Dr.
Pants McTurd's
MORE
Than True Horror-scopes
(not associated with ‘true’
horror or scopes of any ilk)
disclaimer: Satire
will not make you seem cool to people, or make you friends. It could, but more
likely it will do the opposite. Just ask Hamlet’s Uncle.
this week: Next week
the Pants are off. And so are mine. Have a good time with yourself.
Doc P’s Word of the Week: velleity. Since tomorrow’s the full
moon in Pisces, increase the volition on this one. Save you, it could.
Aries- Woody Guthrie
is your power animal for the week. Bad ass hillbilly reason number one: on his
guitar was writ the phrase ‘This Machine
Kills Facists’---Nice, right? Cause carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, ain’t
gonna make it with anyone anyhow. Woody was so cool, Bob freaking Dylan came
and sang to him in the hospital when he was sick. He influenced everybody. Make
this your catchphrase and watchword: I am out to sing the songs that make you
take pride in yourself and in your work. And go
ahead, invoke Arlo this week too, who said, You
want to know if I'm moral enough to join the army, burn women, kids, houses and
villages after bein' a litterbug; for which he was convicted,
disqualifying him of service. The Guthrie’s are bad ass moralists on the side
of the average dude and dudette. Use their words and track their steps. Go
Woody. Go hard.
Taurus- Windup, and pitch…Man suffers an accident
resulting in a brain injury (I’m thinking a J. Gordon Levitt kind of guy),
which develops into alien hand syndrome
(yeah, it’s a real deal)---it’s when the two sides of the brain become
disconnected and one arm begins to act independently, doing whatever it feels
like and not telling the brain that’s doing it. So… after the accident, the
man’s the man’s right arm starts writing in an unknown language. He finds a
translator—turns out it’s in ancient Sumerian—and it’s a prophecy of some kind
of impending alien invasion-- or space monkeys-- or time travel or whatever.
I’m thinking it’s one we take to Ridley Scott, maybe Spielberg…or go the other
way and call the Farrelly Brothers. Home run, I think.
Gemini- I reckon you’re the type of hombre that likes
a solid cut of meat with their daily intake, possible avec un side du balls;
taking chomper sized bites out of life, only to
re-ingest those atoms and empty space full of dark matter, into a
defecation of nucleic goo, that seems solid, but may be part of some unseen
matrix replete with Keanus of all sorts, both deific and base, made up of
things that exist merely because there exists a field of Higgs and bosons,
determining our reality as something less than transcendent, and leaning
towards the tangible, the touchable, and the hands on experientiality that we
all hope for, regardless of time, station, birth order, arbitrary planetary
locale vs subspace frequencies of intolerable…frakking.. genius!---TAKE NO
PRISONERS. TAKE NO SHITS--metaphorically speaking of course, don’t prove
yourself a total fool. Your feelings serve you, but could be made to serve the
emperor.
Cancer- Under
the light of a blue filmed bulb, whilst I pondered my red pasta sauce covered
with freshly shaved romanesque cheese, all the while reading about the likes
and fates of Isaac, Jesus, Martin Luther King, RFK, J Lennon, and the countless
children crippled by stray bullets from a legally sold guns…the plate-- it
looks like blood, and in the blue light I drink it and eat it wholesale. And
then amongst the unhinging of my alimentary floodgates, I wonder why everything
must repeat. Why must flesh be made spiritual? It is flesh and never the twain
shall meet…despite my bias? Even under the blue, blood glows red. But it is
good, and I challenge you to deter me from my path….oh frak---the ebullient
word fakes I have pounced upon you are irrelevant to the here and/or now. Life
is not blood. It is mind and compassion and soul. Dive deep, and breathe.
Leo- The truth about the Curse of Ham is some pretty deep old testament pigslop. And we’re
never going to know what really happened in that tent with Ham and his Dad. All
we know is that Noah started a vineyard, took to drinking, fell asleep—maybe on
top of a whore or another dude, or maybe a really beautiful goat—and his junk
fell out of his robe. Sure, the junk could be metaphorical genitalia, but I
don’t think so. Firstly, to have saved the world from flood by building a giant
ark AND keeping rhinos from fighting alligators in close sea tossed
quarters---all I’m saying is that the dude was probably hung like the proverbial
Trojan horse. Or maybe he had a really small one, and after the tent debacle,
everyone in Canaan knew about Noah’s shortcomings. Point is, what happens in
Canaan stays in Israel. This week, keep an eye on your junk. Don’t let you
crotch rip your social life asunder.
Virgo- I’ve had it. Tucson and muscle have no
business having c’s in them. You gotta earn a C, man. C’s aren’t free, despite
what hippies would have you believe. There’s no rest for the wicked, the road
to hell is indeed paved with good intentions and TANSTAAFL still stands true.
Bring your lunch money and succumb to the leftover sloppy joe friday that was
tacos on tuesday. The steam trays of purgatory are merely spas that will
massage your dead bones for their journey across the Styx, from whence we will
go a-sailing, away, away and away—ever away. FRAK, STAY ON MESSAGE! What really
poops my boner, is Jammies. Yeah, like the kind one might wear to bed, whilst
sleeping. I just don’t get the hype and I’m not going to be on that train, I’ll
tell you whaaaaaat. Howsomever, were things less competitive and awry, perhaps
we would find ourselves deep amongst a cacophonous orgasmitron® of aural
delight, and perhaps.. we could rest easy, at least for a spell, a sleep, a
moment away granted by fairies and well meaning souls. Happy Birthday.
