Frankly, the matter tries the ability to make suspension of the disbelieving, but I was so taken with Rob's much-loved prognosticatory system (which apparently references system of past-blue fire-balls, and their position's forming connect-of-the-dots images of mundane objects, allying these, via the date of the birth, with the future of the borned) that I play-acted belief in his ludicrous claims of the Outering Space, so that he might explain in full— which, thankfully, he did indeed do.
In the interest of improving the sum total almanac(k)-icity of this fair almanac(k), I shall henceforward endeavor to include the occasional horrorscope, so that you may know how to behave into the future, as well as toward the present, and in lieu of regretting the past. In the case that the Ramirez brothers succeed in securing the singularity necessary to complete the time-machine project, at that time I will issue horrorscopes intending to advise as to retroactive behaviors in the past, although you shall then regret the future, and simply stand much confused in the present. In the case that the Brothers Ramirez shall have had completed the time machine, then one might presume that I will then have seen fit to advise you of the past from the future, so that foibles future and present could have been (and will have had been) avoided altogether, they being, in all probability, prepared to have been birthed (or to not have been birthed) from the past and resulting outward to the future, where their ill-birth can be best observed, as they (the actions) slide both futureward and further-pastward. In that case, trust to me, it is the present that you shall regret, it being inexorably here and now, the mistake that you forever are making and thus could never have had avoided, with or without transtemporal advice from a loving Architeuthis and his Latino kick-to-the-sides.
(As an aside, one of the other miracles of the Outering Space of which Rob so affectionately refers is the miracle of distance which is itself measure purely in time. I had, of course, know long the speed of light for, in the thickening deep it is slow indeed, and had been known to, at the deepest and most heavily refracted depths, form in puddles upon the ocean floor . . . glimmering— skinned pools of distant sunlight, warm and sticky to the tentacle.
But to Rob's notation, the speed of light in the terrible OutSpace is finite and fixed at its very fastest, and is thus useful as a tool of both measurement and observation. But it is in this efficiency that his most outlandish and drug-addled claim resides. You see, light travels at a speed, but it also is that with which we observe the world through our optically perfect eyes. And so, if something is One Light Year away, we would see it as it was One Year In The Past! Miraculous and bizarre! If it is indeed true, I have put the Ramirez Bros. and Devo to the task of building some device that might outstrip that very speed so that we could travel to some point one light year away. At that point, we could build a large telescope and I could look back one year into the past, and without the oh so difficult Time Machine (oh how the Latinos whine and cry for sleep as I drive them with my bionic whip) determine exactly what happened to my meandering roadtrip/deathtrip with dear Tom.
But it is likely this "Speed of the Light" is merely a myth to which Rob tenderly clings. Pah!)
But I am digression! Onward! To the horrorscopes (with much appreciation towards my lab assistant Rob, for his aid in introducing me to this exceedingly quaint custom of the surface):
Capricorn: (January) ["A unicorn? Or something to do with corn, but I think it's a unicorn. Maybe a big one" quoth Rob]
Make to avoid disputes with invertebrates, for they are sly. Also, avoid the gaming of chance, and shun the Leo, for he is unclean.
Aquaria: (February) ["Like the thing you live in, that's an aquarium"]
Love shall approach you; by forewarned, fore-armed and fore-lubricated, as is nature's injunction stern.
Piesees: (March) ["OK, this one I know— she's, like, this Egyptian goddess. The goddess of the dead. Totally."]
You are primarily composed of carbon and water. Rejoice in this.
Air-ies: (April. Well, most of April.) ["Um, like, a little elf.]
Little elf? Little Elf! BEWARE THE LITTLE ELF!
Taurus: (The rest of April, plus all of May and some June) ["A car; like a pimpy old sedan, with a musical horn and chrome and a racked backend."]
Though you may not drive a great big Cadillac— diamond in the back, sunroof top, digging the scene with a gangsta lean— gangster whitewalls, TV antennae in the back. You may not have a car at all, but remember, brothers and sisters, you can still stand tall: Just be thankful for what you have got.
Gemini: (Some more May, and all of June) ["Very goddam cool roller coaster. All wood, and that shit creaks."]
It shall be in the final place you search, but what it shall be will be a horror unspeakable. Nastiness of the teeth. Sharpness. etcetera.
Cancer: (July? Maybe August?) ["Nasty fucking disease. Bad shit. Like, my Moms had it. She's okay. Sister died though."]
All of that accomplished yesterday? Tomorrow shall reveal it to have been better left undone. But today, be blessed that you dwell in ignorance of yestermorns error and tommorroweve's terror.
Leo: (This could be July; they coulda been, like, switched) ["Lions and shit."]
You are the unclean. Cleanse. In the case that you are not haram, but merely mashbooh, then clean nonetheless, but littler. Beware of over-cleaning.
Virgel: (???) ["Some dude? Suveer is reading this, like, poem. But it can't be a poem. Ass-long."]
There is no "U" in TEAM, Virgel. Although there is indeed "MEAT".
Libra: (???) ["Two chicks getting it on."]
He, he, he. Saphic love. He.
Scorpio: (Halloween, and some of each month on either side.) ["Hank Scorpio— like, this supervillian genius dude."]
Ah, Scorpio— shall you ever learn?
Septaginarian: (Crap. Whatever's left of the year.) ["Uuuummmm . . . like . . ."]
A winsome female shall approach, and offer herself to sexual congress. She is the Devourer— flee!
In finale, I tender at this time a shout-out to my main man Rob, who has been a great aid in this time of turmoil, energetically taking up much of the day-toward-day grunt work of managing the nuts and the bolts of this fair almanac(k), as we cruise ever towards ala-maniacal perfection.
The Giant Squid
Love the Giant Squid? Buy his first book.
Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece
Poor Mojo's Tip Jar:
Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson