ALL PURPOSE HOROSCOPE

One Sky Fits All

 

This horoscope business has developed into what I can only refer to as a colossal waste of my time. If you actually pay attention to my astrological counsel, you certainly give no indication that any of it is being taken to heart.

 

Look at yourself. You have become a study in uninspired precision. Every mechanical move you make is familiar and mistake-proof. First thing in the morning, you brew that perfect pot of coffee that you never stop to drink. But it’s there. Just in case you are called upon to testify about fulfilling all of your repertory business in the court of small town opinion. You are convinced that being under the gun of backwater neighborhood snoops is cool, baby. Yeah. Curtsies and genuflections and lockstep and you are happy as a clamorous born again yahoo.

Then it’s the same old antiseptic monkeyshines throughout the day. You face your job with a fraudulent visage. You sing song your way through your part of any dialogue. Same as all of your yesterdays and the prescription for every day going forward. Tip a scale. Crunch a number. Fudge the truth. Suck up to this one. Walk all over that one.  

And each night as you retire, you and your robot soul mate close the day with the obligatory Posturepedic bop, a rudimentary procedure specified on your automaton checklist.

Then a final consummate kiss is exchanged before you say: “Mmmm, sweet dreams. Oh, how I love my life.”

Yes, yes. Same old, same old molded clone at home in the brain drain game.

 

So, in my capacity as a conduit of astrological tips, I give up. I can’t break through the concrete. I can’t crack the cement. You are over-insulated by 21st century moral decay. And in your pathetic lifestyle of uninspired precision, you are too thickheaded to pay attention to common sense. You must remember common sense. Your grandmother was all about that stuff. And there was a time when you would pay strict attention to grandma.

But that was long before you moved to Berkshire County, where you’ve found satisfaction on the assembly line of Stepford lives.

Well, guess what? Grandmother is watching you still. She is shining brightly up in constellation Munimula. And the essence of all of her homespun, low technology wisdom is available anytime you accidentally stop and stare. Constellation Munimula. Grandma. It’s just a thought.

 

Other than that, I am officially through with the horoscope racket. My nerves are shot and I need to call it quits. Hereafter, you deserve what you get.

ALL PURPOSE HOROSCOPE

One Sky Fits All

 

This horoscope business has developed into what I can only refer to as a colossal waste of my time. If you actually pay attention to my astrological counsel, you certainly give no indication that any of it is being taken to heart.

 

Look at yourself. You have become a study in uninspired precision. Every mechanical move you make is familiar and mistake-proof. First thing in the morning, you brew that perfect pot of coffee that you never stop to drink. But it’s there. Just in case you are called upon to testify about fulfilling all of your repertory business in the court of small town opinion. You are convinced that being under the gun of backwater neighborhood snoops is cool, baby. Yeah. Curtsies and genuflections and lockstep and you are happy as a clamorous born again yahoo.

Then it’s the same old antiseptic monkeyshines throughout the day. You face your job with a fraudulent visage. You sing song your way through your part of any dialogue. Same as all of your yesterdays and the prescription for every day going forward. Tip a scale. Crunch a number. Fudge the truth. Suck up to this one. Walk all over that one.  

And each night as you retire, you and your robot soul mate close the day with the obligatory Posturepedic bop, a rudimentary procedure specified on your automaton checklist.

Then a final consummate kiss is exchanged before you say: “Mmmm, sweet dreams. Oh, how I love my life.”

Yes, yes. Same old, same old molded clone at home in the brain drain game.

 

So, in my capacity as a conduit of astrological tips, I give up. I can’t break through the concrete. I can’t crack the cement. You are over-insulated by 21st century moral decay. And in your pathetic lifestyle of uninspired precision, you are too thickheaded to pay attention to common sense. You must remember common sense. Your grandmother was all about that stuff. And there was a time when you would pay strict attention to grandma.

But that was long before you moved to Berkshire County, where you’ve found satisfaction on the assembly line of Stepford lives.

Well, guess what? Grandmother is watching you still. She is shining brightly up in constellation Munimula. And the essence of all of her homespun, low technology wisdom is available anytime you accidentally stop and stare. Constellation Munimula. Grandma. It’s just a thought.

 

Other than that, I am officially through with the horoscope racket. My nerves are shot and I need to call it quits. Hereafter, you deserve what you get.