Crystal Baws: August 2012 Horoscopes
This month your local priest finally agrees to consecrate your bottle of Buckfast, thus adding a heavy dose of caffeine, sodium glycerophosphate, dipotassium phosphate and disodium phosphate to Christ’s bloodstream. This causes Jesus to 'go radge' up in Heaven, attacking new arrivals asking for his autograph by melting them with his eyes, responding to prayers with expletive-ridden rants and staggering around completely nude in visions.
You feel like an insignificant pube fallen among the wheels of a large machine whose action you do not understand but which is working well.
The mind of Gemini is like a toilet U-bend. It needs to flow. If a particularly big brown thought gets stuck, only the rubber gloves of truth can dislodge and separate it down into smaller chunks. This helps the ball-cock of your soul return to equilibrium, allowing you to flush away unhealthy brain activity into the sewer of the past.
Like the Crab you have longevity on your side and will always bounce back, except off rocks.
Your Guru takes you to one side and calmly reiterates that it’s all about positive energy changing the collective quantum consciousness which shifts the negative vibrational frequency into a consciously resonating quantum energy field. You nod convincingly.
They say you should never drink on an empty stomach. Lucky your stomach is full of drugs then.
You realise that if we as a species don’t look after our environment there won’t be any tortoises left to melt down into perfume.
Your love life is like the surface of Venus. Although dating probes have managed to land, within minutes you have crushed any potential relationship to dust. Your magnetic field is non-existent and the levels of boredom generated in your intense atmosphere are high enough to melt sexual interest almost instantaneously.
You come to the realisation that you’ve been wrong all along, there are no microphones in your fridge or spies hiding in the walls, it’s simply the paranoia chip the CIA implanted in your brain.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel. The bright, welcoming fires of Hell.
Thank God you’re not doing what you’re doing right now.
In August you travel south for the Paranormal Olympics, hosted by Britain’s favourite mediums on the mist-covered ancient battlefield of Flodden. The umpires employ hi-tech equipment to find evidence of which hovering, wailing or lamenting spirits have won each medal by recording sudden changes in temperature, EMF interference, barking dogs or the emergence of unexplained smells. The ectoplasmic cream of the world’s ghosts and spirits have been brought over to compete, trapped inside amulets, mirrors and Chucky dolls, or simply summoned from the underworld on-site by their psychic trainers.