Dr. Pants Mcturd's MORE Than True Horrorscopes

Dr. Pants McTurd's MORE Than True Horror-scopes
                                 
disclaimer: I drink your milkshake.

this week: There's no 'end' in 'friendship'. Except that there is.

Aries- After a heated debate I had the other night regarding the differences vis a vis sweaters vs sweatshirts; vis a vis zipper, no zipper, hood, no hood, my grandma made this for me, or simply that I'm allegedly "stalking" Bill Cosby... anyhoo, the conflict nearly erupted into fisticuffs, probably due to the scotch that started the time sucking vortex of mootlessness™, and then epiphany: the pursuit of minutia is advantageous to our survival, even though it occasionally leads to war. Everything we experience we catalogue, we dissect, we study, we eat information with our eyes and poop it out our brainholes. And friend, not to get weird on you, but your brainholes need a good scrubbing. You have... dense build-up. Unclog, brother, unclog.

Taurus- A most hidden perfect fruit of democracy is your right to verbalize any crazy political thought regardless of how stupid it makes you look. Despite their defunctitude™, the Know Nothing Party of the mid 1850's has had many bigoted incarnations, most recently the birther movement. Within the strata of any society, there will inevitably be a layer of rock so intolerant, so fearful, so ignorant that their logic mandates proselytizing their political will onto others in an effort to form a perfect society, which of course sounds like such a great idea, right? Ignorance is the enemy of compassion. Engender knowledge and you will be truly free. Know something, know anything and all.

Gemini- In The Apotheosis of George Washington, our first president and british ass kicker, the G-Wash is depicted as man becoming god, hence the fresco's catchy title. I love artists who don't need to fall back on hyperbole to make a point. I'm building my own pedestal out of a paste I make from old espresso grounds and bat guano, which is no fun to harvest, but makes great pedestal cement, despite of the constant threat of a rabid infarction trauma®, and of course the ever present miasma of bat guano wafting heavenwards toward my enlightenedness. Forge your own pedestal material and become Rodan, embody Bernini, channel Chillida, and ask Dali for a dance. Ascendancy is your birthright. The guano is mine.

Cancer- Raintree County, posit: the multiverse is so big and so old that all of this has happened before. You are but one part of one cycle of the ever weaving cosmic fabric. You are a semi-sentient grain of sand on a cosmic beach, tossed about by crashing branes. That said, it's time to speak of rock solid foundations and the floating piece of broken off glacier on which you've been squatting. Soon you will sail into more tropical waters, and the need for a permanent base not made of pre-cambrian ice shelf will become imperative. When you find your mainland, decorate it to your taste and then eat some cocoanuts to cure your ice scurvy.

Leo- A bunghole is no laughing matter. It's the hole drilled into a cask or a barrel so that you can get the booze out, get your drunk on, and then you stuff the hole with a cork, also known as... a bung. Now, I know what you're thinking. How am I going to ruin this perfectly well meaning 'scope about how cool history and words are and shit, into an orgy of butthole references using childish imagery of peoples' nethers, replete with taint jokes that will prove nauseatingly puerile. Yeah well, you don't know me. You don't know the one who dreams of you at night, who longs to kiss your lips, and wants to hold you tight. Your bunghole is your business.

Virgo- This week I recommend you strive to be a little more Boss Tweed and a little less Andy Gibb. A little more Paul Newman, a little less Darrel Strawberry. A bunch more David Copperfield, but not the magic one. Timothy Leary, not Squeaky Fromme. Bite into a chocolate torte of Scarlett Johanssen, but not the paella of Eva Peron. And for crap's sake, not any, repeat, nary a molecule of Red Skelton, he weirds me out despite his national treasurosity™. Furtherlymore® you can bring Tesla or even that greedy jerk Alva Edison all the way downtown, but stay away from Newton, he has nothing to do with figs or any sweet fruit filling, and his theories are as outrageous as his choice of knickers. Find the middle path. Be the tightrope. 

Libra- No.5 is alive and Ally Sheedy is hot on your trail. No disassemble. No disassemble! And yes, butterfly pretty. but keep your eye on the ball here: Ally is coming for you. She will stop at nothing. You and your precious little breakfast club will be nothing but fodder for her wargames. Saint Elmo will avail you not, your armada is in a stormy sea of peril. I recommend you return to spain, tell the king to get over her, I mean I thought the dude is gay anyway, so what does the king of spain want with a wife, right? Also keep an eye out for a NOVA Robotics van and/or anyone named Gutenberg. Steve gets "hungry" during the full moon.

Scorpio- Heads up and fair warning: this may sound a bit like an alarum back-asswards®, but you are about to go ass over tea kettle, arms akimbo and dangerously close to the margin of error plus or minus two jigawatts. Just one more double bonus leprechaun four cherries no lie straight up winner winner chicken dinner, and you will double forfeit all terms and conditions void where uninhibited, etc, etc per anno domine in the patrae ad infinauseum® and suckem the big fat one, amen, and so say we all. However, despite overwhelming odds, the dragon-mounted serpent king will not be victorious over your soul. Henceforth and forthwith and in all known dominions, as per the Treaty of Xargon 7 circa 2417, you are free and clear as of etc, etc, et. al., circa this thursday. Party on, Garth.

Sagittarius- Transdermal®, subliminal, and sub-irregular-fontainebleau are the wicked ways of your sorcerous plots and chaotic deus ex machiavellian machinations. You are hypersonic and sonambulatoriously® absurd. Lest I run afoul of your hair trigger temper, forgiveness I beg, but your abrasions and your damning evidence and your bunny socks are distracting me from the point at hand. We are individuals, you and I. As usual, Captain Kirk's wisdom is deep and wise, "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known." Damn the Dickensian world of yesteryear, go forth, Sky-Archer. Fill thy plate with mannic® honey as reward for thy true arrow's work.

Capricorn- "Humor is the spiciest condiment in the feast of existence", or so said, Lucy Maud Montgomery. I say the spiciest condiment is Uncle Chester's Jalapenopallooza Sauce®, the number one cause of blindness in Calaveras County! And it clearly says on the bottle, KEEP AWAY FROM EYES. Also don't spill any on your lap, especially if you're eating tacos at three in the morning while sitting naked in your kitchen. I am often without pants and find it liberating and mentally stimulating. However, and this is sage advice so I expect you to actually read this part: KEEP AWAY FROM GENITALS. Uncle Chester is a pallooza for your mouth, not your junk.

Aquarius- There is no such thing as a solid. What appears to be solid is actually composed of a ridiculous amount of space. Atoms may seem packed together creating matter, but there is actually more space between those atoms than there is anything solid. Furtherlymore™ our bodies may be 78% water, but we are 99% empty space. Well... it's not empty space, but that is an entirely other kettle of fish of a different colour, sub-nuclearly speaking. your current manifestation of self is spiritual energy gathering up atoms and squashing them together in a way that makes your ass look super good in those pants. Trippy shit, space cadet.

Pisces- One of the Great Smog Events of the 20th century occurred in Donora, Pa. in 1948, when an air inversion trapped pollution from the local zinc smelting plant covering the town for a day, killing 20 and nauseating everyone else. Coal burning and an anticyclone are responsible for the Great Smog of London in 1952, which lasted several days, killing an estimated 4,000 people. Ergo, smog events suck. Your current brown out is about to be swept out to sea, however, and in the clear light of unsullied atmo you will find your biggest desire (and ironically your biggest fear) to be standing right in front of you with open arms and waiting lips.