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

                                                        

disclaimer: Satire, like a dragon’s mind, floats ever higher on wings made from the darkest of matter, creating the deepest of space.

this week: damaging effects are usually helpful in the long run, despite appearances.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: scapegrace. Princess Leia’s favorite.

Aries- When applied to relationships, does the term ‘mutually exclusive’ mean that two people can’t be individuals and be dualistic, simultaneously? Monothematic, and not divergent? Do couples take on a new dimension of personality, becoming one person of two minds; and depending on the level of attachment to one’s independent mindedness, cease and desist all commerce and chattels, upon ordinances set forth by powers we cannot explain, but who to rule us arbitrarily and at times, without mercy? We spend so much time developing who we think we are, as a self governing autocracy, that to give in to the demands of another, combining forces, while sacrificing “certain freedoms”, becomes an apocryphal anathema akin to self immolation and denial of self that usually results in botched marriages and unintended consequences. I suppose the only real answer is, that you’ll know when you know. Chillax your faith.

Taurus- Cripes, Michael Bey pisses me off. In an age when we can scientifically explain almost anything, there is no need to dumb down sc-fi movies with crap that makes Arthur Clarke roll over in his grave. In the “movie” The Island, the future society makes clones so that we can have fresh organs in case I drink my liver to an early demise. The clones don’t know they’re clones, and the main “theme” (as if Bey is creditable with such dramatic necessities as either story or theme) is that the clones find out they’re clones and try to escape. Movie negating problem number one: if our technology has achieved human cloning, surely we can clone just a liver, or just a heart. Cloning whole personalities with independent drives and wants and needs will only lead to conflict. Science is not ignorantly shortsighted. Science, unlike Bey, is logical. My advice to you: Don’t be a Bey. False realities will only slow your progress and piss people off.

Gemini- What it is exactly that Meatloaf won’t do for love is up for debate. The list of what he will do is long and tedious, and seemingly endless; all totaled it is a twelve minute song. But if he’ll do nearly anything, what is the final caveat? Wtf is that one thing, that even Meatloaf would say no to? A guy like Meatloaf doesn’t seem to have a lot of boundaries. I would ask Michael Bey, who directed the music video, but I doubt his knowledge of anything, considering the outrageous iniquities and dumb plot points in The Island. Point is, that grey area confounds things every time. X is always true, unless Y = grey scale, and thus what he won’t do is limited to what ultimately does her no harm. Hippocratic rule number one: Do no harm. Rule number two: attempt to make happy all things feminine, who’ve been subjugated by an ignorant past.

Cancer- There is evil under the sun, and Hercule Poirot, the famous belgian detective will figure it out. And while I doubt that Belgian is a real language, I do not doubt that in league with the likes of Miss Marple, Remington Steele, Charlie Chan, Nero Wolfe, Johnathan Ames, Phillip Marlowe, Encyclopedia Brown, Clouseau, Dirk Gently, Magnum, and Ace Ventura, their grey matter, quick work will be made of a case based mostly on hearsay and falderalic heiresses with convenient alibis; and in the meanwhile, fully embarrass the bungling local constabulary. Lestrade, you are a buffoon! Oh, fudge… what if the confederacy of dunces that abound are the reason that superior detective logic prevails? What if the idiots point the wrong way, so that I can see the right way? What if they are Judas and I am on a fool’s errand? Be the shamus and find the evil.

Leo- According to the Yauch Institute, it is legal using any necessary force, in order to fight for your right to party. No one is going to give it to you. You must wrest control from the anti partiers who would seek to restrain your libidinous gyrating paroxysms of pleasure and saturnalia. It’s right there in the our Constitution via the Kiss Party of the 18^th century, that the these rights are inalienable: life, liberty, and the pursuit of rocking and/or rolling and partying every day, not just some days, but all of the days. You feel like Wanging a little Chung? Put some in your mouth and brace yourself for the onslaught. You want to bang on the drum all day? It’s your destiny made manifest. Bite the apple and free the animal. Adam approves.

