Dr.
Pants McTurd's
MORE Than True Horror-scopes
(not associated with horror
or scopes of any ilk)
disclaimer: Is Satire actually satirical in and
of itself? Let me cull some data…
Doc P’s Word of the Week: tartuffery. And yours is especially pungent.
Aries- You are no ordinary chrondite. Your
chrondules are super molten and probably as radioactive as a truckload of
selenium 77. Your silicate is hella olivine and pyroxenic, I would even go so
far as to say feldspathic. And I don’t say that to just any ol’ geology major,
nuh-uh, no sir. The sound barrier hasn’t been the same since you broke atmo.
You’re literally insterstellar, intergalactic, and born amongst stars, forged
in incredible heat; and landed here some 15,000 years ago, found by some dude
in Mongolia a thousand years ago, who carved you into a statue of Buddha, which
wasn’t found again til the 1920’s. You are a god carved from space god rocks.
Shine on you crazy chrondite.
Taurus- I channel Howard
Hesseman as often as I can. I grew up with him, identified with him, and on
some level made my life’s two tentpoles are a hippie and a teacher; someone who
is sinful at heart, but progressive and sympathetic to all causes human, and
inevitable suffering. Dr. Johnny Fever
inspired me to be a doctor. Dr. Detroit,
which I never actually saw, but then Head
of the Class, which yeah, was a remix of Welcome Back, Kotter, but still the guy has pathos, man. And heart.
And love---sometimes unrequited, and too often fleeting, but L-O-V-E, man. And
a lot of sarcasm. And pain. And pathos. And hey—he was in Spinal Tap. ‘Nuff said. Find your Hesseman. And channel the crap
out of him.
Gemini- The Scottish Norwegian War of the 13th
century was a small war of no real consequence, involving minor skirmishes over
a period of 3 or 4 years, and whose major battle was “indecisive”. Actually, I think
it was quite decisive-- most of the land in the Hebrides (a set of isolated
islands off the coast of Scotland) is not arable (farming friendly) as it’s
mostly rock---although, they are one of the only places on earth that humans
have developed crafting- basically
pre-medieval socialism where land was tended by tenants and not a barony or a
lord. Lots of sheep. Anyhowdy, fighting, fighting, fighting, and scene. Totally
pointless killing over crappy farmland that we all still need, just to survive,
but that for some frakking reason, blood needs be spilt, because that’s the way
of things in a world of kill or be eaten. I disbelieve you, Scottish Norwegian
War, and I hope this meandering horrorscope’s point is culled by your
subconscious and distributed wisely throughout your limbic system.
Cancer- Disclaimer:
I am NOT recommending you don a bear pelt, go into a postal battle trance and
mow people down in the checkout line, or anywhere else that might incur or
engender madness. HOWEVER—this week, in a metaphorical sense—you should be a
BERSERKER---go big or go home, Duderino. Take whatever you’re passionate about,
and multiply tenfold—a hundredfold, until your entire being is consumed by life
and the full living of it, without remorse or guilt; and let it transport you
to a level of consciousness that allows you to totally see your existence from
a bird’s eye view. Let nothing stop you, not even a herd of dinosaurs running
through your backyard, which shouldn’t exist anyway, but stay with me here—RUN
WILD AND RUN FREE.
Leo- You can quote Lincoln to me till the
proverbial cows come home to roost. You could regale me with the story of how a
kid from nowhere found a bag of magic marshmallows—not the trippy magic
kind—and saved his whole town from bankruptcy and irremovable remorse, with
just the magic in his heart. You’re Sam the Butcher bringing Alice the meat.
You’re Fred Flintstone driving around with bald feet. You’re an eagle, a poet,
a genius, I know it. I’d follow you to the doors of hell, and help you pound on
the big, probably iron doors, with I assume, giant knockers, with metal fists
of fury that would equal the somatic booms of nuclear age times, when men
dreamed bigger than was judicious or safe. You can do anything I can do,
better.
Virgo- Tug
of War was dropped from the
Olympics in 1920. And I am still plenty pissed. As if the faint pull of sexual
innuendo wasn’t enough with the tugging and implied back and forth of
stereotypical sexual congress-- there’s all the mud—and the metaphorical
contest between two equal and opposite forces—which is all we get in this
dimension currently anyway—like democrats vs republicans, jam vs jelly, or pot
vs booze. Personally, I say combinme the two, but that’s my hey-howdy. Point
is, inside your innards lies a war betwixt an alleged light and dark. Yet, I
say to thee—bullshit. There is no
division. There is only the Force, and us standing together in unity of purpose
and direction. What if there was no War? What if the Tugging was only for
pleasure?
