Dr. Pants Mcturd's MORE Than True Horrorscopes

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.