Dr. Pants Mcturd's MORE Than True Horrorscopes

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

                              
disclaimer: Satire is like a sand dune. An amorphous synecdoche of shifting realities, and we are but riders on a molecular storm.

this week: FYI ad BTW, the number forty, aka 40, or as palavered in certain punkified circles as double dumbass on you.. is a fake number, and deserves no quarter nor succor, nor mercy.

Aries- When I say that everything is math, I don't mean that I'm a nerd and you should feel entitled to mock, ridicule or hijack me into an impromptu sing song version of the periodic table of elements; which in re the aforementioned, I can recite even while under torture, backwards to forwards, as well as in ancient Long Islandian® from longways to sideways, also as well as and in or out of context. I reckon the multiverse is rightly complexified™, and our grok of it grows exponentially, what with time's arrow moving ever "forwards". Furtherly™ more, fret not-- what remains unexplained and unexplored will be in due time. The 'verse wants to be heard and understood, forgiven and caressed, and then released back into the wild. You are god's juggernautical™ shepherd, act accordingly.

Taurus- Water chestnuts are total bullshit. I don't sanction them from my gullet, but they twist my knickers big time. The question I implore you to consider is this: How many chickens have you eaten in your lifetime? If you added up the wings, breasts and thighs, bbq'd or otherwise, how many bird carcasses have you ingested? A thousand? Ten thousand? Say we reckon one fowl per week for 30 years, that's over 1500 birds. How many fish? How many potatoes? How many pieces of chocolate? How many bottles of wine? How many regrettable moments spent kissing and/or groping somewhere dark and forbidden, with somone that was unavailable and distraught, both mutually motionless in a world of constant change and incessant loneliness coupled with the mad pursuit of freedom, sexual, socio-political or otherwise? Breathe deep, samsara is ubiquitous and well intentioned, despite its fangs and bloodlust. 

Gemini- I'm a man, yo. I eat chicken. I eat cured meats, raw meats, even tofu that's seasoned in some way to replicate real meat. I eat meats of all ilk and font. F to the A to the bacon bacon bacon pancakes with a side of sausage and a turkey sandwich and a pizza laden with the flesh of animals that, no I didn't kill personally, there's this automated thing deep in our peripheral, where the miasma of death and the screams of electrically beheaded cows are far from our precious ears. It's the only logical way to harvest bovinely the lonely sausages of our future poops and ever present coronary artery disease. I digress. You are blessed, stuff your meat hole with unapologetic pride and have a hot dog smothered in veal, smothered in whiskey and and dripping with opiates. Cows taste yum.

Cancer- There are few things as irritating in this life, as wet socks, particularly when one suffers from chronically cold feet from late October to March. Winter-- bah and piffle, I say. And don't get me started on slippers. Something about them vexes and demeans me, which only elevates my inherent mistrust of footwear that claims to be both indoor and outdoor--- I call bullshit. But enough about my bipedal fetishism, let's get down to you and your immediate future, which only I can predict, and supply an adequate to mediocre interpretation of. Your feet and the earth have been in constant contact for the vast majority of your life. Fact is, that bipedalism has been around even longer than penis envy. Get a foot massage and preempt a war with yourself, the result of which would only result in needless suffering. Be yourself. Be what you're like.

Leo- What are the odds of a fortunate mistake? Like penicillin or LSD. Or when you took a wrong turn going home that one time and you discovered the greatest sushi place in the world tucked into the corner of a mini mall that you never go near, because it doesn't have a yoga studio, and there's a menacing group of street toughs hang out in the parking lot. Accidental discoveries are like a mutation, a catalyst that creates change within our matrix. Environment changes our phenotype, which changes our genetic structure. It's true, you can look that shit up. Environment affects our identities, and how we grok the 'verse, and who we are at the molecular freaking level. Germinate with bhudda-like focus, for the tree that you're growing internally is a redwood, and it's going to need some serious space.

Virgo-  People who don't trim their nose hair usually have the bushiest schnozzi™,or schnozziolas™, as we used to call them back in east Jersey during the intervening time between the depression, the panic of blah blah blah, and the inevitably ever increasingly difficult to properly balance expense vs gain vs how many more children should be exploded by homemade bombs, before we quantify our perpetual obsession with profit. The nose thing is about courtesy. Must I be forced to stare at your nasal shrubbery and listen to your drollery? I suppose to some, the proboscis is a victory garden. Check out these medal winning nose hairs! It's like prick waving, brightly colored plumage, or the confirmed presence of an undercover cloaca that's been hiding out in your croc's midbrain for, oh I reckon nigh on coupla' score, and maybe even a fortnight. I say braid your nose hairs, show us your cloaca and start a revolution, for the establishment is a blasphemy, and you are full of righteous vim and/or vigor, aka balls.

Libra- You are a frozen wasteland and a tumult of ice cream made with milk from an icelandic yeti, aptly named Yorgin-Fluggin®. When they raise the bar for you, you sidestep it and hit the dive bar down the crooked street that believes itself to be straight. You are not what you want to be, nor what you think you are, and not even what others think of you. You are a sly melange of brink-, gun, and oneup- manship vaporized together, despite your liquefactional phenotype, and alchemied® into a rotten angelic methane dispersal that stings my nostrils like gasoline, yet sucks me in for more, and then more, and then more, the opiate of opiates, the fruitiest of the fruit; you put the ut- to the most and the peanut to the brittle. My Muse is a pox. Your ease and beauty are dreamt of only in higher realities.

Scorpio- When I feel the need for speed, and/or to get properly funkified®, I always choose the sponsor that really speaks to my demographic, and makes me feel like I'm the life of the party cause I tell a funny joke or two. Despite the possibility that deep inside, I'm blue. Blue like Picasso. Blue like oceanic abysses where life thrives under immense pressures, creating shortsighted odds that even Vegas would lose money on. We are creatures of habit. Repetition is like a bran muffin, or some under-ripe prunes sprinkled with nuclear wing sauce. You're approaching Rocky Mountain High, colorado style with the green salsa and coma inducing orgasms. It's your time to ride the snake. Just be home by a Thor'sday near you in a theater around the corner. Your just desserts will be ready.

Sagittarius- When I say things like 'I reckon', it makes me feel folksy, not in an uneducated hayseed way, but in a way that makes me feel connected to my ancient visigoth roots. I'm half visigoth on my mother's side. They say that's the important side when determining blood lines. Anyhowdy, I reckon that you're due for some reconnoitering of the most pedestrian sort. You will find yourself in a shoe shore, or a 7-11, or maybe a massage place where the endings are always sad; and it will be from that vantage point, from the most jejune of circumstances, that you will commune with ancestral spirits, those who bore you, those to whom you owe your very existence. They will tell you how proud they are of you, and make you privy to visions of your future, where the love you give is equal to the love you take.

Capricorn- You don't want to eat too healthy, there's a chance you'll live longer. Inevitably you will increase the number of years that you'll require assistance with most of your bowel movements. Unless they invent a robot butt wiper®. One could argue that the bidet is to date our best conception of such a helpful device. I assume bathroom assistants of the future will be called something like the Butt Buddy®. But, look, we're good friends, right, and when you get super old, and poop everywhere, and you need your butt wiped... I'm gonna be there, dude, for you, for all your poopy pants needs, cause you're my pal. I am gonna work really hard on that robot thing though. Happy Birthday, you old stubborn goat son of a bitch.

Aquarius- The brown throated sloth is the only animal on earth that that is immune to ennui. Fish are the most chronically melancholic, probably due to the inevitability that every time your tail is turned there's a silent predator about to swallow you whole and/or eat your egg sac that you had surmised cleverly hidden in that tide pool back in Laguna. But sloths exist in an entirely other temporal reality. What we see as the sloth is only an after image, a reflection from another reality. They are transdimensional slow motion tree climbers, and the tree they climb is the main artery through which all multiversal energy flows. These totemic titans are entrusted with the totality of totalities, the wholiest™ of holies and the undergarments of the divine. Make friends with a sloth, buy him a big fat cup of berries and soak up his transversal enlightenmentness™. 

Pisces- The winds of change are often flatulent in nature. Far too seldom do they smell like a dryer sheet picked right off the tree. Change is a miasma, intended to be smelly. For example, take that rutabaga that you had for lunch. You ate it, sucked all the usable energy out of it via that workhorse of a colon of yours, and then that energy became some skin cells you needed, or judging from your fondness for late night peppermint schnapps and jalapeno milk shakes, probably some new liver cells. Good thing those organs recycle, huh? So here's your personal weather report: my Super Psyched Psychotropic Radar Machine 9000® (also a microwave---convenient, right?), tells me that some super rancid winds are blowing your way. Remember they always smell bad coming in, but once the storm passes, your changed air will be fresh and clean as if your life had a cosmic laundry day.