Dr. Pants McTurd's

                  MORE Than True Horror-scopes

                               (not associated with ‘true’ horror or scopes of any ilk)

               

disclaimer: Satire will not make you seem cool to people, or make you friends. It could, but more likely it will do the opposite. Just ask Hamlet’s Uncle.

this week: Next week the Pants are off. And so are mine. Have a good time with yourself.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: velleity. Since tomorrow’s the full moon in Pisces, increase the volition on this one. Save you, it could.

Aries- Woody Guthrie is your power animal for the week. Bad ass hillbilly reason number one: on his guitar was writ the phrase ‘This Machine Kills Facists’---Nice, right? Cause carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, ain’t gonna make it with anyone anyhow. Woody was so cool, Bob freaking Dylan came and sang to him in the hospital when he was sick. He influenced everybody. Make this your catchphrase and watchword: I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And go ahead, invoke Arlo this week too, who said, You want to know if I'm moral enough to join the army, burn women, kids, houses and villages after bein' a litterbug; for which he was convicted, disqualifying him of service. The Guthrie’s are bad ass moralists on the side of the average dude and dudette. Use their words and track their steps. Go Woody. Go hard.

Taurus- Windup, and pitch…Man suffers an accident resulting in a brain injury (I’m thinking a J. Gordon Levitt kind of guy), which develops into alien hand syndrome (yeah, it’s a real deal)---it’s when the two sides of the brain become disconnected and one arm begins to act independently, doing whatever it feels like and not telling the brain that’s doing it. So… after the accident, the man’s the man’s right arm starts writing in an unknown language. He finds a translator—turns out it’s in ancient Sumerian—and it’s a prophecy of some kind of impending alien invasion-- or space monkeys-- or time travel or whatever. I’m thinking it’s one we take to Ridley Scott, maybe Spielberg…or go the other way and call the Farrelly Brothers. Home run, I think.

Gemini- I reckon you’re the type of hombre that likes a solid cut of meat with their daily intake, possible avec un side du balls; taking chomper sized bites out of life, only to

re-ingest those atoms and empty space full of dark matter, into a defecation of nucleic goo, that seems solid, but may be part of some unseen matrix replete with Keanus of all sorts, both deific and base, made up of things that exist merely because there exists a field of Higgs and bosons, determining our reality as something less than transcendent, and leaning towards the tangible, the touchable, and the hands on experientiality that we all hope for, regardless of time, station, birth order, arbitrary planetary locale vs subspace frequencies of intolerable…frakking.. genius!---TAKE NO PRISONERS. TAKE NO SHITS--metaphorically speaking of course, don’t prove yourself a total fool. Your feelings serve you, but could be made to serve the emperor.

Cancer- Under the light of a blue filmed bulb, whilst I pondered my red pasta sauce covered with freshly shaved romanesque cheese, all the while reading about the likes and fates of Isaac, Jesus, Martin Luther King, RFK, J Lennon, and the countless children crippled by stray bullets from a legally sold guns…the plate-- it looks like blood, and in the blue light I drink it and eat it wholesale. And then amongst the unhinging of my alimentary floodgates, I wonder why everything must repeat. Why must flesh be made spiritual? It is flesh and never the twain shall meet…despite my bias? Even under the blue, blood glows red. But it is good, and I challenge you to deter me from my path….oh frak---the ebullient word fakes I have pounced upon you are irrelevant to the here and/or now. Life is not blood. It is mind and compassion and soul. Dive deep, and breathe.

Leo- The truth about the Curse of Ham is some pretty deep old testament pigslop. And we’re never going to know what really happened in that tent with Ham and his Dad. All we know is that Noah started a vineyard, took to drinking, fell asleep—maybe on top of a whore or another dude, or maybe a really beautiful goat—and his junk fell out of his robe. Sure, the junk could be metaphorical genitalia, but I don’t think so. Firstly, to have saved the world from flood by building a giant ark AND keeping rhinos from fighting alligators in close sea tossed quarters---all I’m saying is that the dude was probably hung like the proverbial Trojan horse. Or maybe he had a really small one, and after the tent debacle, everyone in Canaan knew about Noah’s shortcomings. Point is, what happens in Canaan stays in Israel. This week, keep an eye on your junk. Don’t let you crotch rip your social life asunder.

