Aries (20 March – 19 April). Beware of the following things: cats painted blue, books with “vol. 41” on the spine, speakerphones, Maalox, those little styrofoam packing peanuts, tinned salmon, the Seven of Clubs, toy lightsabers, flavoured gin, the country of Malawi, covered wagons (like the pioneers used), Katie Couric, vitamin water, the cinematic works of Joseph Fiennes, plaster of Paris and euphoric happiness. All of these things are death omens until such time as you see an old woman dancing in sheer joy, Aries. You would be well advised to attend a seniors’ polka night. Sorry about this, incidentally. I mean, we both know there are signs a little more deserving of a death omen than you. But that’s how it goes.
Taurus (19 April – 20 May). Unfortunately for you, the stars have made it clear that every Taurus on the planet Earth will come to an unpleasant end six days from now. So, you know, maybe you could, like, not stand too close to other people, or something. Is that too much to ask, Taurus? All the rest of us would like is not to be dragged down with you. Oh, god, get off your knees. Stop begging. What kind of wuss are you? Show a little dignity for once in your fucking life. Jesus Christ. Is it too much to ask that you not involve us in your shit? Go work on your bucket list.
Gemini (20 May – 21 June). People you supposedly love and respect may find that your lack of commitment towards their lives is troubling, Gemini. Maybe you need to consider someone besides yourself for a moment. Think about other people’s needs and desires for once. See, Linda, oh wait I mean Gemini, the reason I do this for a living is because I have a passion for the mysteries of the future. That’s why I don’t want to be a stockbroker. Do you get that, Gemini? You knew what you were getting into when you met me, and I was clear up front that it was my life’s calling. Besides, who the hell respects stockbrokers these days anyways? Why would I want that, huh, Gemini? Tell me that, you dualistic snobs.
Cancer (21 June – 22 July). You always get a bit of a bad rap because your sign shares a name with horrific disease. This is unfair. Did you know that in modern times “Capricorn” meant “oozing sore located on the genitals”? Think on this. It may help you out in a tough situation. Alternately, consider that you aren’t a goddamn lying Gemini whore. That should make you feel better.
Leo (22 July – 23 August). Go to the 7-11 on Fourth. Wait ten minutes. A black van will arrive, and the passenger’s side door will open. On the seat there will be a package. Do not look at the driver. I cannot emphasize this enough: looking at the driver will be a mistake. Take the package. Carry it down Fourth until you come to a bright yellow door. Knock on the door: three times, then two, then three again, then wait a second, then once more. Enter the door. There will be a blindfold hanging on a peg. Take it and put it on, then walk forward six paces while still holding the package. Carefully place the package on the floor. Do not make any sudden movements. Turn around. Walk slowly back to the door. Do not remove the blindfold before exiting out the door.
Virgo (23 August – 22 September). I bet you’d like to know, wouldn’t you. You Virgos, every last one of you, you’re two-faced wretches who fuck their best friends’ Gemini girlfriends behind their backs. I guess she taught you a thing or two about lying, huh, Virgo? Well, guess what: I know how it ends up, and one of you is gonna get crabs. And I’m not telling you which one of you it’ll be. But before it’s over, one of you will cheat on the other, and get a horrible parasite, and then you’ll pass that parasite on to the other person, the one you teamed up with to betray my dumb soothsaying ass. I hope that shit keeps you up nights. I’d tell you to stop telling all our mutual friends that you feel bad but you had to follow your heart, but there’s no point, because sooner rather than later you’ll stop saying it. And you’ll be scratching your genitals while you do.
Libra (22 September – 23 October). If I told you your future this week, you’d end up becoming your own grandparent, and I’m sure none of us want that. So I’m just going to make something up. Um… if an ugly stranger comes up to you and asks you for help, help them. There. Is that vague enough for all the bored housewives out there?
Scorpio (23 October – 22 November). True story: back when lotto was still illegal and called “the numbers game,” legendary black mobster Bumpy Johnson one week found himself having to pay out winning number prizes to over seven hundred people, on account of the winning numbers having been all related to an industrial accident that made the news that week. Some suggested that Bumpy just redraw the numbers so that nobody would know, but Bumpy – a man of integrity in his way – refused, and paid out. Because he wasn’t some goddamn Virgo louse who would tell you things like “no, man, we were just hot tubbing together.” In related news: 7, 15, 16, 26, 32, 41, and bonus number 22.
Sagittarius (22 November – 21 December). That achy feeling you can’t quite describe is a tumor. Go to the doctor. Sooner would be better than later. I tell you this because I care about you, Sagittarius, and because it’s important to me to use this ability I have to do some good in the world. You know what the fucked-up thing is, though? I knew in advance that Linda was going to cheat on me. Now, granted, I didn’t get a very specific flash, so I didn’t know when or where. But I definitely didn’t think she would fuck my best friend on my goddamn bed. That I bought with my horoscope money. That’s right, Sagittarius, she cuckolded me on your goodwill. I bet that makes you feel used. See, I thought she was just gonna have a bachelorette party fling, and we’d laugh about it later because, come on, last fling, you have to forgive that.
Capricorn (21 December – 20 January). Ignore that stuff we said about oozing sores. That was just to make Cancer feel better. I mean, hell, they’ve got to be associated with the deadliest disease in human history, sometimes you gotta spin ’em a little bull to make them feel less pathetic. You get that, right? Of course you get it. I should’ve listened to you, Capricorn. I should’ve agreed to go out with your sister, even if that did seem a little weird for you to be setting me and her up. What was up with that, anyway? I’d ask if she’s still into me, but I already know she’s gonna end up marrying this guy she meets on the bus next week, so it seems kind of pointless. God, I hate being able to see the future. You’d think you’d get accurate stock tips, but no, it’s all useless soap opera bullshit like this. All it does is make people miserable. I wonder if it made her miserable? I mean, I tried to not bother her with it. You know how it is.
Aquarius (20 January – 18 February). Yeah, yeah, I know the Aquarius entries have to be all lah-dee-dah because you’re the most creative and imaginative, but fuck you, Aquarius, I’m not writing this entry in rhyming couplets just so you can feel complete. You want your future? Here’s your future: you’ll go nowhere while some fucking Virgo who actually knows how to fucking network worth a damn gets the job you’ve always dreamed of, and you end up a waiter in your mid-forties talking about that screenplay you’ll never actually finish which, go figure, is about a misunderstood waiter who’s really a tragically brilliant artist. That’s it. That’s what you get. Now get used to people asking you for a Cobb salad. PS. You will go bald. No, I’m not joking.
Pisces (18 February – 20 March). Statistically you are the rarest of all astrological signs, Pisces. But that doesn’t make you special. It just means there are less of you. So don’t stand too close to Tauruses this week. Your numbers are already in the danger zone, and I’ve always liked you, Pisces. I just get the feeling you’re trustworthy. Hey, maybe we should go out for a beer next week? Just friends. And when I say “just friends,” you know I already know how it ends up, so there’s no point in me lying and pretending it’s a “just friends” date if I want something more. Yeah, I know, it does kind of suck. But at least I’m not a stockbroker, with a lot of money and my own house and everything. Who would want that, right? Ha.