Dr.
Pants McTurd's
MORE
Than True Horror-scopes
(not associated with horror
or scopes of any ilk)
Random quote of the week: A knight errant who turns mad for a reason
deserves neither merit nor thanks. The thing is to do it without cause. --Cervantes
Doc P’s Word of the Week: acephalous. Ask Ichabod about this one.
Aries- For those who can actually translate music to and from the written
language, and thereby translate into their own heads and minds the true nature
of tempo and of mood, as well as
intent of the artistic soul, even though they had potentially never
heard any such sound previously—these people astound me. To read off the page
what is ostensibly an emotional collaborative effort betwixt an unruly army of
musically enhanced ambidextrians, and crossed with an ego driven alpha male,
who probably enjoys too much Mahler and empathizes with Salieri—is marvelous.
There is a secret language that you share with precious few. Reap it, tongue
it, and drive it into the mouths of babes so we may time travel on your words.
Taurus- For your consideration, The Seven Percent Solution, starring some british guy I don’t know
as Sherlock Holmes, but Robert Duvall as Watson, and Alan Arkin as Sigmund
Freud who tries to cure Holmes’ hearty cocaine addiction with the promise of
psychiatric reform even for those of us who are beyond the intelligence of most
mortal men. Oh, and Larry Olivier as Moriarty. I’m emotionally erect just
thinking about it. Nominated for two Oscars---extra points if you can name the
categories. Best part about the film is that under hypnosis, Freud discovers
that his father murdered his mother for adultery and then commited suicide.
Moriarty was Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s math teacher and was the person who gave
the boys the bad news, thus incurring a lifelong mistrust of Moriarty by the
Holmes brothers, despite his being quite the opposite of a crime lord. A) check
this movie out. B) Find out why the rights are tied up and dvd’s are hard to
come by, and C) let’s organize a revival screening of a film that deserves some
air time.
Gemini- Annie Edison Taylor was the first person to
go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Amelia Earhart was the first woman to fly
solo across the Atlantic. Gertrude Ederle was the first woman to swim across
the English Channel. Junko Tabei was the first woman to scale Everest. Sally
Ride---first woman in space. My point to you Geminis, is that regardless of
your current genital situation, this is an excellent time to be the first at
something unbelievable. So unbelievable in fact, that you may have to do it a
second time in front of a witness for anyone to believe it. To save yourself
the time, set up a camera and record your upcoming first. Maybe you’ll finally
clean the bathroom. Maybe you’ll be the first person on Mars. Although the
truth is probably somewhere between those two poles. Dream big. Go bold.
Cancer-
Enigmatologists are a
strange lot. They sit around all day trying to figure out puzzles for me to
unhitch and unfurl; deliberately making ways to cloud and obscure, encode and
deconstruct, so that I may enjoy the unraveling, the disrobing—the
reconfiguring of something that has been put another way and ensconced in mystery---and
all for my joy at discovering their ruses and mazes and figures of speech. But
what a strange lot they must be—to want to disguise reality, usually in plain
sight, and always at the slap of my own forehead. I bring up this seemingly
unrelated nonsense in order to apply it to your life. Let’s palaver: The
mysteries and puzzles of your life were created by you. You are your own
enigmatologist, having invented what appears to be a conundrum about why you do
what you do, and why you like what you like. But there isn’t really a puzzle to
solve; only your own devices to dismantle and undress. It’s time to employ your
own inner cruciverbalist and move past the mystery.
Leo- To put it metaphoric & bluntly; the worm
has turned. Maybe not in its grave, but turned nonesomeevertheless. Who shall
inherit the earth? The meek shall, and that must mean that we’ve been stepped
on for long and hard enough—to the point where even an invertebrate would
strike back, changing the battle toward an undeniable edge. To quote the Bard:
“To whom do lions cast their
gentle looks? Not to the beast that would usurp their den. The smallest worm
will turn being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.”
Yeah, that’s a lot of words, but chaw on this: the worm at tequila’s bottom
will be yours. Eat it, and draw its power for your upcoming test of strength.
Victory is unavoidable and well deserved.
Virgo- If the rivers of heaven flowed wine, would we
not be divine alcoholics? If in heaven, there is happiness and chocolate and
freedom from worry and needless wars of unholy attrition, that the earthly
realm is replete, will we find salvation? What about contentment? And what of
future security? Or the immigration issue? What about the economy, stupid? Do
we wear pants in heaven? I hope not. Is the level of our discourse equal to our
level of intellect, which goddammit, I know is higher than the alleged national
average. Will we ever be free of the competition for volume in a very crowded
Amazon? If the rivers of heaven flowed white with juicy juicy cocaína, would
we be satisfied in this—the average life, the under-spoken, the ill-begotten,
and the totally corporeal? I have no idea. For now, stay fit and alert, and
enjoy the passing of moments with a modicum of wine, in which there floats a
murky truth.