Virgo- I’ve had it. Tucson and muscle have no business having c’s in them. You gotta earn a C, man. C’s aren’t free, despite what hippies would have you believe. There’s no rest for the wicked, the road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions and TANSTAAFL still stands true. Bring your lunch money and succumb to the leftover sloppy joe friday that was tacos on tuesday. The steam trays of purgatory are merely spas that will massage your dead bones for their journey across the Styx, from whence we will go a-sailing, away, away and away—ever away. FRAK, STAY ON MESSAGE! What really poops my boner, is Jammies. Yeah, like the kind one might wear to bed, whilst sleeping. I just don’t get the hype and I’m not going to be on that train, I’ll tell you whaaaaaat. Howsomever, were things less competitive and awry, perhaps we would find ourselves deep amongst a cacophonous orgasmitron® of aural delight, and perhaps.. we could rest easy, at least for a spell, a sleep, a moment away granted by fairies and well meaning souls. Happy Birthday.

Libra- The days of dime store gun gurus and goobers are long gone. The soda jerks and fountains went out before even my time, along with Brady Bunches and tin star sheriffs. The future is riddled with armor piercing bullets and a distinct lack of taste or style. Radio flyers and fake guns that looked real and hopscotch painted right onto the black top, along with monkey bars cemented into firmity, and the angry post hippie generation whose music just turned angry, especially as the mistreated vets settled home and got pilfered even more by a government that merely needed pawns. Take no prisoners, take no shit! And then Atari happened and I was forced to kill asteroids in the middle of nowhere spacewise, probably to get some Lex Luthorian type some new viable real estate, clearing minefields for those who’s crest is cowardice, who use mere mortals as kabobs for the grilling, and fodder for useless crusades. Calm before the deluge.

Scorpio- Your upcoming spanking engagement will falter lest you undress the audience with your bestial and debauched proclivities and cross dressing curiosities. Wear some fishnets, or conversely, a jockstrap. Grab whatever junk you have, and delicately swab and daub it with salves, unguents and oils that will preserve your macho sex appeal and/or your primal ovaric hormone geysers. The skin should be turned a pinot style red, and pain should be pleasurable-- never permanent or jagged; but rather memory educing and palm squeezing—lovemaking to quake the plains of the ennui of speeches of paucity during times of full moon excess. This particular bull wants to be wo/manhandled, to be grabbed by the horns and wrestled, nay--‘rastled to the ground naked with the forthrightness of a first kiss; or an idolatrous imogen, all maiden-like and prowing her ship to full mast and release inside your inner sanctum. It’s going to be deep and wide, and cosmically epiphanic, echoing through your aural chambers that have longed for such vibration and liquid earth. The river is deeper than you could know.

Sagittarius- I don’t want to get weird, but this has to go straight into the vomitorium, and never past lips that would engender fraudulent lies and calumnies ‘gainst mine own cannon’s self slaughter, which has been doing a fine job so far. Your Light Brigade has been charging up San Juan Hill to strike at mere windmills ever since the late 14^th century. However, the Renaissance is over---it’s Action Hero time. You are due to be swooping in from on sky high to save damsels and endangered wildlife and common sense from extinction. Decency and good taste, btw are doomed; leave them to the Reavers. Get yourself a nice cape---not too long, nobody likes a floor dragger; and be the hero, the Keanu, the Bruce—or hey, carte blanche here, buddy: go Mel. Pop out your shoulder and live on prime real estate in Malibu in a trailer. Your path is lined with stars.

Capricorn- By hook, by crook, or happenstance; cheek by jowl, tried and trusted, easy bake oven and so are the pretzels. Sugar and spice, and not one thing nice. I’d eat you alive, just make it half the price. Tits for tats and baseball vats, I’m ridin’ this rocket to the end of the moon. The hoi polloi are hot to trot. The fox in their socks rocked the school of hard knocks. The radar’s pumpin’, the joint is jumpin’, and my shoes are wired to the Dj’s bumpin’. Cause there’s no… sleep... til Brooklyn. The big bad Bodhisattva’s been brawling, he’s been searching for souls, breaking some prose, and never touching ground in daylight. Like a deep blue light-- from the bottom of the sun-- don’t paralyze from all the analyze. Go deep mode, have it ala mode, cause it’s the mother lode. And it’s meant to be…

Aquarius- The absolute best way to pack a carry-on bag---has been up for debate seemingly for centuries. But not really-- because it’s a total non-issue. Just some crap that a marketing committee squandered together, probably at the last minute because they were too busy studying the art of ripping everyone off completely; regardless of soul, piety, dignity, grace---merely the fecund remnants of a life sold to the individual corporation, though while headed by bodies, and lobbied by sources close enough to home to be called fraud outright, backed by the full force of the law and punishable by some sort of regulation---crimeinitaly!, what don’t we get?, about the greed factor, that’s now backed by exponential madness in the form of actual science, flowering with over populated systemic too big to fails everywhere---wait, screw that… deep breaths. Go slow. The river knows where to flow. Come downstream, the water’s pefect.

