What will befall you this coming week? Will it be tragedy, comedy, or blessing? Will you find love, or just indigestion when you’re eating your horoscope?
Welcome, dear children, to this week’s reading of your horoscope! It has been a hungry week; I’ve eaten oh-so-many sandwiches and they’re fueling my psychic visions. So pick your favorite type of sandwich from the list below and find out what the upcoming week has in store for you! Then explore the other horoscopes and maybe you’ll find another type of sandwich you’d want to try! Welcome to Eating Your Horoscope!
You should pick up the next hitchhiker you see. Don’t be afraid, dear; despite the ratted hair and throwback wardrobe, he’s actually the bass guitarist of a forgotten eighties hair band looking for one kind soul to receive his entire estate when he passes. Play your cards right and when colon cancer finally gets him you could inherit an ’86 Ford Escort, a Real Doll dressed to look like Madonna, and a five vinyl record set of The Doobie Brothers Greatest Hits.
Be sure to update your insurance. The satisfying crunch in your BLT tomorrow won’t be bacon. A visit to the emergency room may be more beneficial than you imagine, however, when they discover the stomach cramps you’ve been feeling the past few months were due to a pair of forceps left tangled in your small intestine when your right kidney was removed last summer. You don’t recall your kidney being removed? It was the blonde at the singles bar: she slipped you a mickey. Did you really imagine waking in a tub of ice was part of some narwhal fetish fantasy?
You’ll smell something in your apartment tomorrow morning when you wake up. Don’t worry, it isn’t natural gas. It is, however, the remains of a Big Mac the burglar who stole all your stuff left behind. He didn’t take everything; your complete collection of Barry Manilow on 8-track is still safe and sound, so that’s something. Your lucky numbers are two and fifteen. Wait. I mean unlucky. Two for the hours you’ll be waiting for police officers to arrive so you can make a report, fifteen for the number of thousands of dollars of stuff you just lost. Don’t you wish you had purchased renter’s insurance now?
Don’t take this personally, dear, but every week I ignore someone. This week it just happens to be you. Maybe next week I’ll get around to writing all twelve of these blasted things.
You don’t think you’re really going to get away with what you did, do you? Oh, that’s right, you haven’t done it yet, sweet child, so you don’t really know just how contemptible you can be. Suffice it to say, if you were being graded on this upcoming week’s performance, you’d not only get a big red F (yes, despite warnings, your metaphorical teacher still uses red ink!), but you’d be put in detention for a month. Or more. I’d tell you what it is you’ve done that’s just so abominable, but that would just ruin the fun. After all, other people’s drama is a spectator sport, and I have a taste for popcorn.
The third time your doorbell rings at 3:33 in just three days, answer it. The package left on your doorstep contains a small box with a glass dome atop it. Under the glass is a large red button. Push it and within one day a man will arrive at your house to deliver a million bucks. There are, of course, consequences; someone you do not know will die. The man will take the box and make sure it’s delivered to someone you don’t know. In the meantime, you’ll be stuck trying to figure out what to do with a million male rabbits. Maybe you can give Elmer Fudd a call, you wascal!
Pink is definitely your color, and it’s a good thing because you’re about to get the sunburn of your life! While you’re recuperating, be sure to check out the Oprah Winfrey Network medical documentary on the use of honey to treat burns. Of course, thinking you should go and harvest the honey yourself is only going to lead to a couple hundred bee stings, so keep an EpiPen handy just in case! That is, unless you want to swell up like that girl on the Willy Wonka movie who puffed up into a giant blueberry. Good luck fitting into those skinny jeans!
When you go cruising town on Friday night, you’ll end up with four flat tires after driving the wrong way over some tire spikes. Of course, turning that way will put you into the parking lot of a government defense contractor who is working on a top-secret project. Their security will be all over you like ants on a chocolate bar, and in no time you’ll end up in a windowless room three hundred feet under the parking lot fielding questions you didn’t even know you had the answers to. Won’t that be fun? Of course not, especially once they decide to do a body cavity search. You know, just in case. Oh me oh my, who goes cruising anymore?
Congratulations! You’re going to prison for a crime you didn’t commit, and there really isn’t anything you can do about it since all the evidence – circumstantial though it may be – points right at you. Make the most of your experience by forming life-long bonds with your fellow convicts, getting his-and-his (or hers-and-hers) matching tattoos with your cellmate, and learning to love the sun for a mere one hour each day. Don’t worry, dear, the truth will come out, but not until you’ve rotted in the big house so long even the IRS has no clue who you are.
It’s a silly thing, slipping on a banana peel, and sillier still doing it at the top of a staircase. But silly is as silly does, so at least try to have fun as you tumble down. That skateboard at the bottom won’t help much, especially once it launches you out of the open front door and out into a busy street. Bus? Semi? Bus? Semi? Bu- bus it is! The afternoon coach to the other side of town will carry you, pasted in its front grill, until the driver has to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a squirrel. Then it’ll run you over.
Be sure to correct as many grammatical errors as possible when you blog this coming week. It won’t be enough, dear, and the grammar police will come, but at least you’ll give them less ammo. Oh, they’ll hit you with the normal “your” vs. “you’re”, but at least you won’t misspell “excitement” as “excrement”. This time. Of course, that won’t stop them from extrapolating your personal details from the over-sharing you do in your blog, then doxing you until every stalker in the world is creeping around your back yard at night. Sweet dreams!
It’s all cotton candy clouds and pink unicorns for you! Enjoy a world of fluffy bunnies and teddy bears and lavender skies, where everything smells like cinnamon and roses and mint. Walk along streams of molten chocolate as your feet sink into gummy-bear textured stepping stones. Feel that light drizzle? It tastes of lemonade. This strange world is the most wondrous thing! It has to be a dream. But no, it isn’t… it’s a hallucination, dear. That’s right, this next week dementia will finally overcome your feeble mind and you’ll never have to worry about anything ever again.
And that’s it for this week’s menu, doves, dears, and ducks! Come back next week and find out what’s lies beyond the pale, all from me, Mistress Andromeda Kiskadee!
Editor’s Note: The author’s opinions and predictions are hers alone and not those of the editors of Knozzle. Take her words with a grain of salt. Or a whole salt shaker. She’s loopy!