Libra- The days of dime store gun gurus and goobers
are long gone. The soda jerks and fountains went out before even my time, along
with Brady Bunches and tin star sheriffs. The future is riddled with armor
piercing bullets and a distinct lack of taste or style. Radio flyers and fake
guns that looked real and hopscotch painted right onto the black top, along
with monkey bars cemented into firmity, and the angry post hippie generation
whose music just turned angry, especially as the mistreated vets settled home
and got pilfered even more by a government that merely needed pawns. Take no
prisoners, take no shit! And then Atari happened and I was forced to kill
asteroids in the middle of nowhere spacewise, probably to get some Lex
Luthorian type some new viable real estate, clearing minefields for those who’s
crest is cowardice, who use mere mortals as kabobs for the grilling, and fodder
for useless crusades. Calm before the deluge.
Scorpio- Your upcoming spanking engagement will falter
lest you undress the audience with your bestial and debauched proclivities and
cross dressing curiosities. Wear some fishnets, or conversely, a jockstrap.
Grab whatever junk you have, and delicately swab and daub it with salves,
unguents and oils that will preserve your macho sex appeal and/or your primal
ovaric hormone geysers. The skin should be turned a pinot style red, and pain
should be pleasurable-- never permanent or jagged; but rather memory educing
and palm squeezing—lovemaking to quake the plains of the ennui of speeches of
paucity during times of full moon excess. This particular bull wants to be
wo/manhandled, to be grabbed by the horns and wrestled, nay--‘rastled to the
ground naked with the forthrightness of a first kiss; or an idolatrous imogen,
all maiden-like and prowing her ship to full mast and release inside your inner
sanctum. It’s going to be deep and wide, and cosmically epiphanic, echoing
through your aural chambers that have longed for such vibration and liquid
earth. The river is deeper than you could know.
Sagittarius- I don’t want to get weird, but this has to go
straight into the vomitorium, and never past lips that would engender
fraudulent lies and calumnies ‘gainst mine own cannon’s self slaughter, which
has been doing a fine job so far. Your Light Brigade has been charging up San
Juan Hill to strike at mere windmills ever since the late 14th
century. However, the Renaissance is over---it’s Action Hero time. You are due
to be swooping in from on sky high to save damsels and endangered wildlife and
common sense from extinction. Decency and good taste, btw are doomed; leave
them to the Reavers. Get yourself a nice cape---not too long, nobody likes a
floor dragger; and be the hero, the Keanu, the Bruce—or hey, carte blanche
here, buddy: go Mel. Pop out your shoulder and live on prime real estate in
Malibu in a trailer. Your path is lined with stars.
Capricorn- By hook, by crook, or happenstance; cheek by
jowl, tried and trusted, easy bake oven and so are the pretzels. Sugar and
spice, and not one thing nice. I’d eat you alive, just make it half the price.
Tits for tats and baseball vats, I’m ridin’ this rocket to the end of the moon.
The hoi polloi are hot to trot. The fox in their socks rocked the school of
hard knocks. The radar’s pumpin’, the joint is jumpin’, and my shoes are wired
to the Dj’s bumpin’. Cause there’s no… sleep... til Brooklyn. The big bad
Bodhisattva’s been brawling, he’s been searching for souls, breaking some
prose, and never touching ground in daylight. Like a deep blue light-- from the
bottom of the sun-- don’t paralyze from all the analyze. Go deep mode, have it
ala mode, cause it’s the mother lode. And it’s meant to be…
Aquarius- The absolute best way to pack a carry-on
bag---has been up for debate seemingly for centuries. But not really-- because
it’s a total non-issue. Just some crap that a marketing committee squandered
together, probably at the last minute because they were too busy studying the
art of ripping everyone off completely; regardless of soul, piety, dignity,
grace---merely the fecund remnants of a life sold to the individual
corporation, though while headed by bodies, and lobbied by sources close enough
to home to be called fraud outright, backed by the full force of the law and punishable
by some sort of regulation---crimeinitaly!,
what don’t we get?, about the greed factor, that’s now backed by exponential
madness in the form of actual science, flowering with over populated systemic
too big to fails everywhere---wait, screw that… deep breaths. Go slow. The
river knows where to flow. Come downstream, the water’s pefect.
Pisces- I refuse to be a man of constant sorrow. It
befits not a forward thinker such as I-- nor you. Tarry not; for you will nary
bury me for many a year, and even in death will I not sleep. Flowery words and
pointless prose, however, do not bestow us onto the merry ship of foreknowledge
and past the pointless obligatories. This is the part---this here, whence
offices and hangars and beachheads are turned upward and turvy like, as in non
times, like in Finn’s Paradox, where slaves dwindled from a common hist- or
hyst- ericaltheme into history, only to end at a deadened branch of no
consequence-- because the tree of life is filled, in this timeline-- with Green
and Growth and Optimism-- ever higher, and ever bolder. For the sakes and in
the hopes of your ancient ice cream and ocean wanderers---remember your charge,
and forget not your destiny, laying brilliantwise ‘mongst fields of stars of
pure unadulterated azure. Have at it. Drink deep. The world is an orchid, home
from hot climates and is ready to propel your cancer into plowshares.
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