Libra- I would be the last to argue that we are not
in the violent death throes of near criminal insanity; or at the very least a
rabid insatiable attraction for one another’s blood treasure and soil; HOWEVER,
I would say that we should either get it on-- or one of us has to leave the
state. Seriously, the tension is killing us both. Wait—don’t go, I’m sorry—it’s
just that I’ve been burned before; you know, once bitten, twice fuck you, and
probably a Gotye song drowning in kleenex and an adult diapers, holding my wet
kisses to me and only myself. At last, a modicum of reason, and as soon as I’m
in Arizona, or preferably Hawaii, we’ll both be able to lead normal productive
lives. But wait…don’t go. Destiny is laid out before us, and we have a ticket
to ride. This is then—at Bell’s Beach…and we can surf off into the storm, to
return to Valhalla from whence we came.
Scorpio- Someday, you and I--we’ll take part in a
giant monkey wedding. There will be lemurs and orangutans, and bonobos and
other somewhat related rodentine outlaws gnawing and conniving their way into a
rather flourishing existence that makes perfect sense given their innate
gnawing and sneaking talents; based on what environment dictates of course, as
well as the availability and endurability of previous models that survived
every oncoming cataclysm, from plague to drought to over abundance of certain
chemicals known by the state of California to cause rectal cancer, and/or
impermanence of being, aka non-corporeality; and covering our collective and
individual butts, from ruin and/or damnation; and yet nay and nevertheless, I
say to thee: get ready for the party; break out your monkey wine, put on your
red shoes and dance the blues.
Sagittarius- The idea that a self assuming moral person
could get up in front of an audience of millions and commit such lies, such
calumnies, such frakking abominations of verbiage and lying intent, with deeper
purposes of maligning and obfuscating---why, it’s beyond a rational person’s
purview! And I dare say, an unforgivable blight on the wart of the nose of
humanity that one would ever consider such a dastardly deed, with the only
purpose of continued self imprisonment, and self imposed isolation, compounded
by the inevitable upcoming terminus of this here train we been a ridin’, why, I
am appalled… that we’re all just standing around picking our noses and pissing
windward. Live direct. Drive with purpose. Now is the time. Vote early and
often. Stick it to the man, and lose the fraught, fear, and self-undermining.
Stand and deliver it to his fat face.
Capricorn- It’s always about the approach. Lifting,
barreling, transversing, obfuscating---the intention matters not, but rather
the aim and intent of your desire, that defines your outcome. Case in point:
You should say ‘I love you’ to something everyday, and you should mean it.
Should it be your significant other, your cat, a sandwich, or maybe an ethereal
concept that has been driving your dreams til past time when bovines come home
and squat palaver style ‘mongst your kitchen and pyre, drowning in recipes for
destruction and pointless proclivities toward self immolation and intense schadenfreude. The approach is of the utmost importance
because it will determine your landing; whether it’s on a safe planned runway
with required safety features and intelligence apropos of your abilities; or a
haphazard jungle kamikaze style die hard cluster fuck. Approach with
forethought and care are not always possible, but do your best.
Aquarius- There’s something very strange about the
walnut. Let’s palaver. Firstly, for a nut, it’s pretty soft. I’m suspicious
from the get-go, (and hey, cashew—I’m on to your shit too). Secondish, it
tastes like a tree. Don’t know how I know that, since my tongue, or lengua…is unfamiliar with
no-holds-barred licking of trees in my local forest-- but let’s move on as I’ve
revealed too much. Thrice: I refuse to believe it is complimentary to the
chocolate chip, be it semi-sweet, full sweet, or peanut butter infused. And I
don’t want to invoke a cookie enhancer riot, but please---there shall be no
segregation of tastes! Separation does injury to my physical volume, and
withholds rather, the injustice of non-universality—I know us all to be
equals-- compatriots, compadres and people in service of each other and for
those in need. Life is good—pass it on. And bring cookies.
Pisces- You’re playing music in the shower at such a
strange hour, and my mind travels and wonders to what the devil you be up to.
Or scrubbing. Or drubbing. Or what houses you may be blowing down regardless of
their material make up. The candles in the room grow weary with intersecting
winds, portending certain doom, I’m sure of it. But then… I count my symbols
and I remember it’s best not to portend, or future-scape; it benefits me most
not to permit my drizzles to become torrents, lest my full sails become
impotent with doldrumic inactivity, and I founder on a sea of irreversible
sadness and not a waterfall in sight. Like Annie Edison Taylor, I’ve made my
barrel, and my intent to ride it over Niagara is equal only to my steel resolve
to grab life by the balls and make downtown history on a shoestring budget. I
suggest you do likewise.
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