Pisces- I refuse to be a man of constant sorrow. It befits not a forward thinker such as I-- nor you. Tarry not; for you will nary bury me for many a year, and even in death will I not sleep. Flowery words and pointless prose, however, do not bestow us onto the merry ship of foreknowledge and past the pointless obligatories. This is the part---this here, whence offices and hangars and beachheads are turned upward and turvy like, as in non times, like in Finn’s Paradox, where slaves dwindled from a common hist- or hyst- ericaltheme into history, only to end at a deadened branch of no consequence-- because the tree of life is filled, in this timeline-- with Green and Growth and Optimism-- ever higher, and ever bolder. For the sakes and in the hopes of your ancient ice cream and ocean wanderers---remember your charge, and forget not your destiny, laying brilliantwise ‘mongst fields of stars of pure unadulterated azure. Have at it. Drink deep. The world is an orchid, home from hot climates and is ready to propel your cancer into plowshares.

                               Dr. Pants McTurd's 

        MORE Than True Horror-scopes

                 

                                 

disclaimer: Satire does not give you the right. But it can give you a hard left.

this week: My personal square root was not, is not and will never be any of your business. However, it’s super close to 3.1415926535897932384626433832795.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: phthisis. As in... phthisis away again in Magarittaville.

Aries-  Your proverbial ship is right now a-righting itself, never a-wrong, and eternally tilting ever closer, closer I say!-- to an axis of freedom, where it will spin for æons in fascinated orbit ‘round a fairer star, sans the burns and spurns of freebooters’ skid marks, and vapor trails that often ride roughshod over the faces of all but the blind—for they are worthy of the truest salvation---not us, Nay!—never respite for those wicked of soul, purloined and masticated under malfeasant jaws and malingering fogs—the yellow kind that jam our gums and restrict our freedom loving intent upon the world. We are newly anesthetized amongst the newly biopic embryos from golden days of yore. Wake up, bring out your arvae, for we burn daylight, and the winds are seeking new sails to fill.

Taurus- Every four years, we’re forced through another election cycle of lying, paraphrasing, misrepresenting, apologizing, and epithet mania. And every four years, at least half the country prays that the other crazy guy doesn’t somehow win the office, ushering in another 8 year era of misguided spending and who knows how deep or evil the bush hole goes, especially when the vice president seems to be an oil magnate with a private safe bigger than a person, and the right to shoot people in the face without repercussion. Ooh-- my bad, pal, sorry about the direct hit, I thought you were a moose. Happens to me all the time. One minute you’re calmly discussing the merits of fiscal policy within the constraints of a reasonable conscience, and the next, my finger just slips and, BOOM: your face meets my counterargument. For the near future, sane winds are at our backs. Fret not-- our future will require shades.

Gemini- Bananaquits are no bullcrap. Yeah, I make up lots of words, but not the bananaquit, aka the honeykeeper, aka sexual innuendo mucho sexy time boom boom...Anyhowdy, it’s a bird, apparently, mostly in tropical regions. It’s yellow like a banana. Or something really yellow. And then the other day, I heard this ‘accredited’ science goon on NPR, whose theory was that yellow didn’t exist until we had created something yellow from our natural environs—rubbing dandelion on your arm for example. Cripes. This esoteric semantic line drawing must be indicative of a dearth of anything intelligent to talk about amongst the overwhelming numbers of grad students with nothing better to study during their break at Starbucks. The same school of thought postulates that the indigenous populations of the ‘New’ World couldn’t see the ships of the conquistadors because they had no prior experience of viewing such a sight. Bullcrap--I’ve never seen a spaceship, but I will know it when it lands in my yard. Bananaquits, Dude. Therein, lay the only objective truthiness. Cling, and find your power animal’s color.

Cancer- Ahhh, to be a nectaravore-- flitting flower to flower, usually amidst the warm sunlight and humid air accompanied by monsoons and rainy seasons; sucking up sweet plant sex juice through an extra long proboscis, or some other tube-like sucking device that evolved beautifully according to the planned-out free will of the multiverse; whose math may presently escape us, but that is nevertheless findoutable®. Oh frak—the free will kerfuffle. Okay…despite my love of Rush---the band, not the crappy movie, and not the Premium Rush, now available, probably on dvd by now, which is probably good if for no other reason because Levitt is pretty cool---free will is a construct, in this author’s official opinion, not true by any standards, save for those decided upon by faith or fear or outside pressure. Your time to decide is nigh. Choose with your heart and nothing can go awry, and sweet sweet plant sex juice will be ripe and juiceilicious®.