Virgo- The Milwaukee Brewers know how to run a sausage race. Before you decry the implied imagery of sausagian eugenics, and the inherent ethical dilemmas, allow me to explicate. Klement’s Sausage Company sells their meats at Miller Park, and during home games five people dress up in sausage costumes and try to outrun each other, much to the delight of screaming children and sausage eating, beer swilling Milwaukeeans. As an aside, yes, the bratwurst character is named Brett. However, my top concern is the Chorizo. His sausage character wears a sombrero and dons a healthy Pancho Villa mustache. Originally a mid-westerner, I understand how political correctness is generally ignored, and/or mishandled. Wisconsin is generally as white as its cheese. Percentagewise, humanity is in a process of futuristic homogenization, and it will take more time before Wisconsinites understand that the sombrero and the Mexican are not synonymous. Be patient. The Lennon Ideals® are in transit.

Libra- Dahl found Bux, and Sugar was created. Kuda Bux was an Indian mystic who refined the practice of seeing without his eyes. He would cover his eyes with soft balls of dough and wrap his head in cloths, until his pedestrian sight was utterly obfuscated, and he would divinely and accurately “see” the world around him. Roald Dahl is the guy who created Willy Wonka, and case in point, Henry Sugar, and while fictional, learned the art of the non-fictional Kuda Bux; and while starting out greedy, Sugar evolved his munificence and tossed his riches to anyone in need. Dahl + Bux = Sugar > the insatiable greed which is universally promulgated based on its freedom engendering qualities, and promised equality for all. Dahl, Bux, Sugar. Focus on the blackness at the center of a candle flame and all will be revealed, not in fiction, but in the ‘real’, and more ‘now’ than is dreamt of in your current philosophy.

Scorpio- Your medieval bestiary houses paradoxes and anathemas known only to the inner psyche and most hidden loose affections of those who would wrap you in celestial rose petals and melted dark chocolate. Your griffonic sound waves are like a bullet train breaking the speed of sound in a vacuum, where the only mode of aural transport is through mnemonic memory that’s passed down orally and aurally, generation upon generation. Your fortitudinous imagination is stronger than in most people. You are creating this as you read this. The world is a unicorn bound for your virginal lap.

Sagittarius- The female platypus has two ovaries, but only one of them is functional. They also locate prey by detecting electric fields generated by the muscle contractions of living things. They also release venom and have a mouth like a duck. They are descendants of a strange earth, one that was blinded by science and darkness, when mammals had to be inherently ingenious to survive; in particular mammals who laid eggs and had no teats. Platypi are weird cousins of ours from a time when family definitions changed with the prevailing winds; tropical lands where volcanic ash and asteroid induced smoke resulted in lower and lower light levels, even in the middle earth equatorial safe zones. They are weird cenozoic survivalists, and I hereby recommend you channel them right into your downtown. Embrace your power animal no matter how strange.

Capricorn- If you’re a cat owner, there are certain inevitabilities that come with the territory. They are as follows: smelly food, hairballs, in-house pooping and consequently, scooping, as well as ubiquitous cat hair, and in my case a twenty pound furball that prefers either my head or my nuts as a pillow. In exchange, their stubborn personalities mold themselves in subtle ways to our personalities, becoming a part of us, as well as reflections of us. They are a perfect extension of ourselves, independent, yet tied to us because we feed them and clean up their bodily waste. It’s love, or something like it. Your power animal is feline, and she’s hungry for meat. Don’t disappoint.

Aquarius- The following is rhetorically moot, yet it bears repetition, since sometimes your hearing isn’t as keen as your brain to tongue expressway. Fight not thou the wars of attrition that have plagued your capitol steps and stained your liberty with the blood of unnecessary battles. Interloping aliens have been roosting in your belfry feeding on the bats of discontent. Mmmmmm, bat meat… Anyhowdy, the aliens of which I speak are not the metaphorical kind like the Blob that really represents communism; and not like the Eye of Sauron, forcing you to carry a ring that makes you insane, or sit through a well made trilogy that’s about a half a movie too long. Rather, I speak of the carpetbagging demogogues that tell your brain that you always know what is best. Sometimes when you’ve done something right, no one will know you’ve done anything at all.

