Dr. Pants Mcturd's MORE Than True Horrorscopes

                      Dr. Pants McTurd's 

          MORE Than True Horror-scopes

                       

                                 

disclaimer: This week has nothing to do with Dr. McT and his women, mostly for legal reasons.

this week: Doctor, if you please. I think I’ve earned it.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: sudorific. If you’re sweaty and you know it, grab a towel.

Aries- To purposefully toot my own sociological horn (a conch, btw), the rate at which a society revolutionizes and changes from one ruling power and/or philosophy, is a mathematical determinate and indicative of its overall health. I loooove information: size, mean age, life span, economic viability, educational opportunities, nutritional availability, access to potable water, relative safety from the ravages of a tectonically cooling planet, and of course the level of trickle down tyranny, despotism and dickish edicts enacted so spuriously from on high, etc. ad infinauseum®. Forewarned is forearmed, right? But we’ve missed a most critical piece of datum: the intellectual level of the alphas in charge of the system. Sadly, brains and greed do not often come with equal parts humility or empathy to make either attribute worth having. My advice: dress for the party, but keep an eye on those rebels willing to die not for money, but for their cause.

Taurus- Have you ever seen a video of an octopus as it’s in motion? If you want to creep yourself out, go to Youtube later on, and try to keep your lunch down. It’s primordial, strange boneless compatriots of our own species. They seem intelligent and focused. A big jellied head propelled by eight slimy legs moving in slippery unison. In an early version of our evolving bio-matrix, we were all just muscles moving brains around. When it moves, it looks like it has a purpose, a will, a drive, an id. Most fish just seem to be swimming around looking for a good time, or maybe a baited hook to sever their lips from their face. But the octopus has drives like we do. It has wants. In the year 2234, when they rise up from the polluted oceans and take control of our cities, we’ll all find out what it is that they want. In the meantime, order some calamari; inure and inhere yourself in the present.

Gemini- You are not a roman tuba. You are also not a swedish horn. You are nowhere near a five valve euphonium; and please, taunt me not with rabid fish tales of your years long stint as a flumpet, a flugelhorn, or how dare you, sir---a mute cornett. Really, your gall is as wide as the pants your cajones fit in. You, sir,-- or ladyfriend, are a perfect example of a homemade trumpet. Ingredients: one long rubber tube, a funnel—preferably metallic, and a mouthpiece, which you’re probably better off going to the music store up the street run by that stoner hippy dude, and buy yourself an actual trumpet mouthpiece. So, two-thirds of you is homemade, and one part, you gotta go to the store and buy. Point is, you probably don’t rubber tubing sitting around either…or maybe you do, I don’t judge. Point is, get the materials, and croon and woo your lover with a homemade trumpet. Your thanks will be comprised of stolen kisses in a dark and sacred place.

Cancer- While I agree that 10,000 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean might be a good start, perhaps I’ve projected my mistrust of our ensnarled bureaucracy on the litigiously obsessed, and onto the ABA as well. And while I agree that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, at least the ABA recommends pro bono publico work as part of their ethical rules. They teach lawyers to do work for the public good for free—what the fudge? At business schools like Harvard, no pro publico works are engendered, because, hey—we’re making profit here, not friends. Anyhowdy, apparently we live in a world that teaches ethics to lawyers, but not to the corporation/people who run the show and employ the lawyers, which are somehow equivalent to regular people, like me, or say you even Coca-cola. My advice: ethics first, profit second.

Leo- Shuttle pipes and shuttlecocks are not mutually exclusive. They’re more like third cousins. I picture you more as a hammered dulcimer, not one that’s over the edge, just one that enjoys a few mint juleps before bed, and occasional champagne upon waking up on a sun filled morning full of intended and well deserved gadabouting amidst warm tangled sheets amongst warm company.  The sweet and sad strings of the lira de braccio are only notes for cloudy afternoons full of brandy and wine and considering the softer side of the ‘verse. And the hurdy gurdy can wait for a more proper occasion with more strudel. You are an intricate piece of mouth music machinery. Blow, strum, harmonize, and percuss, because we’re all ready for your beautiful mouth and dulcimer tones.

Virgo- The following “joke” is from my high school physics teacher: So, a professor is giving a lecture about orbital motion and gravity and how the earth goes around the sun, when from the back of the lecture hall, an old woman (why it’s an old woman an why she’s in a physics lecture, I have no clue), but this old woman interdicts with, “The earth actually goes around the sun riding on the back of a giant space turtle.” Deciding to humor her, the teacher asked, “And what is the turtle riding on?” The old lady smarmily replied, “Silly…it’s turtles all the way down.” All the way down, of course, implying a universe made of things that we have yet to explain. In case the batty old lady is right, make ready your mind, as best you can, for everything under the sun, be they turtles or invisible atomic forces.