Leo- As an an illustration of irony, I posit the adorably named village of Upper Slaughter on the River Eye in Britain. Its little known distinction is that it’s one of a very small number of towns that suffered no casualties from either WW I or II. Nobody, not one guy didn’t come home. And the town’s name is Slaughter. Granted, one guy came home with syphillus because, like Ben Franklin said, “these french whores--they are really tres nice!” Point is, that the people of Upper Slaughter are unbreakable. And that is where we will run, when the zombies come. You and I will merge our beautiful genes into the pools of those that even war cannot destroy---not even world wide ones! We alone will save the human race from ugliness, with a new generation of unbreakable zombie killing adepts.

Virgo- One furlong per fortnight is very nearly 1 centimeter per minute (to within 1 part in 400--duh..). The speed of light may be expressed as being roughly 1.8 terafurlongs per fortnight. That said—the beard-second is where our deepeth concern layeth. Yes, a beard grows at a speed we can measure--roughly 100 angstroms, or 5 nanometers per something something. We measure time by things that happen at levels of reasonable sensory perception for every human on the planet; save for the select few who are in tune with frequencies beyond our ken, those destined to be transcendent of mere timespace. You’re not one of them btw. You and I are destined for a purpose maligned and mundane and pedestrian, but that is actually de- and be- atific to a max that is indeed hardcore and extreme and tubular. It will hit you when you are quiet, when your mind stops being you for a good five seconds. Let go and be what you’re like, be like yourself. 

Libra- Hey world—let it be known that I own this: SCHNERD!®. And yes, my Pops can share credit, but I’m the one doing the legwork and I’m the one taking this to the next level—SCHNERD!® It’s a unit of measurement that is equal to a mmpphhhner-- which I could only dream of owning; but alas that divine right belongs to the kings---the Sagan, the Seldon, the Clarke---food for gods beyond my ken and ability to ken, both noun and verb, simultaneously future and past…Shithowdy, no, I refuse to be distracted from destiny: the SCHNERD!®--- a distance equivalent to: “this much minus two times the power of splitting the difference”, end quote and bless us everyone. I bring this novelty to your attention because you need to move a SCHNERD!® to your left—emotionally that is. Not too much! Just enough to see around the white elephant that been blocking your view of the Taj Mahal that’s right in front of you.

Scorpio- Consider this a quick first draft of one of my upcoming theses on the language of evolution, infuturely® published by whatever unknowable entity can efficaciously publish literature for the science minded yet lazy of degrees: The Tree of Life (the Haekel version) is a nifty early analogy for understanding the shape of evolutionary progress. And here’s my underlying postulate: some trees, like aspens, form clonal colonies, meaning that all trees in a given area are part of a singular organism that spreads by its roots. Therefore: the Tree of Life is more accurately a clonal colony, with a nifty third dimension, so that we can travel through timespace along evolutionary lines, better illustrating our relationship to everything else, not as one tree heading ever skyward, but multiple trees over time spread throughout the galaxy, like a virus or a plague, or collective human thought and intention. The world is, the world is love and life are deep. Maybe as your skies are wide…

Sagittarius- Your power animal of the week is a buttonquail. Thereforergo®, keep a wary eye out for sheathbills and megallanic plovers, for they tend towards the stabby end of the avian spectrum. If you encounter a fairy warbler, be not concerned howeversomewhat, for it is your ally, and will ride down to hell with you, should the need arise. Also, they have access to the best drugs. Now…there are nicators out there who will tell you that it’s all bushtits and field mice and bopping ‘em on the head. But I’m here to tell ya, the real danger is the shrike. A shrike kills its prey by impaling it onto thorns. These birds invented the kabob. They make the megallanic plovers look like the Amish. Maintain the buttonquail in your mind at all times. Get a buttonquail tattoo on your most delicate private part. It’s the smart move, and you’ll be safe and unimpaled.

Capricorn- You are a bourbon democrat that utilizes aggressive mimicry to achieve your fowl ends and corny corollaries concocted by cannibals from Ceylon’s Isle of way olden times gone by; times left for dead, lain strangling and gasping on foreign beachheads and lonely strangways; time that would sooner eat your liver over a millennia than let you destroy it through self anointed inebriation and insultation by next Thursday. You are crepuscular, utilizing the dawn or dusk for true inventiveness, shying away from the bright light of day for fear of the circling brain predators; who would steal your thunderous inspirations to hold as their own, being empty headed thieves and jealous knaves. Get your own lightning. Make your own boom stick. You are the plethora of independent awareness. And if anyone tells you what to do, just kick ‘em shinward, and say, you can speak your mind, but not on my time.

Aquarius- Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny. And, no, I’m not just whistling dixie cups. Patterns, patterns, patterns. And often I ask myself whether my point of view is objective enough to understand all these patterns. Am I really seeing the world with the clarity and distance, or do I always see what I want to see, because that’s what makes sense. Make the facts fit the theory, because odds and Occam agree with me. Do the rules of the very large translate to the world of the subatomic? Does this Higgs field contain anything that is not formed first in my imagination. And is distance even possible in a world that only exists because of some will, a god, a creator, a thinking and desiring machine that spins world upon world from an unseen loom hiding deep in the zero dimension where odds and Occam will never travel? One cannot be separate from that which you are synecdochous.

