Crystal Baws: June 2016 Horoscopes
This month your flatmates bring up the issue of you flushing your empty beer cans down the toilet. After a heated exchange, culminating in them drawing you detailed diagrams on how both toilets and the refuse collection infrastructure work, you are forced into a compromise, agreeing you’ll at least try to refrain from doing it on weekdays, but only if they stop storing all their bloody food in the fridge.
Having sex on a train is worth two wanks in a helicopter. Mark it off on your score sheet.
After suffering from coughing fits for the best part of six weeks you finally cave in to advice from friends and butt chug a bottle of cough medicine. Although it doesn't seem to work for your cough, you do rid yourself of your fits of dry, tickly farts. Your days of putting your hand over your arse when farting to prevent the spread of germs are over.
The Bullingdon Club visit your local foodbank, ostensibly to deliver a single can of Tesco Value baked beans, sniggering and guffawing as they do so. The staff accept it warily and add it to the inventory before turning to see the floppy-haired leader defecate noisily on the counter prior to the group running off tittering into the night brandishing bottles of Bollinger Special Cuvée.
This month you sue the council for that chlamydia you got from the park toilet glory hole they had neglected to plaster over.
Poo comes out of top celebs like Kylie Minogue and James Bond on a regular basis.
It's lovely to think that tattoo you just got will one day decorate your bloated corpse.
This month you are uncovered as one of Britain’s most notorious paedophile-philes. After a police raid on your home your hard-drives, containing over 50,000 graphic mugshots of paedophiles, are found. The headlines shock the public, with allegations that you lurked outside the school gates to get a glimpse of the paedophiles waiting outside the school gates, wanking at them from the bushes, chanting your now-infamous motto: “The hunter has become the hunted.”
Your newborn looks a lot like you. Small and fat with a fat, bald, blood-covered head, scrunched up toothless grin and confused, barely-sentient gaze, unable to even make out shapes while it shits itself twice a day, crying because it can’t locate a pair of tits.
You keep picking the small scab on your face until the entire face itself is one huge scab. If you keep it up you’ll achieve full body scab coverage by the end of the year and earn the glory of entering the Guinness Book of Records. You can do it.
This month you hand out leaflets on the high street detailing your conspiracy theory that the SEA LEVEL RISES AREN’T CAUSED BY THE MELTING ICECAPS AS THE ILLUMINATI SHILLS AT NASA WANT YOU TO BELIEVE, BUT ARE INSTEAD CAUSED BY THE OUT OF CONTROL GROWTH OF FISH PUBES.
Taking out your sex robot’s anal cavity you bang a load more processor chips and RAM up there. That way, while not being used for its primary purpose, the robot can perform menial, yet equally important tasks like accounting. Your personal assistant-slash-bangbot.