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

                                   

disclaimer: Satire is our best system for ferreting out the jerks and image conscious who believe satire is for their benefit.

this week!: Her reaction is immediate and palpable. I tell her that I love her. Instantaneously she blushes, her emotions set afire and her skin growing red like the sea that I have high hopes of parting.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: FARD. No, it’s not a fart donut. It can be used as a noun and a verb. Look it up. Learn something from that expensive smart phone you’re paying for.

Aries- The moving picture has taken our evolution down a dangerous path of deforestation and melting ice. One that is fraught with inevitable abuse, over use and the potential to de-magnetize our imaginations. Movies and video games take us into another reality, like a drug, like an opiate, a kind nepenthe and respite from the realities of a competitive society, where “I” “believe” I have some modicum of control; despite being spoon fed the shadow corporate’s elixir, that’s clinically proven to subsume my will, and focus grouped to form my opinions. Granted, one could argue favorably for homologousness, especially in a world governed by resources that are becoming more difficult to mine safely or economically. Yet, we cannot all be totally unique because the fabric of society could break apart, if our needs and wants were not mutually agreed upon. There’s a balance somewhere, a way to split the difference. Help us find it.

Taurus- Even scientists have a way of copping out. It’s called ignoramus et ignorabimus, which translates to ‘we do not know and will not know’. Basically give up, go home, and let’s watch Star Trek. Yes, the original series, you know my feelings on that subject, it’s clearly the best, comparable only to the films Star Trek II, III, IV, and VI. Any rate, point is, duh, and duh-erer. I call bullcrap on scientists. Everything is definable, figure-outtable, and probably tastes like chicken. We just haven’t gotten there yet. Ergotherefore&whatnot, we’re just ignoramuses. Ignoramusi? We do not know—at least for the present. What I do know now is that the needs of the many do not always outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one. Fuck it, Dude, let’s go watch some Trek.

Gemini- “And the men who hold high places / must be the ones who start / to mold a new reality / closer to the heart. Trickle down compassion maybe? With great power comes great responsibility and we’ve relished and reveled in our power, but with no appreciation for the Source. The source of the multiverse, which is complete and total love, despite the ravages of day to day existence, whose ultimate toll is unknown, save for an incarnate reaper who escorts us, though ragged and blind and bodiless, through ether towards our next string, our energy traveling the ‘verse, till we are met and unified, life without end and peace without war. If you wake up in the next life a powerful magnate, wielder of influential wands, please remember your place in the slime from which we all arose, and speak softly and compassionately, and leave your big stick at home.

Cancer- There’s a field somewhere, I think it’s in the highlands, and in the springtime, there’s flowers everywhere, colour without end; it’s like life is just bursting, overjoyed to be free of a cold winter’s sleep. And that’s why the idea of god is a good one, despite its inherent flaws. Ideas are the matrix of our evolution, the roadmap, which we are creating in every new moment, the future uncertain, though potentially predictable, despite the uncertainty of timespace substratum. Anyhowdy, up in the highlands, is where we can pass time together, amidst fields of flowers doused with warm sargassic winds, new atlantic energy from whence and previous, all was frozen. The idea of god had been waiting for us in hibernation, now we get to decide what to do with it in full bloom.

Leo- What I expect to come out of your mouth is never the same as what actually does. Don’t get me wrong, your impetuousness of mouth is a respectable quality, and your tongue is indeed footed of fleetness. Neverthehayho®, I am saying that foot in mouth makes breath smell like feet. I know you would rather poop in your own shoes than censor you wagging tongue, but consider brief interludes of lip biting and zipped lipping. The more you let people talk; they will reveal their deepest secrets to you. Not in a creepy be-my-naked-therapist-and-lover kind of way, but because you’re likeable and you smell good, and I’m reasonably certain that you’ve haven’t handled any raw pork recently. Listening is the greatest gift you have the power to give. Use it often and unsparingly.

Virgo- You asked for it, so here’s step by step instructions on how to drive me into the loony bin and steal my secret fortune, which I keep hidden inside the toilet tank. Step1: take the songs My Sharona and Rock the Casbah, and play them in a loop, turn it up to eleven and force my eardrums open with needles and pins Clockwork style until my brain bleeds. I don’t care what you say, those songs are annoying and murderous. Step 2: get me started on people who take up two parking spaces because they’re either lazy, dickish or stupid. I could have parked right there, but instead I have to walk three blocks to my house. Thirdandstuff, cajole and coerce me into six shots of cinnamon liqueur, preferably during karaoke while someone sings a medley of My Sharona and Rock the Casbah. Cinnamon liqueur turns my brain inside out—genetic abnormality, long story, some chromosome crap, anyhowdy, enjoy my treasure and thanks for all the fish.

Libra- As opposed to side A, which is a tape of the Venice League Championships 1986, side B… is Bob. Just Bob. I don’t know what the hell 45 minutes of Bob could be, but I tell you what—the Dude knows. And I take comfort in knowing that the Dude is out there takin’ it easy for all us sinners. Shush. Don’t speak. It will only ruin things. I won’t speak either and we’ll just ride off into the sunset, knowing that we did some good here today. And I happen to know that there’s a little Lebowski on the way. Get ready, you’re about to eat the bar. Or the bear. Either way, you’re boss, the honcho of honchos, that certain je ne sais quoi, you’re the BIG Lebowski, and we’re gonna roll our way into the semis. And yes, we can hit the In N Out on Radford. Some burgers, beers, a few laughs, etc. Our troubles are over, Dude.

Scorpio- So, I have this red bottle opener, pretty simple, nothing fancy and/or noteworthy. Astonishing history it has though; the metal and refining that it took centuries, nay millennia, to produce, all the way back from our simian ancestors roaming african plains and olduvian gorges, who had to dig-- after a millennia of learning to dig, then inventing fire, then separating and smelting and reforming and reshaping; inventing non lethal long term liquid storage, fermentation and carbonation, distillation and cultivation, not to mention societal glue and advanced thumb manipulation. Long journey, no? Best part is, on the back of the red bottle opener, it has a warning label that reads, Not Intended for Children. For now, let’s assume the moral of this blathering is that we should reintroduce smelting back into the elementary school curriculum, lest we forget from whence we came.