Pisces- There are a million things to be whispered softly and aurally that could benefit your current state of affairs. There are a billion salves that might ease whatever pain you might be swimming in right now. There is a googol of nepenthes and succors that exist in this ‘verse, some beyond your scope that could provide you comfort from cyclonic embolisms and recurring seasonal fracases that mar and bloody your nasal pride and empathetic urges. A googolplex exists for your perusal and plucking, that most likely contains the seeds of inspiration and rainbow means of travel to propel you to the next big stage-- the place and time amidst timespace where you own everything and no one can take it away. However, here’s the rub: you are the source. You are the salve. You are a font with enough water to last for eternity. The font of strength inside you is nowhere near depletion because it cannot be depleted—ever.

      Dr. Pants McTurd's MORE Than True         

                            Horror-scopes®

                  

disclaimer: Satire is not without pitfalls, just like the old Atari game.

this week: Last week the Pants were off. This week, the Pants are fully on, loosely buckled and ready for the party.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: Anastrophe. As in, "If once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny, consume you it will, as it did Obi-Wan's apprentice."

Aries- A-B-C. A-always, B-be, C-closing. Always be closing! Always be closing!! A-I-D-A. Attention, Interest, Decision, Action. Attention -- do I have your attention? Interest -- are you interested? I know you are because it's fuck or walk. You close or you hit the bricks! Decision -- have you made your decision for Christ?!! And Action. A-I-D-A; get out there!! You got the prospects comin' in; you think they came in to get out of the rain? Guy doesn't walk on the lot unless he wants to buy. Sitting out there waiting to give you their money! Are you gonna take it? Are you man enough to take it? The coffee is for closers. (But that’s all crap. Have some coffee, add some Bailey’s and/or whiskey, and meditate about opening, and maybe never closing—who knows, it just might work.)

Taurus- Since its inception and trademark, Lego claims that over 400 BILLION(!) Lego pieces have been created (probably not all of them equal). Point is, there’s a guy I know of in Sacramento that makes like 150K a year selling used Legos on EBay. (Thank you, George Lucas, I guess..). Even fifteen years ago, such a business would not have been possible. It’s the beauty of diversity and ever changing environment and elastic genomes, that stretch to fill whatever space needs filling up. As my pal Gordon once said, ‘Everyone I know is lonely / And God is so far away / The fat man in his garden / The thin man at his gate / My God you must be sleeping / Wake up, it's much too late / Please take the space between us / And fill it up some way / Take the space between us

And fill it up some way….’ And maybe visit LegoLand for some blockish, yet interlocking inspiration.

Gemini- Ok, here’s my plan to kidnap god: I hear from certain angelic sources within the administration that he/she/it/holy plasma, is planning a fact finding trip to Columbia. While god’s getting a personal tour of the Medellin coca fields, we distract the Medellins, grab god, jump into a Piasecki H-21 paramilitary helicopter, and head for the Galapagos; where no one will ever think to look for god, because it’s just a bunch of turtles and endangered bird crap. Then we shoot a video to show how serious we are if our demands are not met, that we send to the President. No President is going to let god get tortured by tortoises, especially in an election year. We’ll be rolling in billions and sipping mai tais on some Malaysian beach, where we make the laws, and justice is free to all, or at least us anyway. First you get god, then you get the money, then you get the power.

Cancer- For your consideration, let us ponder the poorly designed lawn darts known as Jarts; which are absurdly dangerous and could pierce an armored tank if thrown from a decent height. Back in ‘my day’, Jarts could be purchased right alongside toy guns, mostly old timey western style ones-- not the glocks and automatic armor piercing types of today’s blood tipped killing machines that emulate the very firepower which we are trying desperately to deal with and contain: the Columbiners, the Batman movie-emulators, the McVeigh’s, the Kaczynski’s, or the guy who casually walks onto a military base with full credentials and explodes our soldiers who aren’t even in the literal midst of war. Anyhowdy, my advice is to make sure all your toys are for building rather than taking down.

Leo- Let’s go down to the crib and let it all hang out-a. Where soulful people knows what it’s about-a. So, it turns out the word crib, has been in use for years. 21rst century Hippity Hoppers ain’t got nuthin’ on the Godfather of Soul, and in this futurist’s opiniation—the greatest entertainer of all time. James Brown stopped a riot with music---try that today, Adelle---Rumor has it, Rumor has it…frak that, dude; rumor has it that that song is annoying. Surely, the colloquial crib had been used prior to James, but he’s the one who injected that hot beefy word usement into our metaphorical communiqués, so that we could, from my aural interpretation, get past the people, get past the hoot-ma! A continued happy birthday, and bless the rains down in Africa.

