I salute you, my trouser-wearing types! Do kindly sit upon your perfectly formed cheeks and I shall make for you such grim and depressing utterances of the prophetic kind that your creases will lose their pertness, your knees will turn to water and the very valance on your bed will fall lifeless on the floor. Yea, I say unto you that doom is coming to your door. I am Asperitus, fearful to behold but worse to listen to and I am come to prognosticate in the customary vile and bitter manner. Hear me and tremble, tiny lunatics!
With jolly Jupiter in grim Capricorn, your domicile will have latterly been filled with overseas visitors, retired lawyers, gloomy academics and elderly in-laws. However, with lugubrious Saturn in nasty little Virgo, you will have been pining for solitude, mentally deranged, living on nuts (to keep your bottom in trim) and hallucinating, seeing tiny birds flitting about in the air. As the month begins, mischievous Mercury slithers into nitwit Gemini, groping sober Saturn who starts grinding his way forward once again. Thus, do you 'hear voices' preaching to you of the vastness of the universe and the mystic nature of your bottom, shining as it does among the beauties of the world.
When a New Moon comes in cloddish Taurus, you visit an occultist who tells you your perfectly formed posterior is a source of magical power that will serve you in your quest for wealth and success. Excited beyond measure, you run around your home, blithering and wittering about your visions and pert cheeks until, as jolly Jupiter moves to perverse reverse, your guests exit in chagrin. With narcotic Neptune in obscene congress with the Loony Nodes, you enshrine your 'bum' beautiful in a myriad of photos and commission an artist to paint your posterior, working through a mirror, of course, in case the poor creature is overcome by the radiance of these truly exquisite lines. Marauding Mars barrels belligerently into lackwit Leo and you invite friends around for private viewings, though you hire a security guard in case any should suffer a rush of blood and make a fatal lunge towards these twin Arks of the New Covenant. Ghastly planets then fart in nasty aspect and, in a brainwave, you decide to display your perfect posterior for fiscal gain.
You call this fiasco 'the adoration of the cheeks' and hold the services in a darkened cellar in the depths of your own home, complete with an extortionate door charge and an air of salacious promise. Instanter, this shadowy temple of degeneracy is racked with a slavering ecstasy and bestial howling incited by the unearthly luminescence of a gluteus maximus beyond compare. Yours! None that attend will ever be the same again, my tiny turnips!
Come a Full Moon in evil Scorpio, your coffers rattle with cash but you find yourself cynical and withdrawn, exhausted by the burden of being a living religious experience for the masses. Thus, you close the temple and fly off into the night. The great Sol Invicti clatters into lunatic Gemini and you rent a palace in Versailles, ensconcing yourself in the lap of aristocratic luxury. Yet, once there, sadness descends like a cloud as the burden of your posterior overwhelms you. Though you're too fatigued to stand, you dare not sit upon this luminescent icon of spiritual power without a mountain of cushions to protect it, in case some evil chill should make its way up through a tiny crack (eek). Mischievous Mercury then gropes Uranus, the idiot god, and you pray for guidance as to what to do with the awful power of your holy buttocks.
But what's this? Great giggling gods and dirty demons, it's another nasty turn-up for the books, that's what it is! Woe unto you, I say for, the busy messenger slips into perverse reverse and the air is rent with the shrieking of a myriad of voices in a miasma of languages, as a strange and altogether nasty spiritual experience overtakes you. Some of these voices cry to adore the cheeks while others rail against bare bums in general and yours in particular. Further voices tell the time, make pronouncements on the weather, give the sports results and inquire as to the welfare of aged aunts and distant relatives. You're assailed over and over by this disembodied chorus.
Odds bodkins, my little types! You're either clairaudient or a loony, and I know which one my money's on. Soon you're sliding down onto the exquisite tiles, consciousness slipping away as you struggle vainly to angle the precious posterior onto a nearby mound of silken cushions. By my sainted aunt, are you to find this destiny only to lose it to a pair of frozen cheeks that once were the talk of the town? Click here next time and see. For the nonce, ave!
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