Great belching bellies and flatulent backsides, tiny crustacean imbeciles! It appears I must address you on the matter of your wretched lives and futile prospects as the month of fractious February unfolds. I am certain it is February because there are two knots in my handkerchief. It is I, my lunatic poltroons in ghastly trousers or pleated skirts. Asperitus! Arrogant auspex! Eek! Hideous haruspex! Ugh! Manic magus! Aargh! You have heard my summons! Obey me and read on!
Last time, you were somewhat distraught in regard to your failure to enjoy the fruits of success with gambling, model railways and the consumption of large quantities of chocolate. This had something to do with a servant and someone you met at the casino. But, for the life of me, I can't now remember what and do not wish even to essay an attempt at recall. If you've any queries, kindly read last month's forecast and do try to keep up in future. I recollect there was a cunning plan involved, a cunning plan whose substance is as yet not known. Mayhap, if we consult the vile and bitter prognostications, we will discover plan's nature.
Now, by my sainted aunt, before I expire from ennui in the extreme, we had best get on with it. Jolly Jupiter makes nine kinds of lascivious foolery with mischievous Mercury, narcotic Neptune and the great Sol Invicti. So, you rush to the casino, again intent on winning a fortune. And this time, as marauding Mars returns to his retrograde point, you will win enough to buy a real railway. Once done, you will tie to the tracks every ex-lover, relative and family member that's ever got your Goat. Oh, and by the way, the latter reference is an astrological joke about the cusp of your seventh house, currently under duress due to the transit of vamping Venus as she turns her front back to the front (as it were), coming out of perverse reverse.
As the list of those that have offended you includes everyone foolish enough to come close, your future course is cut and dried, as is theirs, given the plan. It certainly includes your servant and new lover, still back at home playing a bizarre version of 'the choo-choo goes into the tunnel' that even you couldn't stomach. As mischievous Mercury enters Pisces, set for an encounter with Uranus, idiot god, while the Full Moon blazes in lackwit Leo, you're deeply immersed in a hazard that will determine your future and destiny as a railway magnate and a serial killer.
But what's this? By all the gods alive and dead, I can't believe it! Quelle horreur! Egad! Gadzooks! And other quaint expressions to indicate surprise and alarm! Marauding Mars clatters into lunatic Gemini and your solar twelfth house! Eek! What a nasty realm of self-undoing, addiction, liars, psychics, poets, hidden enemies and general ghastliness that is! No one likes it! No one in their right mind would have planets there! Great Heavens, no! And it's unsettling for you, as you're trying to win a fortune in a game of chance. Sadly, with instinct working against the fickle machinations of Lady Luck, you haven't a prayer. It must be noted that, though the twelfth house inclines one naturally to prayer, it never works, increasing the sense of disillusion that is proper to the placement. And, in fact, you lose so heavily as you gamble that they put you to work in the kitchen to make good your losses. And there we find you, chained to the oven and making desert pastries late into the night, as it's obvious to everyone you're a master baker.
But, great Caesar's ghost, what's this? It's a New Moon, coming in damp and sneaky Pisces, just as this lunatic month is set to end. And then it is you realize what to do! If the ride of the odious war god in nitwit Gemini means you get everything the wrong way around, why not call the opposite of what instinct says! That must then be right! As I'm distinctly unwell, experiencing such a severe attack of ennui that only the silver tube will relieve it, I shall have to assume a prone position and try to recuperate so there may be a faint chance I can resume writing this egregious piffle next month. Ye gods and little fishes! Next month! Manic March! Eek! That means three knots in the handkerchief! What shall I do! Medic! Bring me that silver tube instanter. For the nonce, farewell to you, tiny nitwits of the nipper!