Virgo- Drunken trees are not alcoholic arboreals that drive under the influence mowing down innocent shrubbery. Forests that grow in permafrost areas such as the Yukon or Siberia generally grow straight because their roots are encased in icy ground. But as the permafrost melts, and chunks of earth shift, the trees can start leaning every which way, similar in appearance to a bar full of drunks who smell of wine and cheap perfume. These trees were meant to sing the blues, and for a smile they can share the night, and it goes on and on and on. Drunken trees tilting and swerving, up and down the boulevard; their shadows searching in the night, living just to find emotion…or at least the return of the permafrost of the Little Ice Age, likely due for a quick 21rst century return, after a short period of temperatures spikes and hot air blowing from our collective mouth holes. Drunken trees and disappearing bees, don’t stop believin’-- hold on to that feelin’. A new age is nigh.

Libra- ‘Less Lust, By Less Protein: Meat Fish Bird; Egg Cheese; Peas Beans; Nuts. And Sitting’, as touted by the self proclaimed Protein Man of great Britain, is the surest way to a better life. Eat less protein, which will decrease your lust, which is the root of all evil in the entire scope of human society, and then don’t forget to spend some time sitting---it’s fun and not horny---and you will be free of all earthly and natural, yet non-Victorian approved emotions and drives that if we didn’t have, would probably engender more pajama tv watching Ho-Hos eating during daylight hours; rather than burning neurons into new ideologies and strapping on our future cones with gentle yet pornographic intent. In the meantime, don’t eat graham crackers, or anything Kellogian until you do some research and hey—let’s engorge our nerve endings with life blood and wanton lust.

Scorpio- Let’s talk cuckoo. This suspect avian has us all fooled. Its biologically inherited cleverness has somehow switched around 20^th century-wise to mean something stupid or crazy. Not even! The cuckoo lays its eggs in other birds’ nests in a span of about 20 seconds; and the host bird who ends up caring for the foreign baby never knows---although some do, but even they can’t tell the difference once the egg is hatched. And this is just the tip of the cuckoo iceberg. Now, let speak of the gowk stone…Cuckoos often bring the first tidings of spring---and gowk stones are remnants of glaciation, just big ol’ rocks sitting in the midst of nowheres--- through which the spirit of the cuckoo beatifies itself…spring comes earlier and earlier at the end of an ice age cycle, and these rocks and these birds will ever remind me of you and your inescapable tenderosityness®.

Sagittarius- The ancient greek pentathlon went like this: foot race, wrestling, long jump, javelin and discus. Purportedly, the events were modeled after a finely honed soldier’s skills---and while I want to know exactly how you could kill a man with a discus, I’m not here to discuss today’s discus related killings. The modern pentathlon goes like this: ride an unfamiliar (and likely pissed off) horse, fight with a pistol and then a sword, and then run really far and swim a lot---much like every 19^th century cavalryman had to do in order to avoid having your leg amputated in the field by a guy with a hacksaw and a bottle of bourbon. What should the 21rst century pentathlon contain? X-Boxing, Jaeger shooting, Tivo-ing®, keg stands and beer bongs? Your unique skill set is about to be called upon. Prepare yourself.

Capricorn- A Muse is a must. For some it could be flowers. For others, maybe pizza. On the weird side, it could be buying lots of fresh mackerel and drawing a cold bath for some alone time. If you believe Marcus Aurelius and/or Dr. Lechter, we fall in love with what we see every day. And you are a most potent obsession. There are powerful forces at work in what I espy in you; and all of them are true. You are the vessel, the way and the light, and your spirit is mightier and more beautiful than any sword. I leave you with this, friend: ‘they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruninghooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. Amen and thanks for hanging out so resplendently.

Aquarius- You haven’t looked at me that way in years. You’re my black market baby…a diamond who wants to stay cold-- my chocolate jesus. I’m gonna change my name to Hannibal, or maybe just Rex. I look good without a shirt, I’m gonna drive all night, gonna get some speed. Maybe get some pasties and a g-string, beer and a shot-- Portland through a shot glass and a buffalo squeeze. You send me blue valentines, though I’ve tried to remain at large. And the ghost of your memory, baby, it’s the thistle in the kiss. But your hair smells like meadow grass on the tide, and the raindrops on my window, and the ice in my drink. So a secret kiss brings madness with the bliss. Pretend that you owe me nothing and all the world is green. We can bring back the old days again when all the world was green. Take my hand; I’m standing right here—hold on.