Sagittarius- George Dzunda and M. Emmet Walsh are the real deal. And yes, their names are super cool, but more importantly, the latter (or his doppelganger) I saw driving up La Brea years ago. He was driving a beat up old hatchback, and I thought, hey that’s the guy from Blood Simple, not to mention the diving coach from Back to School. Neat. And George Dzunda--- always the best friend/partner who inevitably gets killed, like in Basic Instinct, No Way Out, and a little film called The Rape of Richard Beck… granted, just a tv movie, but a fine lesson on what happens when Richard Crenna gets raped. This week, enjoy the mild ride of the best friend co-star role. The pay is decent, especially if you get syndicated, and there’s way fewer lines to memorize. Upsize your downtime a tad and enjoy.

Capricorn- Apollonian decay, or so they say, is a delight to revel in as you swill your day away. Isn’t science beautiful, that it can describe in exquisite detail such frivolous timedoogles®. I’m speaking, of course about the mathematics of beer foam. Yeast eats sugar and poops out CO2, which under pressure “bonds” with the liquid, which releases back into a region of lower pressure as soon as you pop that top. As the beer sits open and preferably poured into a cold mug, made preferably of glass, tinier and tinier bubbles of CO2 escape the beer, head skyward to make foam, or head if you prefer. I mean, we all like good head. Point is, we should open a microbrewery together, and sell the most scientfical beer ever made-- Future Beer®! Soon we will watch bubbles rise in our beers on top of a pile of future money!

Aquarius- Yeah, it’s autumn in “new” york, but it’s springtime in Cali. You should be girding your loins for their imminent freedom. Sadly, they’ve seen little shaking, almost no hula-hooping, nary much of any-thing fun inducing. The fault line that runs from your crotch to your forehead is due for some heavy quaking and tembloring. The landscape is about to shift. However, forewarned is forearmed, not forsaken. Stock up on lotions, lubes, hot cop lingerie, lacy underwear, viking outfits with all the leather trimmings, or whatever other kinky stuff used to float your boat back when you were actually in the water having fun for fun’s sake. The new land will be fruitful and you will multiply. Your time in the demilitarized zone is up and you’re to be released on your own recognizance in a mucho rapido approaching moment. It will happen in a flash when you stop paying attention. 

Pisces- If I thought you could handle it without becoming a flight risk, I would tell you how much I want to hug the stuffing out of you. But you get defensive and mistrustful, probably because of all the destructive inefficacy of interpersonal love claimants and their inevitable courtroom outbursts that get silenced by teams of super steroid bailiffs, armed with genital tasers and heart squeezing tongs that bleed you dry as a stone. But hey-- you can keep your stuffing. As long as I have gravy, I’m cool. The turkey is the main attraction here anyway. In the fowl supreme courts of the future (after the inevitable invasion of giant space emus, sometime in March of 2017), just before you’re convicted by an avian jury of your peers and sentenced to serving time in the oven, I’ll surf in on a river gravy and turkey drippings, and snatch you away to safety. Fear not, there will be gravy.

 

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

                    

                                 

disclaimer: Satire is full of surprises. For example: Boooo!

this week: I’m not telling you what’s up this week. Grow up and figure it out for yourself.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: bloviate. Moi? Never.

Aries-  The appendix. Not the thing that no one ever checks at the back of a book, but the weird little peanut shaped organ of mystery that confounds us to this day. Is it vestigial, a remnant of a world gone by; where perhaps the one thing that saved humans from extinction was this unassuming organ? Maybe it used to be really big and do all kinds of cool stuff. One theory says that when our diets had a lot more plants in it, that the appendix secreted sexy time gastric juices to help digest all that cellulose. Then we domesticated livestock, animal husbandry and sexy time with cows and sheep, and the appendix got outsourced, and the kidney took its job, it being far superior at filtering out all those proteins that were embiggening our brains. And there’s two of them in case one gets lost. I advise you consider all of your vestigials, be they psychically inured or lying in wait somewhere in your colon, just waiting for the right moment to burst. You don’t have to shave down and operate, but keep focused, and don’t eat or drink after midnight.

Taurus- The best person for any job is someone who is efficiently lazy. Someone who knows that in order to get back to moon-eyed indolence and smoking doobies while catching up on Tivo, or what I call, Weedvo®, is that you have to work. Certain sacrifices are necessary in order to maintain the ‘lifestyle’. Dillying and/or dallying often require cash. One also needs a place in which to perform such tarrying and burning of daylight. Gotta pay rent. It’s all about balance. Work just hard enough to afford the maximum goof off time. The efficient lazy person will get a job done correctly and in the shortest amount of time possible. It’s just math. Get your crap done, you silly billy, so we can party; le discotheque closes at 930.

Gemini- The Organ of Bojanus and the Organ of Bo Jangles are totally separate entities—trust me. The former is the ersatz excretory kidney in most earth mollusks. Mmmmmm, sautéed and dipped in butter = mouthgasm®. The Organ of Bo Jangles, on the other bivalve, is the organ responsible for turning oyster juice into sexy time hormones and boner fluid, after a quick ten minute oil and lube job. Oysters are rich in zinc—a boon to sperm production, but if that doesn’t fill your sails, then try some deer penis, or ambergris, maybe some avocado, or my personal favorite cow cod soup. Nothing gets my motor humming like a bowl of jamaican cow testicle soup. I recommend you get in touch with your favorite organs and juice ’em till they hum and dinger at just the perfect pitch. Keep your instruments tuned, Bo-- in case you get a gig, you dig?

Cancer- We should live at the equator, you and I, where the evenings are spread out against the sky, like when we lived as equals; parts of the whole, an unbreakable bread that could survive even the coldest of wars and still nourish us. As I’m thinking of you, I’m penetrating the starriest skies in search of your highest climes, which stretch ethereally into space, beyond the fabric of mere spacetime. You reach the deepest deeps of space that the ‘verse can create; material made of god silk and muddled strawberry souls; it’s a fireball that races from axon to thought to intention to my lips and out to thine ears which hear naught but foolish protestations of faith, and a slurry of boasts that are neither true nor blunderless. At the equator, there is balance, always equal day and night, and my thirst for you balanced by a more gently tilted earth.

Leo- Kowtow: turns out, not Indian with either dot or feather. That’s right, you heard my writing; not my usual style of vaguely insulting political correctness that breathes just a hint of elderberry wine and uber subtle passive aggressiveness, which I attribute to my voracious gene pool that tries to subsume everything in sight in order to survive what is surely an onslaught of pernicious--- Wait, what the fudge? Sidetrack. Kowtow. It means laying prostrate before a chinese emperor. I would have thought cowtow, and it was Indian; you know, the whole sacred cow thing, which at least that expression makes sense from a bovine point of view; and I know that chinaman is not the proper nomenclature-- asian american, please; these aren’t the guys who built the railroad, they—crap, off the rails on a crazy train again. Point is, you don’t know everything. Also be wary of kamikaze seagulls, for they are abound and vengeful.

Virgo- Armadillos prefer the missionary position. Who knew? So vanilla, right? Eagles on the other hand are ass kickers in the sack, or rather the air. Dig your spoon into this: once two eagles decide they like each other enough to take things to the next level, like finding a nice aerie together in a gentrifying soon-to-be-upcoming neighborhood, the eagles fly as high as they can (which has been reported as high as 15,000 feet!), then they lock talons, get their sexy time junk all into each others’ cloacae or whatever, and start plummeting. The entire time they’re having bird sex, they’re falling to the earth. They hold it till the last possible second, and then fly apart before they crash into a mountain. Definitely not vanilla. I would advise you split the difference between the armadillo and the eagle; no need to injure yourself. And remember to stretch first.

Libra- Let’s talk nitty, we’ll get to gritty in a second. Is it better to fake remember someone from your past, or to look them right in the eye and say, no, I have no clue who the hell you are, and fyi, I might be feeling a little threatened right now. Should I spare that person’s feelings, in case they might feel hurt that I don’t remember someone from a million years ago? Is it really sparing their feelings? I could just play dumb and blame my memory loss on brain spasms. Or donut lung. Or how about, hey I’m highly medicated—I’m on four drugs! Who are you? Now, here’s the gritty: I say, ‘fake it till thou makest it’. Leap and the net will appear. (insert tertiary pithy phrase here) And fourth estately, remembering that random person from 19somethingsomething, is in effect a way to remember who you are, and were, and maybe if you’re lucky, who you will be. Pay attention and fear no etiquette. 

Scorpio- Here’s something of mild interest, probably only to me, but nonethenevertheless: in the “final” Clouseau movie, Trail of the Pink Panther, David Niven was getting on in years and didn’t have a strong enough voice to loop his dialog, so they got Rich Little to do it. I think it’s a nifty little factoid, probably utterly useless, unless you’re the weirdo that’s been stalking Rich Little. In the future, everyone will have at least one stalker, not just famous people. In fact, I’m thinking of hiring a stalker just to get into practice. Kind of like Clouseau hired that asian butler to try to kill him all the time. Weird, huh, how things wrap around, even though you and I both thought I was going somewhere else with this. Nonethenevertheless, find something mildly interesting, and stalk the hell out of it. There are depths of weirdness to even the simplest of things.

Also: virgo and cancer. And probably pisces. Deal with it.

Sagittarius- You are sex magic, and the illegal medicine for my dysfunction. You are a primer in bedroom ethics, with an nth degree from Crowley’s madhouse of dirty private practices that would make even a stripper blush. No, don’t be embarrassed about what you’re into. Enjoy the crap out of it. Don’t tell me about it though, and keep your curtains closed, but go ahead and relish in whatever manner of depravity you desire. If it wasn’t depraved, you probably wouldn’t want to do it. Me? Vanilla ice cream and flat 7-Up is all I can handle. But you—you’re a sexy insatiable beast. And you smell incredible. Is that pork? Yes pork and… lilac, amazing. Teach others what you have learned.

Capricorn- The worst thing about the 1986 film, Eye of the Tiger, starring Gary Busey and Yaphet Kotto, is that there are so many awesome things about it that I cant pick just one best thing. A) Gary Busey = brilliant; plus he’s in Point Break, so shut the F up. B) Yaphet Kotto—cool enough to be in the first Roger Moore Bond picture and Midnight Run. And his name is Yaphet Kotto. Amazeballs. C) there’s a bunch of fight scenes and a gang of motorcycle toughs, and of course, Gary Busey is the only one who will stand up to terror, which is what we all want, right-- the courage to leap without hesitation, jump on the grenade, eat that questionable burrito left in a slightly unsealed zip-lock bag from maybe as long as a week ago, and most importantly, look directly into the ‘eye of the tiger’ and sing out loud, sing out freely, the sound of your soul, trumpeting stageward with the ego of Olivier and the genius of Yankovic. To be or not, Duderino. Eye of the tiger and amazeballs to the wall.

ps: read leo, or I’ll poop in your shoes while you sleep.

Aquarius- Here’s why I know how aquarians think. A) people see us as disorganized and chaotic; amok, to use the parlance of our time, ergo: B) we organize the “stuff” in our life according to where we last left it. And henceforth, C) when we need it again, it will be where we last left it, which is how we remember it. D) whether it’s a curse or a blessing, we remember just about everything, thanks to our holographic memories. Bassackwardsly, it makes us seem like geniuses. Frontwise, wow—maybe we should be medicated. Our cleverness is indemnified thru Lloyds of London. Hell, we’re certifiable. What’s next? Hamburger earmuffs? Bipartisanship? Affordable health care?? A Segway that travels through time?? QED: we’re not crazy, we’re just ahead of everyone else.

Also: go six up and read that. Do as I say and no one gets hurt.

Pisces- You don’t have to be an atheist to turn me on. And I’m not implying that I’m a deist of any sort. The what and why of god is evolutionary in form and function, and it’s hard wired into our brains. For now, science is my religion. It explicates things that we observe, granted from our own biased point of view. The universal perspective hasn’t hit our part of the galaxy yet. Perhaps in a thousand years, we will worship science, and take the guessing out of the spin of the wheel or the toss of a die. Our neurons may even be sending completely different chemicals to and fro (up yours, dopamine!), according to the dictates of Moore’s Law and the randomness of genetic drift; godheads drifting like tectonic plates. You don’t have to be an atheist to turn me on. You just have to show up.

 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.

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

                

disclaimer: Satire’s head is ever bobbling, much like my e.a.p. bestowed by my p.h.k., on this pallid bust of Pallas…etc, etc.

this week: What else can we flavor with bacon?!

Doc P’s Word of the Week: absquatulate—I’m so obsessed with this word, I want to elope with it.

Aries-  Insects love to fornicate. For example, the average spider can lay up to 3000 eggs. And ironically, I find myself saving spiders that I find in my house and letting them go outside in the hopes that some karmic payback will hit me and I’ll get to be enlightened in the next life. Or at least rich. While the chances of that are fat indeed, sometimes I just squash and flush that sucker to a watery grave. The balance of the multiverse must be more complex than a simpleton’s view of karma or kismet. There’s 3000 baby spiders because most of them get eaten by predators and squashed by unfeeling jerks like me. There’s plenty more spiders where that one came from, right? We’re not in a spider shortage, right? If I were you, I would try to take away from this tangent the fact that killing spiders has helped the evolution of our understanding of made up crap like karma or kismet or fate. This is all a dream. And you’re in control.

cough. read pisces. cough, hack, etc. and probably virgo. and taurus for good ‘measure’.

Taurus- As if I hadn’t already contributed to the world’s palette enough, here goes this little doozy: it’s a little cocktail I call, The Monkey’s Paw®. It’s got bourbon and something else yummy, and it comes with… a monkey’s paw. It also comes with a curse. The paw gives you three wishes, but using wishes to circumvent the curse is against the rules, otherwise you’d keep on wishing forever, and the paw is simply too busy for your indolent imaginarium® and impacificable® wandering tastes. Maybe you should just order a beer instead. Right now, you just need to find one thing to focus on. I hereby steal this (mostly because it’s public domain): If wishes were horses / beggars would ride / if turnips were watches / I would wear one by my side / and if if’s and an’s were pots and pans / the tinker would never work. If you will it, it is no dream. Find your center and go from there.

Gemini- Christmas Island is knee deep in boobies. Boobies of all flavors and sizes! The red-footed booby is my personal favorite, but the brown booby and the blue-footed booby are hella fun at parties—they get soooo wasted. The one to be wary of is the masked booby, named for obvious lone ranger reasons. One time a troop of masked boobies tried to conquer nearby australia, which was the inspiration for Hitchcock’s The Birds. Point is, I’m a big booby fan. And then there’s the vampire finch, one of Darwin’s favorites. They like to peck at the hides of boobies until they bleed and then they drink the blood. They’re also immortal. My thoughts in ascending order: 1) boobies are awesome, but not too bright, 2) beware bloodsucking avians, and 3) I see boobies in your future—a veritable buttload of boobies. Love them and protect them from an undead future.

Cancer- The fine line between hokum and bunkum is often made more blurry by hillbilly claptrap and hayseed humbuggery colloquially spoke by yokels and hoosiers staking out the back woods and waters of entrenched points of view that are mired in a morass of ignorance and outmoded belief systems, probably caused by shallow gene pools where diving is rarely discouraged, and often engendered. Bunko, banco, and osso bucco should be your watchwords this week, friend-o. 1) root out the defilers of grace with the full arm of righteous law, 2) continue rooting and find the root of their scheme, hint: language is always the key, and 3) sit down, have a nice meal and get a good sleep, for hokum and/or bunkum await… let’s say, sun-up around next wednesday.

Leo- The licentious slander in your eyes is paralleled only by the star studded sexuality that flows directly from your ocean deeps and into mine eyes, where it fills my soul like a balloon, you the air and I, the shape. There it gestates, and grows larger till I can barely hold it, and the thought of your cleansing of my aura of all the ills and sins of the past, as well as the ones I will most definitely commit in the future—it’s all I can do to not kiss you full on the lips and pull you towards me, into and onto me. I am not one for false protestations or dastardly oaths made before breakfast and after the moon’s mid night setting. There is so much life force in you that your touch and attention would transmogrify me. I assume you’re inundated with worshippers at your temple mount and lollygaggers on your rolling hills. Your beingness is superior and I await your invitation for oneness, but know that the kiss is yours to give.

Virgo- The first abomination began with Abraham Lincoln as a vampire killer. Then it became my kosmic kindred E.A. Poe being portrayed by John Cusack as a not chronically depressed writer who lost his wife, but rather as a swashbuckler. And I only grant the new Sherlock Holmes portrayal leniency because Downey Jr. is so freakin good, and yeah it would be cool if nerds could fight. But with Poe I take offence because he’s my brother from another century. If I may borrow some awesome 80’s style action lines-- this time it’s personal. Poe didn’t need tag lines. But that’s art, right? Even if it just means more boom boxes for John to hold aloft and steal my heart. And in the end, don’t we mythologize the past exponentially more as the distance of time becomes fuzzy, parallaxed, and red shifted? Once the context is gone, all we’re left with is the legend: wooden teeth, chopped cherry trees, betsy ross and star spangled jingoism. The world is too large to keep in our present consciousness, and we cannot contain all of its information. But, I dare you to try.