Pisces- Row, row, row your boat, when sung in a round is one example of a fugue. What a great word--- fugue, derivating from an old eye-talian word, which means to flee. Doubtless that has been forgotten by one so fish based as you. Life is but a dream, an amnesiac fantasy floating down the dharmic river, due to head trauma or emotional distress calls that were never answered. Your time floating with the current has been productively prodigal. You are returned refreshed from Lotus Land, and the damage done is judiciously self correcting. Your new identity is molded from the olden, and emboldened by something borrowed, and blue, and inexplicably new. So propel, propel, propel your craft placidly down the liquid solution, ecstatically, ecstatically, ecstatically. Existence is but an illusion. And your future is unwritten.

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

                      

                                 

disclaimer: The mother of satire, is more satirical than even the creator could have envisioned. If there is a ‘god’, she is surely a mother with a sharp tongue.

this week: I can’t find my Pants and I don’t care.

Doc P’s Word of the Week: dicker. You probably know what it means, I just think it’s funny. In the way that titmouse is funny.

Aries-  Aristotle walked the walk, while he taught the tautological talk. Hippies, peaceniks, and pacifistas who preferred discussion and ideas to irrational decisions based on carnal stings, reptilian lusts and all things verboten; even if they’re arbitrarily enforced, lain wreathwise upon our gene pools and progeny, in a feeble attempt to indemnify our rational belief  ‘gainst the cannons of self slaughter that would seek to keep us from our inalienable rights; in particular, self determination; even while stranded in a sea of crocodilians brain stems, all searching for more meat, more swamp, and more sun. Walk with yourself. Find a hippie. Engender that which has been heretofore taboo.

Taurus- I love George Carlin because of my mother. She loved him and it passed flawlessly down to me. Of all the things she did for me, this was the greatest. George made sense to me, such an organized mind, a formulator, a wizard of words, a dervish of declension, and finger pointer at the greatest societal paroxysmal iniquities. Both George and my mother are responsible for my penchant for cursing like a sailor, particularly if there’s a point to be made that requires a delicate balance of bullshit and intellect. George was also about freedom: of speech, ideas, opinions, and rage against the machines that would enslave us all, like oxen under the yolk of their fake and tawdry capitalism; empty promises of freedom, but instead drinking and feeding off our lifeblood, like crack addict vampires. Happy Birthday, George, we miss you, and Happy Mother's Day, Mom(s).

Gemini- We are perhaps both equal parts hate and love, and indifference and frivolity, stranded after a poorly planned three hour tour. Although, odds are that we’re on one of the Channel Islands, considering that right there in the opening theme, it’s we clearly left from Marina del Rey. Three hours on a boat ain’t gonna get us to Dry Tortugas or anywhere else tropical and Depp trodden. If you want to get lost, and drown the hate and indifference in the belly of the ocean, under a perfect storm of inept captaining and a first mate who couldn’t find his own butt, even if he had a map and a sherpa; if you want to lose the now pointless inheritance of a world of anger, fear and struggle, before the greeks and the written word and the invention of ice cream, take the ferry to Catalina this weekend with someone you really dig, and leave your unnecessary proclivities and fetishes on the mainland.

Cancer- You are a dream within a dream, within a dream, within a dream, within a dream, within a digitized dreamscaped land of dragons and peanut butter, within a polyhedron of chocolate induced transformative interplanetary soy sauce, that originated from a planetoid of over caffeinated wookies, who really like Chinese food whilst swinging through the trees, and having weird christmas specials, that to this day, the licensee regrets and pretends never happened; but it did, and I have copies of it on dvd. Anyhowdy, heretofore you’ve only been aware of the layers of the dream that bubble up from the depths of your reptilian brain; dreams of endless food and mating supplies, and the inescapable primordial drive. Soon, you will be privy to the dreams cascading downwards from the upper ethers, drives and desires that are sacrosanct and delicate, ethereal and divinely inspired.

