Dr. Pants Mcturd's MORE Than True Horrorscopes

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

              

      

disclaimer: Satire was not invented by the greeks, but who else makes tzatziki sauce?

this week: Jesus is my hotrod. He's also my barber.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: cumshaw. It’s not what you’re thinking.

Aries- When I feel like getting weird, I open iTunes radio to the “world music” category and find the weirdest, usually Finnish, radio station that I can, then I turn it up to eleven and I listen to polka until whatever thought I was obsessing about just disappears, due to the accordian's aural onslaught.  Depending on the thought, it can take a couple minutes of polka, or as much as three and a half hours of oompah oompah oompah, after which my psychological pallette is clean as a whistle. It doesn't have to polka, but I recommend you wipe your brain clean of any distracting horse twaddle. In the near future you will need your wits, gumption and your iTunes.

ps: read scorpio and capricorn, or else I will continue making idle threats.

Taurus- What’s currently freaking my shite out is Big Styrofoam. Yes, I’m serious. While idly typing, my Micro-frakking-soft Word auto-corrected the word Styrofoam to be capitalized. Wow, that’s the long arm of copyright protection reaching into the pockets of guys like Glen Beck who are just trying to make an honest living as a charlatan; not like Henry Winkler, or former presidential candidate Fred Thompson, nor even the likes of Robert freaking Wagner, all of them hawking their former respectability for re-fi mortgages, or quasi-legal medical insurance, or merely the soul of the american economy. I’ll capitalize styrofoam when and if I feel like, Mr. Gates and all you other vulturistic parasites out there who would rather eat of my flesh, than find ways to be conjunctive in our mutual quest for longer and happier lives. It’s just a word processor, not my overlord and designator of all things not ironic. Try think bubbling the following: I hereby swear to be vigilant ‘gainst all those who would seduce my wealth away from me because of their insatiable greed. This week, stick a flag in it!

Gemini- Invariably and inevitably, the remote control is over there, dammit. I just poured my beer, took my pants off, set up my beer-chicken helmet®, turned on the humidifier, and fired up the ol’ vcr to watch the original three Star Wars movies that I own, the ones before George went wookie wacky in the ugnaught factory and putting in scenes that had been cut for a reason. If I were a jedi, I would Force grab the crap out of it from here. And in the microsecond that I think that thought, a flitter of a something byronic passes through my axons—just grab it with your mind. Go! There is no try, only do! Well, that didn’t work. Somewhere between my ethereal self and my hand reaching for it, my focus scattered like a fart in the wind. It has to be possible, right? I mean, this multiverse does some pretty weird shite already, and we’re still in the expansion phase… Ponder this assuredly ground breaking ramble, whilst I reheat the chicken for my helmet.

Cancer- According to legend, urban or otherwise, if a man eats pineapple, his…, let’s see, in the parlance of our times-- his manjuice will taste sweet. Which makes me wonder about asparagus pee, which takes a specific gene to be turned on in order to produce the smelly pee pee. Since we’re being so frank, I don’t have the smelly pee gene, but I do have the ‘eat even one egg  = assward sulphuric vents of the #2 variety’, that sting the nostrils and piss off the senses, and make people wonder why they put up with me. Incidentally, is manjuice considered #3 in the list of numbered bodily fluids? And what number is bile? Or brain juice? Anyhowdy, point is, get some pineapple and go to town, not literally of course. Let’s just say that you’re gonna be happy you did.

Leo- I use a lot of napkins when I eat and I have no regrets. I’m fastidious, deal with it, useless earth. Regarding toilet paper, I’m an ecologically insensitive wadder. And I don’t give a crap—I take ‘em. I eat steak regardless of the statistic that claims one filet mignon is roughly the equivalent of driving a Hummer for three hours up Everest blasting air conditioning and leaving the parking brake on. Likewise, I have no remorse about leaving the toilet seat up because I figure 50% of the time, it’s down when I enter a bathroom, and there’s no reason I should have to touch another butt’s seat, I mean really—you enter the bathroom, you should assume that since the toilet seat only has two states—up or down, that it would be wise to check it before peeing in the dark. Also, make double sure, it’s the toilet you’re about to embark upon. Regrets are for fools and carpet pissers.

Ps: read your oppositeandequal aquarius, or I will light dog poop on fire at your doorstep.

Virgo- Let’s you and I talk some Gibb. Of the Barry ilk. Firstlyish, his birthday is September 1, so maybe you can explicate this enigma from the Isle of Man-- lot of sheep, anyhowdy, he’s second only to McCartney in terms of songwriting cajones. So let’s break my paralysis over lyrical analysis with this: I’m a dancin’ man and I just can’t lose / you know it’s allright, it’s okay / I’ll live to see another day / we can try to understand the new york times effect on man. What the fudge? The new york times effect on man? That sounds pretty deep and I don’t get it. Also there’s this:  feel the city breakin’ / and everybody’s shakin / life’s goin’ nowhere / somebody help me. And the reason it’s perfect for cpr is because the track has a drum machine under it, not because of some placebic metaphor at work on the body’s autonomic disco system. I just don’t know, compadre. For now, I advise thusly: placebo Domino in regione vivorum, and you will live to see many more days.