Libra- Our war against ice: posit: for millions of years, the earth has been making ice, and storing it up around the poles, presumably for some future purpose. Maybe earth is where all the other planets come for cocktails. Anyhowdy, along come humans who eventually, after a millennia of trying, finally learn how to make ice on their own, in a device that adds heat and CO2 to the atmo, thereby speeding along the melting of all the earth’s ice that it’s been saving for the big cosmic cocktail party next friday. (invites went out late, sorry—all Neptune’s fault) Then, we invent the Titanic, our strongest weapon against the planets’ happy hour plans. Tell the moon and hangers on, like one-eyed Jupiter, to take a short hike into a long wormhole. We’re ramming this berg at full speed and having a party of our own, this time in the desert with man-made ice. Posit: reverse engineer, conceptualize, and end your conflict.

Scorpio- Lifeforce: A space commander and a scotland yard inspector search for a naked vampire loose in London. I wish I could make this crap up. 1985 was a great year for movies. And luckily for Patrick Stewart, the Picard job was just around the corner. Naked vampires. Brilliant. Unfortunately, not the sexy kind of naked vampires. Mostly animatronic corpse-like things that growled a lot. Shockingly, it did not do well at the box office; especially considering the film it was up against—a little Opie-iffic gem starring the inimitable Steve Gutenberg (which I believe means ‘nice town’ in my understanding of sie deutsch), called Cocoon. Why did we have to scare away the aliens who had a pool that gives you boners? Why?? Point is, that same director also brought us such joy as the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Body Bags, and my favorite, The Mangler. Ergo, you should find something lame and deliciously disgusting and make it live. cough. ahem. read leo.

Sagittarius- Tele-vision: it’s a vision being transported to you in some ethereal fashion that is actually common science, and completely mesmerizing. The more paranoid among us would classify it a controller of population, a despot and a manipulator. But that’s assuming that there is a singular force acting upon society toward some single minded and likely self serving sociopathic goal; that of mind control intended for some nefarious purpose. To no balder dash have I e’er been witness to. Evolution’s matrix is far too complex for one societal force to control ALL of us. Just ask China. We are evolving together as a myriad, as a weird disparate collective. Irregardless, I advise you to turn off the idiot box for the duration of the summer. Clear your mind of the overly influential, those with too much money and no inside voice. It is your vision that should be streaming through the airwaves.

Capricorn- I don’t want to piss you off, but you’re going to die. Someday. You will also be reborn. Probably as a monkey with huge red genitals. Then you will die again. But after that, you’re a sports car-- a lime green Italian one. And, then scrap metal, after a fiery crash on PCH in the year 1973. Yeah, it’s weird; being reborn doesn’t follow a linear time scale. Sometimes you live another life in a time that already happened, before, sort of. It’s also possible that you exist in this time in more than one form. And hopefully, you’ll get to meet yourself. And fingers crossed—you’ll even know that it’s you that you’re meeting, and some holy vibe will course through both of you and the purpose of a greater plan for your soul(s?) will come to light. Man meets ape meets ‘god’. However, based on your current numbers of red assed encounters, probably not gonna happen. Instead, have a cocktail and pray for a preponderance of pretty palaver proffered by passionate propositioners providing piquant epiphanies in primitive positions.

Aquarius- Ad infinauseum® is a concept I invented, hence the trademark and the italics, so feel free to use it. Just don’t piss me off by exploiting my wordliness®, and getting rich on zazzle.com selling t-shirts with my cleverness on them. Any rate, it means the incessant nausea that accompanies the interminable silliness that this universe insists on shoving up my palette on a regular basis. The question is this: if I want my environment to be a product of me, then what the hell am I doing in pajamas at 2pm, watching reruns from an era when there were actually westerns on television; and thinking about the quickest escape route to a tropical island where I can start my own commune and commune with the world in my own way. The nauseum stems from my environment making a monkey out of me. But then… I make myself a white russian to cure my nausea, and I get down to work. Time to build, time to invent, and time to eat the bar.

Pisces- Nihilism is exhausting. And say what you want about the tenets of national socialism, at least it’s an ethos. Nihilism is cowardice. And anarchy is no way to run a railroad. The natural order of things is just that—order. And then some new order, and then re-order, and then order again, and for the heck of it, keep ordering till the cows come home to roost. Order upon order upon ad infinauseum®. Even buddhism gets boring. I found enlightenment a while back, and frankly, it’s not that great. It’s a lot of dudes in robes that really need a shower. And it’s a good thing some forced labor made those temples so durable. The ascension of our souls takes physical labor, not just the slow imaginary unfolding of our consciousness into a ‘verse that has already been there and done that. Here and now, Dude. Abide.

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.

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

                 

                                 

disclaimer: Satire, like flatulence is assumed (incorrectly) to be mostly ignitable methane.

this week: In your face, aussies… the sun is ours once again.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: selcouth. It’s as strange as its definition.

Aries- No one can predict the future. I mean, I can, but without me, you’re up crap creek and it’s hot and heavy deep in frog mating season. Your future is coming. It’s coming at you like the accidental drop of a toilet seat that wakes up everybody in the freakin’ house, and they all know you’re the clutzy a-hole, the same jerk who once woke up peeing into the washing machine and doing worse in the dryer. As always I’m replete with caveats, so feel free to unbelieve the following: I can tell you your future, but you won’t believe me—my own Cassandra Complex. There’s twelve monkeys on your back that prevent me from telling you how close you are to a hidden booty of the most divine nacre. Prepare to get lacquered, smackered and totally tally wackered.

Taurus- Statistically, more blueberry muffins are sold in the world than any other kind of muffin. Before we debate, let me hit you with an evolutionary viewing area. Blueberries are the most economically adapted to our societal, cultural, and dietary needs more than any other fruit-- at least in terms of muffins. Sure... an apple muffin, a cran-upsidedown-pineapple, or my personal preference, chocolate chocolate chip with added chocolate chunks and pieces of dark chocolate covered chocolate beans, would be swell and/or nifty, but they’re a niche market. Blueberries have cornered the market in the muffin world. They are the Google. They’re the Apple and Microsoft. The Corleone family. Blueberries are powerful entities steeped in primordial bogs. Be the berry. Be the bog. Dominate the evolution.