Libra- You are a true flâneur;
a
proper idler, and stroller; a loafer,
a saunterer, and occasionally a sashayer—but never one to sashay in a needless
hurry. An aesthetic peripatetic detached observer, using the streets as your
imagination’s drawing board, and discovering the depths of intrigue betwixt
cityscape and the mindscapes of its denizens, from high to low brow, and how
they interact with their concrete jungle. But you are no badaud---you’re no mindless gawker with no purpose, no guts—no
anima. You meander with purpose. The perfect blend of artist and scientist,
researching your brilliance and dreaming your land and/or city ‘scapes. Let’s
make love right here by this statue of Algernon and his pool of azure stars,
before all this beauty slips away.
Scorpio- You are an empath and a wayfinder on my
desire path, trampling vegetation and carving routes and footholds, creating
future boulevards and super highways that will eventually clog my heart and
rattle my brains with your traffic and sirens and billboards advertising sex
and tawdry meetings amidst sweet images of youth and begrudgement of old age
and infirmity. For now, you are merely a path, however, possibly the path; merely a shortcut through the
woods, making sense of brambles and the seeming illogic of the layout of the
trees. If we could only keep to the woods…rather than indemnifying our trysts
in the midst of street corners and pedestrian kerfuffles that reveal everything
to gawking strangers. But I digress…walk the path, be the path, and grab me a
sandwich.
Sagittarius- You got the moves like Jagger. Except, fer
reals and no take backsies. You’re one of the original Rock and/or Rollers.
You’re a movie star. And even at nearly 70 earth solar years of age, you can
still host SNL, doing an admirably good job, whilst withstanding 3 musical
numbers. The county Kent builds ‘em strong. I don’t know why you strive for so
hard and so long; or if the size of your english cajones, aka blarney stones--
are even measureable in our current dimension, but Duuuude…seriously, like the
Wayne and Garth, I bow before your eminence and imminence—not literal fealty,
mind you, but as a gesture of mutual respect. Don’t get a big head, I just
think you’re awesome. Hike! Drive downfield like a limey juggernaut. Viva
County Kent!
Capricorn- Time is out of joint and the spice is out of
hand. My lips are sealed, and I’d rather be contraband. Nobody knows the
troubles I’ve seen, and nobody does it better. You’re a James Bond look-a-like.
You smell like a cheese steak. I wanna be pan fried along with your Watergates
and sinful bedroomed nights. Hematology is just a hobby, and not to get Jersey
on ya, but I been makin’ records since you were suckin’ yo mother’s dick. Hey,
hey, hey..let’s be cool, let’s find the trim, cause you know I been pondering,
I been thundering, and tearing asundering all of the logic and horseshit that
plagues all humanity…But mostly it’s just me and your conscious—mind, I
guess—but there’s all this other crap...or mayhap everything is crap, and we’re
just vehicles for one celled life to procreate and assimilate along higher
battle lines that I can’t articulate. Life can be tough shit. Eat it and smile.
Aquarius- Arthur Duck was an english law talkin’ guy
and a member of ye ol’ parliament. But you are no Arthur Duck. Duck died in
relative historical obscurity in December of 1648—not buried til May of the
next year btw---kinda creepy by modern standards, but point is that he led a
facscinating life, at least from the point of someone obsessed with really
boring crap about beauracratical blabbity blah from like a million years ago.
And why didn’t they bury him for like 6 months, wtf?? Point is, You’re no Duck.
You’re a transdimensional tourist who summers on Planet XJ-7 of the Centripidalian System in
Galaxy FU-7HA, and winters on the Napoli Coast, and whose interiors are a rich
panoply of chocolate desserts and deep sea’d wine lost for centuries until
modern time erupted with techno-know-how and giants balls of pure adamantium.
Drive deep, and deep six any Duck tendencies. Roar.
Pisces- Your industrial history is replete with
smokestacks, bread factories, and buffalo distilleries that are astounding in
scope, considering the sheer building and manufacturing edicts and mandates
brought down upon your gentle head, on top of centuries of neglect and promises
of posterity, only to find a future full of donkey driven rivulets of pleasure
and hamster-en-wheel waterfalls of insolence and unwarranted pain. And still
you stand. Say it with me: I STAND. Life is an evolution of life that feeds on
life, that feeds on life, that feeds on life, and etc ad infinaseum®. Eat the pain and poop it sideways, so as not to
hinder your travel, or unenlighten your third eye and fourth hope.
No comments:
Post a Comment