Libra- You’re a rhapsody in cool, something borrowed and something blue, an ad hoc mixture of hither and yon, of time and of space, of things and ideas. You’ve not crossed over, however; you are the zone. Jamais vu, jamais vu, jamais vu, jamais vu, jamais vu. And now our mutual déjà vu echoing a dance we’ve done before, is qed. These words are mere talismans, not literal, but in order to grok their incongruence and impalatability, we must never speak them. Travails and set-tos aside, you are bound for Everest on a clear day, and the sky and wind will adapt to your wings, regardless of the warranty. Act accordingly. The devil is in the details, whether or not he exists.

Scorpio- If you aspire to the title of The Great Masticator, you have large teeth to fill. Horace Fletcher, like so many wacky foodies of the early 20^th century, figured out the secret to super human digestive strength: chewing. But not just chewing—a buttload of chewing. He even believed you should chew liquids. 32 times, to be exact, or roughly chewing each mouthful for about a minute. You need to ‘fletcherize’ the crap out of that food, so that its yum yum nutrients can be effectively sucked out by your less than industrious innards. I call bullcrap. I say, chew twice, then swallow. The alimentary canal didn’t survive ten billion years of evolution in order to be coddled. Make your body parts work hard. Survival ain’t easy. Give your bowels and whatever else some tough love.

Sagittarius- Bees do indeed have knees. No patellae, but they are knees by certain definition, but why they are so cool and sought after is a mystery. One theory says that in the 1920’s people liked to rhyme nonsensical things. However, a bee’s knees contain a sac that is usually filled with nectar, like primordial insectoid fanny packs. Another strange reference is to a 1920’s dancer named Bee Jackson, who may have created the Charleston. Her name was bee, the dance is knee oriented--- seems reasonable. However, a more ethereal look at the phrase indicates to me that it has to do with the quality of something that is unknowable, and whose definition would only limit its potential. Don’t over think; just practice the Charleston and commune with the ineffable and sacrosanct.

Capricorn- I don’t want to alarm you, but plants rule the world. Yes, I’m being literal, and no, I am not drunk, tipsy maybe, neverthless case in point: the chayote, a member of the squash family, originally native to mexico, has somehow managed to become a worldwide crop. In a relatively short time, they have traversed the globe; they have a foothold, or at least a gourdhold. And who knows what their ultimate plans are. Obviously, corn, coffee, tea, soy, cotton, marijuana, wheat and cocaine are the established powers in the world of flora—the G8 of the plant world. Hell, we subsidize them; they’ve actually gotten us to fund their existence. And they’re too big to fail. If corn suddenly went away tomorrow, how would we make tortillas? There’s a big mine field of metaphor here, but I’ll leave you with: beware the plants, even though your lifetime is too short to notice the subtleties of future floristic domination. Eat them before they eat you.

Aquarius- I’m becoming more convinced that spell check is affecting my brain. I can only hope it’s for the better. When I run into a questionable spelling, sometimes I just type it, and let the spell check tell me it’s wrong and how to fix it, rather than figuring it out myself, which might take up to four or five seconds. In theory, it could be beneficial. Perhaps spelling is becoming an irrelevant skill. Perhaps a new intellectual skill set will emerge with the influx of stored fingertip-ready knowledge that gets exponentially bigger like every other week at this point. Perhaps. That’s evolution’s caveat: change is inevitable and difficult to assess at its birth. It needs time for the environment to season and change around it, and presumably, to seed the next idea for mutational experiment. Knowing when to abandon certain knowledge is as important as knowing when to acquire new skill sets.

Pisces- "Neither the plague, nor war, nor smallpox, nor similar diseases, have produced results so disastrous to humanity as the pernicious habit of onanism”—John Kellog. Yeah, the same guy whose cereal you’re shoveling into your mouth. According to him, masturbation and sex negatively impact health; and sans hyperbole to be sure, exists on the same level of evil as pestilence and mustard gas. This guy didn’t even have sex on his honeymoon. Being in the same room as George Michael would probably give him a stroke. His father owned a broom factory, which probably engendered his love of enemas from an early age. Squeaky clean is how he liked his bottom. And I’m not saying wash your butt, but I am saying watch your butt, to make sure it’s not leading you. Lead with the front junk. It knows what it’s doing.