Courtesy of Postcards |
Your Daniel Boone, Marie-Antoinette, k.d. lang Holy Shit Horoscope
WEST CHESTER, Penna. - An iconic frontiersman, a French queen with attitude, and an odd-looking weasel are your strange, astrological bedfellows. One gave us Boonesborough, Kentucky; one gave us a cliché; and the other gave us pause.
With this sort of ménage à trios, there is no right side of the bed on which to get up, or both sides are the right side. It's your call. Obviously your life could go in different directions—often at the same time.
Capricorn (12/22-1/19): Your computer-aided search for signs of intelligent life in distant galaxies unearths a disquieting fact: sinister forces on the planet Ronco, whose inhabitants have pocket knives for hands and exist solely on homemade pasta, have seized control of the brain of a presidential candidate, who will soon begin acting as if he's on E.
Aquarius (1/20-2/18): A rare but infrequent case of metal poisoning results in the cross-mutation of your zip code and your DNA. You hatch a plan to get rich by cloning yourself and sending a chain letter to all your other selves. To save postage you scrawl "Return to Sender" on the envelope.
Pisces (2/19-3/20): Pisces rule the feet, a curious domain for people whose astrological sign contains a fish. Even more curious are Pisces inability to breed in captivity, their tendency to leave their Christmas lights up all year around, and their fondness for Lawrence Welk. What's more, Pisces are always carping about something.
Aries (3/21-4/19): Your discovery of the key to eternal happiness is tempered somewhat by the concomitant discovery that an incubus has changed the locks on all the doors in the Gilded Palace of Carnal Delights and Untold Riches. You grudgingly settle for a Motel 6 with free HBO, local calls, and a continental breakfast.
Taurus (4/20-5/20): Because Taurans are highly possessive, adore their own company, and mate for life, you begin a campaign to have self-sex marriages legalized. Your slogan, "Be part of the problem and part of the solution" is clever, but your campaign comes a cropper when you're caught making an unauthorized deposit at a sperm bank.
Gemini (5/21-6/21): You mustn't let your invisible friend from the planet Eninac, where everyone is still hooked on phonics, lead you astray. If you're tempted by voices that can only be heard with your inner ear, don't follow their instructions until you stop and ask yourself, "What would Steve Jobs do?"
Cancer (6/22-7/22): You receive a birthday present wrapped in crime-scene tape. The special-needs kid next door begins reading Autistics of Fortune magazine. A man who resembles the late Dr. Kevorkian starts checking your electric meter daily. Strange belching noises emanate from the septic tank. I could be wrong, but these don't seem like omens of good fortune.
Leo (7/23-8/22): The goddess Maytag, in harmonic convergence with the House of Proctor and Gamble, has designated the crockpot as your ruling symbol. Unfortunately, this symbol is associated not only with the pleasure of cooking for a family but also with the loneliness of the mechanized meal. In other words: heads you win, tails you eat alone.
Virgo (8/23-9/22): As an Earth sign you are ruled by your intestines and your nervous system. Among your colors, not surprisingly, are brown and bile green. Your musical notes are L-sharp and Z-flat. Your lucky numbers are III, V, IX, XIII, and XLIV. What does all this all this add up to? LXXIV, of course. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine.
Libra (9/23-10/23): General Failure has trouble reading your hard drive. This causes Fatal Error to reset the gigabyte specification on your computer from the correct 1,073,741,824 bytes to 1,073.741824 bytes. Consequently you can no longer download the disgusting photos from Doll House magazine or the recipes from the beef jerky web site.
Scorpio (10/24-11/21): In the foreseeable future—or at least the next few weeks—you are the Velcro Puppy of Good Fortune. Happiness clings to you like pom-poms dangling from the rearview mirror of a purple Rolls Royce driven by a chauffeur in a pimp hat. Your lucky notes are everything within three octaves on either side of middle C. Your lucky numbers range from I to M-squared.
Sagittarius (11/22 12/21): "When you were young, and your heart was an open book, you used to say 'Live and let live.' (You know you did. You know your did. You know you did.) But if this ever-changing world in which we live in makes you give in and cry, say 'Live and let die.'" Or else say three Our Fathers and a couple of Hail Marys.
ŠThe fine print: the editorial content on this page is fictional.
Be advised to believe half of what you see and nothing of what you read. You must have a mental age no greater than eighteen to enjoy this shite.