Pisces- In theory and per se, what would jesus do? What would mohammed do? What about walker texas ranger? Yes, I refuse to capitalize what should be venerated, but not idol-ized; but rather be kept holy in spirit in a mentally figmented fashion. The blood of a martyr and a thousand million others who have died for this cause or that; all in praise of a metaphor made literal for the benefit of the ego driven, the usurpers of decency, and the absconderers of justice. This matriarchally oriented pile of arbitrary evidence---which all testosterone and y-chromosomally leaning lords would deny and forfeit—tells me what the wise and judicious would do to save themselves from drowning terror of empty nights and fruitless days. What would they do…? First, they would forgive and bless and give a metaphorical roundhouse kick, maybe Swayze style. Anything that follows is organic and righteous and made from your own being-ness.

                       Dr. Pants McTurd's 

        MORE Than True Horror-scopes

                    

                                 

disclaimer: Satirical redress applies twice as much to over paid foreign press junkets that only further illustrate one’s ignorance. Yep, I’m talkin’ ‘bout dumb ol’ Willard!

this week: 30 weeks of Pants in 2012---with only 1 clip show!

Doc P’s Word of the Week: incondite. As in, your incondite epithets only reveal you inner, as well as outer coarseness.

Aries-  The word belladonna in Italian means beautiful lady. In English, it means a deadly poison. I don’t know what happened on the journey from Rome to the UK, but it sounds like somebody got screwed. Now…I could metaphor all up in your face, citing tried and true adages like the inevitability of change, or that time wounds all heels; stick that in your hat and smoke it; I couldn’t find my ass with two hands and spelunking permit, and etc, etc ad infinauseum®. What we should call it is proof that evolutionary principles can apply to all processes, including language, belief, and poisonous women. The ‘verse has a symmetry that we will ever understand. Breathe deep, the ride is long.

Taurus- We are involved in a process that is much greater than our ability to comprehend. What a pisser. Okay…I guess that’s cool; But I have to say this, cause we’re buds, right? WE MUST KEEP OUR PANTS ON. I don’t care if they’re full of misappropriated fees and feces, our pants should be on and we should stand tall like Johnny Tremain, like a statue erected for justice and physics; regardless of the killers and thieves that wouldst maraud our souls whilst we slumber’d in ignorant beds full of ill gotten dreams and lonely monsters. Or perhaps the emperor has no clothes by design. And what a cynical tale it is, that it took his entire life before one person said, “Hey dude, where’s your pants?” Your pants are on, and they make your ass look fantastic.

You probably also need to read for aquarius, so do it.

Gemini- Aggressive mimicry is your watchword(s) for the week. Stay on the alert so you may catch the subterfuge. Mimicry occurs in nature all the time, amongst both animals and plants. Example: A poisonous snake may evolve the appearance of a similar snake that is not poisonous. The old wolf in sheep’s clothing bit. Oooh, I look all innocent and harmless, and by the time you figure out my plots and schemes and count my stripes, you’re my lunch. Human mimicry is even more subtle. People always tell you exactly who they are, but you have to pay attention. This week: pay attention. This is good advice in general, but you should [not] try to be casually focused for at least the next 72 hours. There be dubiousness afoot and afoul. Which one of these things is not the same?

Cancer- Ours are green thumbs, yours and mine. Stained with chlorophyll from tending to gardens, however humble and weedy. Cancer births are mid season, when the northern hemisphere has been slowly roasting rotisserie style into an ever hotter oven, over millennia upon millennia, baking plants until they’re ripe for the picking. Some strange connection exists between you and the green life-giving compound that ere took even more millennia upon millennia to develop. Going back further, the creation of hydrogen itself, the primal element---that from which everything materialized Higgs-Boson style, so that after even more and more and more ‘countable’ millennia, we could arrive at this-- the summit of verdant thumbiosity®. Go green and follow your bliss.

Leo- Prepare to be blown—away…awkward opening. Anyhowdy, this here ‘verse we got is so frakking grande that somewhere out there like a billion galaxies over, is an actual guy named Han Solo wearing those cool pants with the stripe and a good blaster at his side and travelling with a giant Wookie that for some reason knows Yoda. The ‘verse is so large that if you travelled far enough, you will likely meet another you; maybe doing all the same crap you’re doing on another earth; like watching Empire Strikes Back for the millionth time; or wishing that you had someone to FaceTime sex with, or wondering if you’ll ever achieve your dreams, and when will the bs stop being bs. And now…to blow you--- dammit!---away, blow you away. You don’t know it, but you are this galaxy’s Han Solo. Happy Birthday, and feel free to whip out your blaster at will.

