiting for us outside. Our direction is up, towards the stars. Not away from the earth, but out, towards new islands, where we may spread our seed like ferns, the first colonizers of remote islands. We are embodied spores, traversing the ‘verse as far as we can, regardless of sagacity or forethought. Leap and the net will invent itself, said the spider to the future. I am destiny, and each moment I create anew. The now may resemble the past, but it is I who emboldens the next matrix. Even if I have to throw out the old one. Go ahead, erase the board. A new one will appear.

Capricorn- Nuts to this, I said, and I lay me down in a field of azure stars and pontiac peaceful coexistence. I spurn the forced bondage of the free will of the market and corporate robot monsters that often exceed a healthy appetite. I want to be turned towards mine own intentions, not ripped asunder from them. The unholy foulness would have me suck down the Ganges from peak to sea, my gullet dumbly agape. But not I. Never, I. My question will not beg the questioner, I am moved to radicalize, disenfranchise, and repudiate my righteous anger regarding the slow moving pathwise horse plop that’s designed to slow my progress and fetter my mind to paltry isms and modalities that benefit only an elite few. But now I lay me down ‘mongst azure stars, making my environs a product of me, of my choosing, my god, my sight, my self.

Aquarius- I jibber an/or jabber a lot about esoteric baloney,  pretty much whenever the mood hits me. It’s usually during sexy party time when normal people don’t talk about anything, except sexy time soft nothings whispered sweetly into my--- whoa, Nelly…   Point is, I’m always out of sync, whatever sync is. I’m backwards ass backwards can be. Unless I only think I’m out of sink. Wait, no, not kitchen sink sexy time, but sync, as in syncopation, as in the rhythm of the sex of life. I’m in the river. I am the river, and I’m bending like a reed, going with the flow… and not stepping in my own poop, which I hope isn’t on the floor. I can’t be that far gone. At least let me keep my Pants on! Deep breath. Ohm. Magic baloney. Ohm and let go. Ohm and let go. The river is as long as it is deep.

Pisces- The Omnipresent Goat Machine™ is a device which-- wait, scratch that… will someday be in every house in the land. Some houses may even have two. And no, I don’t have a clue what it does, but it sure sounds nifty. I assume it has something to do with psychotropic goat telepathy, or maybe a way to get milk from the future, or maybe something J. Edgar was into funding back during the good old days when war was cold to balance our post war fever. I may never get around to actualizing my goat-tastic vision, but for me it’s more about picking a starting point. A launch pad. And then my creation will form from the space around it, creating something never before dreamt of, even though the sun insists it has nothing new under its skirts. Imagine, and it will come.