Leo- How extensive is your enemies list? Do you need money for protection? I know some guys—full disclosure, they’re desperate, and will do pretty much anything for money—anything. And on the cheap too, their needs are simple; just drugs, booze and bloodlust. But before we hire murderous thugs to solve your problems, am I on your list? What did I do? I’m pretty sure my thugs can take your thugs; mine have no limits, morals or safe words; I only hire professional level psychopaths; their previous job was with the most recent bush administration, under the auspices of a dick cheney. They do not fudge around. But before we start a range war, how about a compromise? I tear up my enemies list and you tear up yours, and we both go out for pizza and beers.

Virgo- When I was a kid, stuff was different. At least, I think stuff was different. Yet, despite an exponentially expanding increase in the rate of technological expansion, aren’t the basic forces at work in society today, relatively the same as those of forty years ago? Or Eighty? Or a quintillion and eighty? We still need food, shelter and clothing. And preferably, education, enlightenment, love, empathy, sympathy, chocolate, bourbon, farmed catfish, bedazzled accoutrement, delivery pizza, and ululating fanfare for all those moments when my memory can’t keep up with all of the new memories I develop because my body insists on living this damn long. Life is long and life is good. The lens, through which we telescope the past, is astygmatized and wan, bent like a prism in a wormhole ‘through’ an apple, wormed through just to prove some meaningless point. Time is immeasurable. Throw the stopwatch away and invest in your next big dream.

Libra- Here’s how you make a Slutty Bender®. As self-imposed legal protection, I declare presently: don’t fudge around with unnecessary shots that your little girl mouth can’t handle. That said, Step 1: Go on a bender. It should be of cosmic proportions and once completed should bring you back to the beginning of the circle from whence you started. 2: Bring friends. They are useful when in need of bail money, and can hold your hair during your inevitable reverse peristalsis. 3: Clear your schedule. You’re going to need at least three days of recovery, and potentially a new liver. Normally, I wouldn’t recommend such reckless and ill-informed behavior for one so delicate as you. However, Your brain is in dire need of a re-boot. Wipe the slate. Feel free to flee the scene.

Scorpio- You are a supple deity, capable of astounding feats and synergies of thought, action and euphemism only dreamt of in the eyes of jealous gods, self immolating monsters and genius playwrights. Following your matrilineal line, I would not be surprised to find powerful mages, psychics and queens. Your genes are tight and form fitting and superior, without being greedy, cruel or vengeful. Your patrilineal line is surely replete with madmen, geniuses, savants, shamans and wizards. Every generation you instinctively pair up with your opposite and equal; radically different points of view that coexist perfectly, if at times, tempestuously. Seemingly opposing forces that actually require each other to go forth and multiply. Your quixotic blend of yummy stardust and doppelganging procreation makes me cosmically erect. Go forth and multiply it like it’s 2099.

Sagittarius- The Columbian Exchange is not about cocaine. Well… not entirely. The meeting of the Old World with The New was mutually advantageous indeed. Crops and animals found new homes in both hemispheres. The Old got corn, tomatoes, and potatoes; and the New got sugar can, bubonic plague and smallpox. They also got the horse. Imagine, two continents full of people with no horses until 1500. And in return the New World gave the Old syphilis and tobacco. Not really a fair trade after all was said and done, since most of the New World was killed off or enslaved, but still. Cultural interchanges, even through war, is generally advantageous, it strengthens potential for survival. More variety equals a healthier culture. Homogeneity is dangerous insular bullcrap. Open your windows, and breathe deep the myriad of beliefs and ideas. Save you it can. 

Capricorn- You disagree publicly with the king one stupid time, and for the next 800 years, people associate your name with the dunce cap. Back in the swingin’ 1200’s the king of france wanted to tax churches for more money to fund his war with england. Who wouldn’t? The pope didn’t that’s for sure. And in a long running trend of kings telling the pope to go shit in the woods, the king got his money and John Duns Scotus, a religious theologian and god enthusiast, inherits the dunce cap. Oh, you’re against taxing the church to fill war coffers? Tough cannolis. Your lifetime of diligent work trying to prove that even Mary, the mother of god was immaculately conceived, and that conical hats really help you tune in to god’s secret radio waves, and you represent dumbness forever. What a pisser. For you, I say keep going with your wacky beliefs. Yours make sense.

Aquarius- You need to find Nellie Bly. She is a serious badass. She was a pioneering female journalist, who once faked insanity so she could get institutionalized. She then wrote an expose on the horrors of lunatic asylums, bringing to light the plight of the mentally ill. She also circumnavigated the globe, à la Phineas Fogg, and set a record time. I’m not saying you should fake crazy--- hell, you might have already won that race; but I am saying that role models are good, despite your penchant for your own personal unique foibles. There is nothing new under the sun; it’s all been done. What is new is how you will do it, how you will circumnavigate the globe, and how you will break new ground on an earth that has had soil and rock being turned over and over again just fine without you for several billions of years. Find your Nellie and channel the crap out of her.

Pisces- There are no Pisces ninjas. Ninjas are subtle. You are a freight train loaded with bananas and jelly, running at absurd speeds with no brakes, and headed straight for the station, like in that Gene Wilder movie, where the big climax probably took up most of the film’s budget. Yes, you could dress like a ninja, but it won’t help. Ninja comes from within, not off the rack. You’re bubbling over too much with life and desire and fear and pain and loss and love and chocolate pudding and making sure that everybody’s content and well fed and loved, regardless of the silly martyrdom of your ecclesiastic self incrimination and forced dunce cap corner sitting with no dinner before bed. You’re not going to be a ninja. But you can be someone who cares for themselves as much as they care for everyone else. Try it, you’re worth it.

 

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

                                 

disclaimer: Satire offers no refunds or exchanges because… caveat emptor, bitches!

this week: “If you do follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living” –J. Campbell

Doc P’s Word of the Week: PERIPATETIC. Let’s walk and we’ll talk, like the greeks of old who preferred logic over war, and reason over destruction.

Aries-  I’ve invented a new yoga pose. It’s called the Fetal Beetle®. It’s assiduously painful and crippling for your spine. It’s only been achieved by a handful of people in the world, and nary a one of them is ambulatory or coherent today. Breathing during the Fetal Beetle® is so painful that’s it’s comical, will probably result in lung acidosis like in that Reiner movie, which was a play. But not a play with Tom frakking Cruise, I’ll tell you what--suck it, theater dorks! Anyhowdy, aside from likely brain damage, achieving the pose will make you sterile and flatulent, I that order. It will also make all food taste like feet, as well as causing ninja invasive butt fungus, or NIBF®. But wait, there’s more! After you come out of the coma produced by the Fetal Beetle®, you will be enlightened and at total peace, with genitalia besotted to your wildest fantasies. At which time, I’d like to sell you this bridge that I know about with a motivated seller.

Taurus- Addiction isn’t all bad. I reckon every behavior is either/both genetically hard wired, and/or learned, passed from parent to offspring, or born of a dynamic environ where change produces phenotype mutation right there in the field in real time. Thereforely, I posit that in some other form, in a time past, that the chemical processes in the brain that have evolved into what we now negatively connote as addiction, was at one point-- beneficial to our evolution. Yes, addiction is in theory anyway, partly good. And yes, I just threw up. The alchemy that took billions of years to evolve after something as trivial as a ‘larger than normal’ Bang, are indeed, at times, advantageous. If they were they wouldn’t exist. Thatsaidhereinthedisclaimerlieth: Don’t seek opium; seek science.

Gemini- It’s better to be poor than to be a fat man in the eye of a needle. Fat, because it’s implied that he’s greedy and unsharing with the thin man at his gate. Wake up, it’s much too late. Take the space between us and fill it up. Fill it up some way. It’s the space that separates us, creates distance where there is none. I promise you, this is all a fight for resources, whether it’s oil, food, water, emotional reassurance, proper parenting, a perfect donut, or a handful of sand to represent how short our time is on this earth. Feed the poor. Shoe the children. Because it is right to do so. And the men who hold high places shall be the ones who start to mold a new reality, preferably one where we don’t make child soldiers, starve undeserving populations, and steal the souls of men and women we have never met only because they stand on soil we crave. Let reason rule us all, and don’t get anything stuck in your eye.

Cancer- Yes, you could go all in. Or you could leave the table and go up to your room and plot your escape from the ego baiting mecca that promotes only greed, avarice, and the slow burning urge to be better than you already are; which on the surface seems like a good thing to strive for-- to be better than you are. To want more of everything is a perfectly reasonable trait that is generally advantageous in a society that evolves because of chemically based desire. Yet… is not desire sometimes based on a falsely assumed deficit within your own psyche? Like everything in the ‘verse, it a double sided dimension we’re in. To want is good. To believe yourself not good, unless x, y, or z happens, and that you’ll be a better person after you attain those things, is a rotten way to believe. You already have everything; you just need to remember that you do.

Leo- I guess potpourri smells good, if you like dried berries and crap. I was recently given a bottle of Poo-pourri Crap Shooter, which you spray into the bowl after dropping friends at the pool, which in turn will prevent your significant other from becoming hateful of your smelly sojourns, producing discontent over the long haul of your friendship, which may or may not result in a restraining order, costly court dates, and legislative proctologic exams. However, the Poo-pourri smell isn’t that great; frankly it reminds me of burnt knuckle hair… nevertheless&therefore, the Fetal Beetle® does one thing very well. Its crappy stink masks my crappy stink, thus reversing the inevitable future history of colon related break-ups and heartache. Potpourri serves a vital evolutionary purpose--- keeping us together at all costs regardless of stink. Don’t stink bad—stink yummy.

Virgo- I’ve decided to Émile Zola your ass and penetrate your most inner sanctum/santorum with a hale and hearty J’accuse! Not because I don’t relish the condimentary lifestyle you’ve chosen to accompany your sidecar fetish, which is part of your innate feral charm and gastric pendulum swings. Ergotherefore&whatnot, I cry bullplop on your attempts to de-, re- and/or in- construct the coming generations, ignoring the ills and injustices of the past. Yea, the double edged sword of knowledge vs. ignorance of the past. Perhaps we do repeat it, and maybe it’s a balance between acknowledging and comprehending the past, and saying, No(!), J’accuse, you fat plumbed stinker; this time it’s different. This time I make plans and god doesn’t laugh, he nods in acquiescence, and thanking me for bringing something new to the cosmic table, rather than the same ol’ same olllllllllllllllllllllllllllll….. Go binary, and multiply.

Libra- I doubt you realize this, but the tauntaun is an omnivorous reptomammal (self explanatory), and comes in three flavors: glacier, scaly, climbing, and giant. Asidedly®, you don’t want to meet the giant tauntaun in a dark alley unless you’ve got a red light saber and a bottle of space gin. I will stand over here for a moment while that information oil baths over you, dawning a new age of understanding and ken and Lucas oriented entertainment. Little known talent of the tauntaun? They’re super accurate at spitting. A tauntaun with a lot of midichlorians can spit right into your eye up to a parsec away, which if that means time and not space, then that could mean light years, and all your friends will be long dead, and you’ll be left wondering, who am I, really, with a bunch of gooey tauntaun spit all over your face. Keep you eyes open for space poodoo getting slapped in your direction. 