Gemini- Based solely on the ability to levitate, my favorite saint by far is Joseph of Cupertino. And no, it’s the original Cupertino in Italy, not the techno d-bag enclave in the bay area. Granted, most religions have cool flying fat guys who like to proselytize and spread the good word either through this martyr or that, or through the teaching of mindfulness (what a waste of time...). But Joe was described by his ‘friends’ as ‘remarkably unclever’. He often stood gaping, just staring into space. And then he’d start levitating, elevating his status to airborne and unclever. Consequently, he’s the patron saint of astronauts, aviators, and test takers. Up there, in the sky, it’s you, not breathing in a high altitude test that you think determines your future. Your sainthood is assured. Breathe easy and just fall. The earth will catch you.

Cancer- A guy asked me one morning, ‘Hey, pal, how are you going to make today special?’ I couldn’t detect any sarcasm, which threw me off. He was serious. Okay, well first I’m going to do my level best not to take this guy’s positive attitude and crap all over it. Then I’m going to consider and see if I can be less of an a-hole and give a reasonable answer, which is possible but doubtful. So I asked him the same question. He said, ‘On Sunday we always go volunteer at this shelter downtown, and then we go to the hospital and bring kittens for kids with cancer to play with.’ Yep, I’m the a-hole. My plan was to include several beers, some light pouting, maybe a bag of cookies and then bed. Somehow, there’s people out there who don’t feel the constancy of my anger, dissonance and defeatism in the face of man’s inhumanity to man. Go figure. So, sans sarcasm, what are you going to do to make today special?

Leo- Joseph Pujol, I fart in your general direction. You might know him better as Le Petomane, the 19^th century vaudevillian, who had an innate ability to expand and contract his intestines and rectum at will, becoming history’s most famous professional farter. I prefer the term of art, fartiste. He was adept at such crowd pleasers as blowing out a candle from several feet away, performing ‘O Sole Mio’ on an ocarina through a rubber tube shoved you-know-where, and an artfully done impression of the 1906 San Fran earthquake, which never failed to bring down the house. I doubt you have his innate gifts, but I guarantee that whatever your weirdest and most secret talent is, you will find a perfect outlet for it. It may even put wind in your sails that will take you to never imagined ports of call. Vive Le Petomane!!

Virgo- Men do things for women without necessarily expecting sex in return. I can’t keep a straight keyboard, I’m just kidding. Any interest men show in women otherwise is based on a spiritual desire to fill the unfillable void that exists within all of us as our hormone levels peak, and then slowly decline over time. We are biochemical machines, an amino acid here, a slight twist of the genetic code there, and voila—I’m spend an inordinate amount of time trying to decide which shoes to wear because I hear that women actually notice a man’s shoes, and then realizing that if that’s true, the kind of woman who I will attract will either have terrible taste or immense amounts of pity. Which may be exactly what I should be looking for—someone to understand my fashion disabilities, disinterest and disdain. Point is, maybe you too should stop looking for what you think you want, and lead the life that’s been waiting for you. Life isn’t in your shoes, it’s all around you.

Libra- George Carlin once said, ‘Maybe god created humans because he wanted plastic, and he didn’t know how to make it for himself’. I love and miss that man. Which brings me and my fellow irishman to a common point: seems like we do tons of stuff that god can’t do himself, like cliff diving, nation building, crossword puzzles, new and creative web porn, and the American Kennel Club. However, belief in god, and the desire to please god is a hard-wired process in my brain. At some point it became advantageous for us to create a god figure, usually according to the dictates of whatever wack-a-doo society we’re in. For example, I grew up in a small town in remote Taffypullastan, where tradition dictated that this huge rock in the center of town was in fact, god. I think it was god simply because it was too big to move. Anyhowdy, I’ve spent my time rock polishing! Repeat after me: Now, it’s me time. What am I going to do for me today?

Scorpio- I can see the depravity behind your smile, but I find it gamesome and passing courteous, and more than a turn on. Your eyes are well meaning and full of cylindrical holes, that strain your noodle, all the while preventing it from slipping down the drain. Reverse your polarity and engage the magnetic field that your planet had forgotten existed. Deflect and deny the solar fusion rays that bind your anatomy to rotten soil. You’re no comet, passing blindly ‘round the ‘verse, hoping that one day, you’ll be close enough to hit my planetside and loose your water and magic upon a thirsty world. You’re my moon, my satellite, my tide maker and life producer. We are bound together chemically, despite the space between us. Shine on, you crazy diamond.

Sagittarius- There has already been a patent approved for underwear that contains a charcoal filter and an “escape hole” designed for… well, obvious reasons. I’m wearing the charcoal filter right now and it is so comfortable, I hardy know I’ve got it on! They weren’t cheap, though. So I also have the poor man’s version of the charcoal filter, a dryer sheet that I just shove into the back of my pants. I get lots of comments on how I smell like rotten eggs on a spring day. Patents can be the stupidest money makers. Your ridiculous ideas may not be so delirious. However, the Slot Machine Shaped Toaster, Motorized Ice Cream Cone, and the Tomato Raisin are already taken—no kidding, look ‘em up. Go boldly forth, propagate your strange reality upon our agape maws, and get filthy filthy rich.

Capricorn- The professional farters of medieval Ireland were called braigetori. I’ll just let that statement sink in a sec before I make several salient points. There’s been professional level farters throughout history and I’m just learning this now?! The indigenous Innu of Canada got this spirit guy, Matshishkapeu, literally the ‘Fart Man’, who can inflict gastrointestinal pain or relief upon unsuspecting humans. I want this power. There’s something righteous about it. I think the future is all about control of one’s own bowels and hopefully the bowels of others. Sign up now for my special yoga course, where I teach the ‘ins and outs’ of at-will-flatulence. It’s real, and it’s the future-- your future. Together we will revolutionize the lost art of the flatulist, aka the farteur, aka the fartiste, which I believe is the sequel to 2010’s Best Picture winner. Together we will pass the mightiest of winds, so batten your hatches, bring out your dead, and light a scented candle.