Virgo- It’s time we had a serious talk about the Vegetable Lamb of Tartary. It’s time you know the truth—that the zoophytes that have been stalking your every move do not actually exist. If they did, we’d be subsidizing sheep trees rather than corn and wheat and oil. Since Linnaeus, a plant is not an animal. Except that, we do all come from the same earth, the same spirit and processes; the same cosmic rays have pierced their leaves as they have our limbs. And yet, there is no plant-animal hybrid, or plantanimal®. So, consider this friendly advice: the longer you chase the golden fleece of the mythical plantanimal®, you will be walking naked like the disrobed emperors of yore, surrounded only by yes-men and never the truth.

Libra- Spaghettification, also known as the noodle effect, is not the latest fad that will help you lose weight---Although that’s not exactly true either…If you find yourself in an extreme state of gravitation, that is to say—in the vicinity of a black hole, or maybe in the studio audience of an infomercial about a new enema machine that you’d be stupid not to buy; the normal power that you have over gravity will slip through your fingers and stretch you lengthwise until you wake up in the 2^nd dimension wondering where your third D went to, and why everything looks so surreal and flat. And the stretching would be agonizingly slow, taking an eternity to spread all your little atoms into a long line of energy, headed straight for a singularity. Luckily, your future is all fusilli and helixed.

Scorpio- A wet moon usually occurs in the winter, when the crescent moon has it’s horns pointed up, creating a bowl-like image. And as months progress, and orbital math leans to the exotically angled, the moon tilts the other way and the rainy season comes and water from the bowl is distributed as a bounty to the land and the people who live from it in the form of the rainy season. The moon has been on this path for longer than humans have existed. But in terms of ‘big time’ (not the Peter Gabriel kind), the moon’s appearance from earth changes drastically, ultimately on its way out of our grasp. So cultures have evolved beliefs based on this very temporary moment in time, and then pass them down to future generations. Pass on what you have learned. Save our children you will.

Sagittarius- Yo, fearless lad to whom I am writing: please go to fetch a dastardly tuber at yond end of the scepter of the evil and cowardly King Troglobite, and thou wilt possibly be rewarded for your bravery and strong stomach---for the tuber reeks of sulphur, used jock straps and corn nuts. Yet, be wary, for the cave dwelling troglobite is blind and telepathic, so he may read your thoughts before thou canst swipe aforementioned tuber; so guard your thoughts and empty your mind, lest you re-learn the punishments of Gozer and the leviathan marshmallow man. And whilst he is dangerous, the evil King is also quite stupid, so you really should have no problem; just go into the underwater cave, smack him on the nose and grabbest thou the tuber; and we will have a very strange, but spiritual and euphoric lunch.

Capricorn- Not to open my mouth and confirm myself a fool, but Walking On The Sun, by Smashmouth, is a great song---lyrically---in my opinion and hey---popular garbage, yadda yadda yadda, but pure genius in terms of its catchy tune and actual truthiness. What did happen to that hippie generation that raised me, and trained us all to think like out of the box capitalists with feelings, and wanted all of us to live as one, and with no religion too? Turns out the same folks who created public television and “free” love have an underbelly, and what are the odds---it’s seedy. Our system is based on unquenchable thirst for profits, cocaine, power and a higher version of reality than the basic bullsnot field plowing and shit collecting.—even if sub -dued and –divided, we are as empty and searching as the generations prior. This week may be a balance of necessary evils.

Aquarius- It’s not surprising that as we develop more special effects, there will be more and more filmmakers, who within the limitations of time, budget, and too many cooks vying for control of the meal, will find themselves slogging through an end product that’s a kind of superhero stew, that looks beautiful and projects seamlessness; but meat is stringy and the potatoes raw, who the frak added kale? What suffers from digital perfection, Lucas, I’m talking at you, you bastard genius… is something as basic as story, character and plot. Even a true auteur’s hands are tied with the lasso of movies-by-committee; and even the greatest cinematographers on the planet will not be able to fill the plot holes that line the main thoroughfare of filmdom. Or perhaps, the flaw is in the idea that every project can be mapped out towards certain success. Just ask Terry Gilliam. Those windmills are a bitch.

Pisces- Without the water on this planet, there would be nothing. Pisces are perhaps the highest evolution of water so far in this wet world; except for maybe dolphins---they are super cool. But you-- you’re the universal solvent of fluid mediums, the magistrate and the substrate; an evolved level of the blasted Higgs Field that creates this frakking matrix--- as funded by the Swiss anyway. And before we go any further, Waterworld is not a terrible movie. Point is, we get it—you’re water and you’ll flow whichever way that gravity and times allows. But there is a sweet spot—one where you mold gravity and earth and climate to your will and taste and desire. You contain and can be contained, but you are impervious and perfect and life giving.