Scorpio- Mr. Roper is transdimensional. He transcends timespace. As prima facie evidence, I submit to the court this primary and damning evidence: in a show that jumped the shark somewhere in first season, they let Mr. Roper break the fourth wall with sneery lascivian creepiness, implying a more ribald, verboten and homophobic point of view. They made him creepier than he already was. As an aside, I’m pretty sure that Peg Bundy is a rip off younger version of Mrs. Roper, but that’s for another ‘scope. Point is that when Mr. Roper looks into the camera, I feel like he’s putting his smuttiness into me. And I would not normally advise this, but I want you to find your inner Roper. I want you to let him out just a bit. Let your inner creep out into the light. He’s bored. And a bored creep is a dangerous creep.

Sagittarius- Your luscious blathering is endearing and mathematically verifiable, but impossible to resist or interpret. You’re indefatigable and surreptitious, and there is no bear trap in the earthly realm that could snare your clever feet. I fire syllables at you in random fashion; your way of dodging and paratroopering reminds me of Trinity; and the way she taught him to dance, after being so long in utero. The three pronged dimension you created so long ago, that started rivers a-flowin’, bellowin’ and a-burstin’, and all the divots and valleys that we all inevitably inhabit and retreat to when we get frightened by the sheerness of the ‘verses’ scope. This dimension is ripe and fertile and full of the moments that your tongue so ineloquently upends and tumults in saults of summers that never seem to end. ‘Nuff said. Eat some citrus.

Capricorn- I don’t know why I hate Bob Seger. Wait, yes, I do. It dates back to the mother frakking Chevy commercial with the Like a Rock crap that plagued my ocd’d brainwaves in the 80’s, when I was searching for my near adult identity amidst a sea of acne and pathos; unsuccessfully trying to erase from my mind the image of that damn red Chevy climbing up an absurd mountain of rocks, which probably has its own page-long legal disclaimer against, on about page three of the owner’s manual. I’m a child of the 60’s parents, whose media and philosophies urged me in the direction of not selling out, and maintaining the voracity of my soul, spirit, intellect, not to mention my future works and deeds. Sellout, Bob Seger! But, Dude… money=roof+safety+food=survival in a more pleasant fashion than sleeping in the savannahs, and grasslands, which are now overpasses, bridges, and  – an assayed and smelted metal monster of self incriminating infrastructure. Go ahead, sell out. Buy some food. Translate your existence into a house of pancakes with cosmic toppings, grab a vat of maple and go directly to town, bonnet and all.

Aquarius- Your congress, sexual or otherwise, has been incongruous and slave waged of late. Yetbut fret not. Legislative bodies will soon be in session, and forced into bipartisanship, whereupon, they will enact laws designed to augment and bolster your cockles and inner vesicles; and whatever else you have that needs defrosting. The smoke filled back room deals that have been keeping your bills from the house floor, where you might do some good, are about to be broken up by the Justice Police®. Your adversary’s filibuster has run completely out of steam and he’s been taken to recuperate in rehab due to exhaustion brought about by his own insatiable hubris. The cherry blossoms are about to bloom on your national mall. Follow them, and they will lead you to a phallic monument dedicated to our greatest american hero, the guy who stuck it to the brits, up yours, ‘king’ george! We am unbound and unfettered.  

Pisces- What was taken from you, I cannot give back to you. No one can. It is your birthright. You must claim it. Stick your flag in it, with your newly designed family crest. Tell the world who you are in whatever fashion you deem appropriate. As long as you’re not hip on crossing the rubicon, everything is going to work out brilliantly. Wait, hold thought-- nuts to that. Who cares if anyone else knows? What’s important is that you know, and can admit it freely to yourself and to anyone who would challenge your core beliefs, which despite the rumors have remained intact. The totality of who you are is entirely in your hands. This is a dream and you’re in control. It’s time to take back the grasslands and realistic  dreams of a prairie that goes on forever, past even the mountains and the sea, past all obstacles that would hinder your clarity or peace. You are transcendently chocolate and justifiably righteous.

            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.