Aquarius- I don’t get artichokes. Firstly, it’s in the thistle family. It’s a flower. What? I’m already lost. Secondish, you have to dig the meat out from the involucral bracts, aka as the heart, which I find strangely symbolic. I dig and I dig for the heart of a flower only to cook it, scrape it and serve it as hors d’oeuvres like a heathen from Castroville, the self proclaimed artichoke capital of the world. I just don’t get it. What weirdo was the first human to scrape the insides of a thistle and think, yeah this would be good on a pizza. Also, the word choke is right there in the name. Not exactly confidence inspiring. And yet, they’re pretty delicious and nutritious. Thistles in my belly today make for good poo poo platters tomorrow. Whatever your artichoke is right now, make friends with it, put it on a pizza and devour it, thereby releasing its power unto you.

Pisces- I’m on to your lame game of thorny crowns and gastric swords of intestinal distress; as well as your higgledy-piggledy wayward sons who end up prodigal, not by their own choosing, but rather your royal edicts. Come hither, and tell me what you’re afraid of and I will not discount it. I will disprove it. Instead, I will prove you a loveable fool, my blue and funny valentine, and a shedder of crocodile tears as a defense against the big bad wolf you’ve cooked up in your head. Hook, line and sinker you’ve been reeled in by the evil twin of the fisherman in the yellow rain slicker on that fish sticks box. Long John Silver and his fast fish food have captivated your torso for too long with fishy tales that you’d have to be stoned to believe. Meet me at the beach and let’s come together where the air, the water and the land find common ground.

                      Dr. Pants McTurd's

             MORE Than True Horror-scopes

         

                                 

disclaimer: Satire has a habit of getting into your Pants, that never fails to result

                                      in you doing that funny chicken butt dance.

this week: Truth or fiction… we might find out.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: TRUCULENT. I double dog you to look it up.

Aries- We exist as a direct result of diaspora. Millions of years ago, our species needed increasing resources to support growing numbers and larger brains. Leakey was right, we began as a singularity, somewhere in Africa. And then we dispersed; colonizing as far as the earth could hold us, just like koi grow to the size of their container. We headed in opposite directions, promising our caveman kin that we would meet up someday on the other side of whatever we’re standing on, and the world will truly be ours, because we will know it fully. The dissemination took thousands of generations, resulting in different phenotypes, cultures and belief systems. But we have forgotten the face of our fathers. East has met west. We could annihilate our other selves, but what a waste. Up and out. To the stars. Together. A new diaspora for a new age. I’ll meet you on the other side of the ‘verse in say, all the time we have left, which is infinite. Don’t you… forget about me.

Taurus- It’s a good thing that the name of the first european allegedly born in north America was Virginia Dare. Our mythology would be so much douchier had it been Krabnor Frogflicker instead. Virginia Dare sounds like a kick ass way to start a new continent. Take no prisoners, take no sh*t--- but wait… ignore my unnecessary reference to obscure Megadeath lyrics; it was a dubious start at best. Virginia disappeared along with the entire colony at Roanoke when she was just three, a mystery that likely will remain unsolvable, unless time travel is possible and Doc Brown can explicate this jam without getting us into a paradox where the descendants of Krabnor Frogficker have ruled Krabnorland with iron fists, and we are his spirit broken vassals reeking of our bloody plaguing offal. Virginia Dare-- mucho mas cajones. Find her spirit within yourself and get some balls. Frogflicker is the past. The future is Dare.

Gemini- The moment was growing dire. My amigos needed spoons that lay behind the deli counter, in order to eat their yogurt parfait granola crap before a long day of volcano doings. But passage behind the counter is verboten, sinful even. I don’t work here, who do I think I am? But at the Sack&Save in Kona, HI, island time is pervasive and ubiquitous, like pineapple and sunburned tourists. And then like a rainbow after a gentle morning rain that lasted just long enough not to be annoying, a sexy Hawaiian descendant of polynesian gods strolls casually by, hips moving like bobbing hula waves, undulating like quantum energy of her most private dimensions. She zeroes in on our mainlanders’ dilemma. ‘Just go back and grab one’, she said, ‘this is Hawaii, everything’s open.’ Most isolated island in the world. Everything is open and self serve, provided you respect the life you’re given and the life around you. Desperation is a mirage. Get your spoon.

Cancer- The pineapple was the first bromeliad to hit the “New World”. Wowee wow wow! Wait… wtf? A bromeliad is a type of plant-- totally irrelevant. And I hate to harp on the fruits of the “New World” becoming the base for the tyranny of the “old world”, but here’s yet another example of something to NOT be credited to the “west”. Anyhowdy, if you eat pineapple, your sexy time juices will smell and taste better, the opposite of eating asparagus, caffeine, or straight motor oil--- again, totally irrelevant. Point is, they were named pineapple because they resemble pinecones. And then you cut’em open and they got fruit! What a remarkable bromeliad!--- that, technically, was indigenous to south america, and deemed valuable by cultures with no moral guidance, as was everything the “old world” sought, including people.And again with the harping… I say, merge the buddha with the pineapple, and your world will be new again, and you will taste divine.

Leo- What purpose does cruelty serve? Who is its greater master? Probably not Satan, these days he too busy surfing the Napali coast with Loki because evil is so rampant among us regular humans. Evolution is a cruel mistress. It is thru cruelty that we evolve. Imagine how many of our ancestors were taken over by foreign invaders. All of them. Every culture that has ever lived, with some small exceptions based on geographic isolation,  have either been conquered or been conquerors. We are the genetic offspring of people that either by force or occasionally peace, have merged with 'the other', the tribe across the way ho is different from us and threatens our survival. Cultural isolationism simply cannot exist. Cruelty, therefore, must serve a higher purpose. Maybe not whatever the hell god is (no pun intended or achieved),  but to our greater purpose. Divine and conquer. Then coagulate. The pendulum is ever swinging, both cruel to be kind and kind of cruel. What time is it where you are? And what purpose do you serve?