Libra- We are in a magnetic moment, you and I, pretty much all the time. You’re the strong nuclear and I’m the weak and the god particle hovers between us, trapped in a spider’s concoction of force drawn lines. We’re the gluon that holds the ‘verse together. Like clouds colliding, swirling into each other like galaxies bound for destructive nuptual bliss, or at least until the next collision which is hopefully eons away. Total unity, not some energy field holding our atoms together in separate fish tanks. Until then we are we, not one; us, not them, and we are traveling the Jundland wastes together, separate but with the same mission, to maintain our memory of oneness till we get there again, time without end and life without death.

Scorpio- In Minnesota, it’s illegal for any man to have sexual intercourse with a fish. Women, I suppose, are ‘off the hook’ for such perviness. My possibly insightful thoughts in descending order: 1) who does Minnesota think they are? Man on fish sex time is a right, not a privilege reserved only for the wealthy out-of-staters that come to visit the largest mall in america (ironically called the Mall of America). 2) Does that law include flounder? I only ask because honestly, those fish are asking for it. 3) To take a law off the books, regardless of its civil rights violations, costs thousands of legislative dollars and hours, and those folks have enough on their mind, what with bridges and infrastructure collapsing almost daily, and megalomaniacal congresswomen. Here’s my prescription for you and the state of Minnesota: take all the laws off the books that make no sense. It will clear your muddy waters of the underpinnings of illogic that make for weird anti-fish sex laws up top. Time to dredge the lake, and seduce some fish.

ps: read all the ‘scopes this week, because I probably wrote all of them with you in mind.

Sagittarius- Pluck yew, man, pluck yew. Flash the peace sign backwards and the V for victory becomes 'up yours, frenchy'. Otherwise known as the Longbowman Salute, it originated back  in the glory days of the Hundred Years War (the French and Britains really know how to hate each other), If captured, the French would cut off the first two fingers of captured british archers so they could never shoot arrows again. To show that you could still pluck yew, you put up the reverse V with as much derision as you can muster and tell the french where to stick it. Pluck yew, frenchy, I still got my fingers and you're in my sights. I recommend you get your fingers greased and ready, there's a need for fiery arrows in your near future.

Capricorn- George Ratzenberger is ubiquitous. Yeah, Cliff Claven. Try eating this for lunch: he’s appeared in the following list of absurdly iconic films: Superman, Superman II, Ghandi, Empire Strikes Back, every Pixar film to date, as well as—get this—a guest spot on a little show called Magnum PI; and he may or may not be considering a run for the U.S. Senate from the great state of Connecticut in 2012. He also started Eco-Pak, a company that developed a safer alternative to styrofoam peanuts and bubblewrap. George is ubiquitous, and he must be stopped before he is elected and can enact legislation that will make him Grand Hegemon and we're all sleeping in eco friendly bubblewrap beds watching Cheers reruns with our eyes taped open. Join me and stop the Ratzenberger.

Aquarius- I hate to harp on the Lucas, but Captain Binaca, really? Pick any of the Star Wars movies, and count how many times George is a crazy genius in terms of story, and a poor executioner of inventing character names. Captain frakking Binaca? And Darth Sidious? Yeah, that’s not an obvious derivation of the word insidious at all. And please don’t make me explicate the literary gimcrackery of Cad Bain, Greedo, or Hammerhead. But he did create Skywalker, which has a mellifluous and byronic quality that evokes imagery that has made my psychotropic trip thru this ‘verse full of cool imaginary cumshaws. Not to mention, he did create Darth Vader, with his awesome helmet and throat crushing Force fingers. I love you George. And you, reading this prattle: don’t forget the why of how you love your favorite things in life. Save you it can.

Pisces- When we met, it was dusk, and the blue twinges of light made me think that you were a godsend. Your flavor’s frozen treat disintegrated my smarmy style, as if you were an angel, an undine, an ephemeral myth, forced to live a mortal life, swallowing some trifling human recompense like true love or the promise of an early spring. You remind me of the who that I was and it pleases the me that is now. When I was that me, I was simpler, more honest, less reserved and highly aroused every time you touched my arm, or laughed at my attempts at wit or sexy banter. We were different than the now us. Or time was different, like with a different tide, a more caressing ebb, and a supportive flow, despite your innate refrains of aortic bahs and/or colonic humbuggery, that arise when your moon is in such a wobbly choler. Come back to dusk here on land. The light is divine and the footing gets warmer as the earth cools.