Virgo- The Old Lady Paradox is two fold while on the path of destiny. You’re hanging out, maybe in a nail salon or a friend’s Scottish bathtub (don’t ask, but yeah, it’s outdoors), when you notice an old lady in a parked car sitting in the passenger seat, with her head leaning against the window in a rictus that my eyes decry as not so alive. And the windows are up. The “good samaritan” (a highly suspect phrase considering our habit of repeating history) inside you could tap on the window and check on granny’s state of undeadness. Undeadedness? Anyhowdy, if you do tap on the window and scare granny into a coronary thrombosis, and she drops dead, and the family sues you for a million years and you spend your remaining years living with trolls in Ballona Creek, near a warehouse that smells eerily of bacon and tears. Grampa surely will be out any second, and his wife is probably fine. Don’t fall for the paradox. There is a third option. Kirk it.

Libra- Full disclosure, I'm a dude and I've got a johnson, and sometimes when I pee, I flush before I’m done. It’s a race against the physics of the toilet. In a guest bathroom, the race is even more exciting because I’m unfamiliar with the nuances of its foreign flush. If a second flush is needed, I feel the guilt-- the wasting of water, all in the name of pointless etiquette, and yes, I did eat a “buttload” of asparagus jello shots earlier and this could be considered a state of emergency. The next thing I know, FEMA shows up with matching funds that help divert my excess urine, until a future time when we use futuristic sea shells to clean our backsides… or holographic bidets™. How insane that we flush perfectly potable water in uncountable gallons simply to avoid smelly pee, and/or unusually large art movements, unpredictable ones like Picasso’s blue period, or Van Gogh’s earless era, or the mish mash of Warhol realism that mocks the bubble we blow around ourselves vainly attempting to protect us from a well intentioned multiverse. I suggest you pee out loud. Pee out free. Pee with impunity and righteousness for those who can’t pee at all. Open your fly to the possibilities.

Scorpio- Discretion is a higher octave of valor, not the running of your fat mouth to the delight of all who would mock and calumniate, branding you a snitch, a rat, a loose lipper and sinker of shippers: a slipper and subtle knave, a finder of occasions, that has an eye that can stamp and counterfeit advantage though true advantage never present itself. Or so I heard. However—balls on the table here: I’m not telling you to shut up, even if you need to be told that, which isn’t my decision to make; so grow up—I’m not your mommy nor your master. Theoretically, a wise person speaks slowly, with direction of intention, and sans a suicidal scuttling of one’s own ship on rocks of desperation and crushing loneliness. Neither am I saying you should speak freely, afraid of no consequence save the fear of using a friend’s toilet that breaks on you right in the middle of a serious art movement, refusing to flush, because the chain isn’t attached to the rubber thingy. I am saying to use the bathroom now though, because it’s a long ride to the higher octaves.

Sagittarius- The time when the frontier still existed flashed like a green sunset, burning brightly my retinas; and newly emboldened, my compadres and I grabbed our sporks, and set forth for check out lane number three, not realizing that the coalescence of our land-lubbing fears and need for an ego-istical clean and jerk, replete with unflattering squats and groin ripping, was waiting for us outside. Our direction is up, towards the stars. Not away from the earth, but out, towards new islands, where we may spread our seed like ferns, the first colonizers of remote islands. We are embodied spores, traversing the ‘verse as far as we can, regardless of sagacity or forethought. Leap and the net will invent itself, said the spider to the future. I am destiny, and each moment I create anew. The now may resemble the past, but it is I who emboldens the next matrix. Even if I have to throw out the old one. Go ahead, erase the board. A new one will appear.

Capricorn- Nuts to this, I said, and I lay me down in a field of azure stars and pontiac peaceful coexistence. I spurn the forced bondage of the free will of the market and corporate robot monsters that often exceed a healthy appetite. I want to be turned towards mine own intentions, not ripped asunder from them. The unholy foulness would have me suck down the Ganges from peak to sea, my gullet dumbly agape. But not I. Never, I. My question will not beg the questioner, I am moved to radicalize, disenfranchise, and repudiate my righteous anger regarding the slow moving pathwise horse plop that’s designed to slow my progress and fetter my mind to paltry isms and modalities that benefit only an elite few. But now I lay me down ‘mongst azure stars, making my environs a product of me, of my choosing, my god, my sight, my self.

Aquarius- I jibber an/or jabber a lot about esoteric baloney,  pretty much whenever the mood hits me. It’s usually during sexy party time when normal people don’t talk about anything, except sexy time soft nothings whispered sweetly into my--- whoa, Nelly…   Point is, I’m always out of sync, whatever sync is. I’m backwards ass backwards can be. Unless I only think I’m out of sink. Wait, no, not kitchen sink sexy time, but sync, as in syncopation, as in the rhythm of the sex of life. I’m in the river. I am the river, and I’m bending like a reed, going with the flow… and not stepping in my own poop, which I hope isn’t on the floor. I can’t be that far gone. At least let me keep my Pants on! Deep breath. Ohm. Magic baloney. Ohm and let go. Ohm and let go. The river is as long as it is deep.

Pisces- The Omnipresent Goat Machine™ is a device which-- wait, scratch that… will someday be in every house in the land. Some houses may even have two. And no, I don’t have a clue what it does, but it sure sounds nifty. I assume it has something to do with psychotropic goat telepathy, or maybe a way to get milk from the future, or maybe something J. Edgar was into funding back during the good old days when war was cold to balance our post war fever. I may never get around to actualizing my goat-tastic vision, but for me it’s more about picking a starting point. A launch pad. And then my creation will form from the space around it, creating something never before dreamt of, even though the sun insists it has nothing new under its skirts. Imagine, and it will come.