Resident psychic reader Adromeda Kiskadee is away for the weekend, but she’s asked Joey the Finch to fill in and offer you a horoscope you can’t refuse!
Greetings and salutations, people of the internets. My name is Joey the Finch, and I’m here ’cause that fortune-teller chick, the Kiskadee woman, asked me to take her column for the week. Now I ain’t much of a psychotic myself, but I’ve been known to have a solid intuition ’bout folks and something like that one spider-guy has. You know who I’m talkin’ about, right? Right.
Then rather than waste your time and mine, let me offer you a horoscope you can’t refuse.
I used to drive a Dodge Aries, you know, one of those awful K cars Chrysler produced back in the ’80s, and it was awful. That don’t mean you’re awful, of course, but it don’t say much in your favor, either. You know what Aries symbol is? A ram. Bet you ain’t never seen a real ram, right? Well, you will this week, see, ’cause one’s gonna try butting heads with you right there on the street in front of your momma’s house. You think you’re stubborn? Fuggedaboutit! This thing’s gonna knock you cold.
What’s up with the car names? Couldn’t these stupid astrologizers come up with better words and stuff? Doesn’t matter none, I guess, but geez. Like any Ford Taurus, you’re gonna break down and end up in the shop for a week. And by shop, I mean hospital. Only while you’re there, your doc is gonna mix you up with another patient and amputate both arms and both legs. And you was only there for a bad stomach bug! Don’t bother with a malpractice suit, though, on account of your lawyer is your doc’s little brother.
Man, do I remember Gem. Gem and I, we was good together, you know, like Sonny and Cher or Lucy and Desi. “Hey Gem, I’m home!” But man, Gem and I, we did all sorts of things together, like road trips and goin’ out to bistros and seein’ movies. Life was great for Gem and I. At least until she stepped out on me with some guido from Jersey, and things weren’t so good for Gem and I. You know that Guns ‘n Roses song, right? “I used to love her…” Yeah, you know what comes next. Best if you stay indoors.
What kind of sick dirtbags would say Cancer is some kind of fortune? I mean sayin’ just ’cause someone’s born in June or July, they’re CANCER is just low. You can’t make this garbage up, though, so if youse guys are Cancers, well, I feel for you. This week, you’re gonna lose all your hair. Not ’cause you’re sick or nothin’, but ’cause some punk kid is gonna strap you to a chair and take a razor to your scalp. Then he’s gonna tattoo a smiley face on the back of your head, so you’ll finally look pleasant from behind.
You know what a LEO is, right? Don’t play dumb with me, nitwit. It’s a Law Enforcement Officer. You know, like the one flashin’ his lights behind you ’cause you was stupid enough to read this on your phone while drivin’. Look, see, he’s gonna ask you for your license and registration, maybe proof of insurance, too. Sadly for you, the shady schmuck who sold you the lemon you drive neglected to say it was stolen from a sweet old lady in Missouri. Boy, you ain’t gonna get out of this mess easy, no way, no how.
Merriam-Webster says Virgo’s all about the virgins, so instead of a fortune, maybe let me give you some relationship advice. You know, ’cause I’m a nice guy and the dames, they’re all over me like green on the bean, if you get my meaning. So maybe you ain’t got a steady thing, but that ain’t the end of the world. In fact, it’s just the beginning! Keep your chin up and be nice to folks, that’s what my momma always said, and look how I turned out. Yeah, not half bad, right? And the other half ain’t nothin’ to complain about, neither.
According to this book on Roman history I read once, a “libra” is a way to measure weight, just under three quarters of a pound. Don’t be surprised when the cement shoes those wiseguys put on you weigh at least fifty libras. What wiseguys? The ones who own your bookie’s business. Ain’t never a good thing to bet against the Fambly, knucklehead. But hey, you been sayin’ how much you want to go swimming…
Finally, an astrologistical sign that makes you sound like you can kick some major keister! Scorpio! You’re one mean machine, a force to be reckoned with like nature itself, what with your pincers and poisonous tail – metaphorically speaking, of course. Problem is, you shook your tail at the wrong guy and he took offense at it. Tough as a scorpion looks and acts, there’s one thing he fears more than anything else: some goomba’s shoe. Be afraid, be very afraid.
What in blue blazes is a Sagittarius? I don’t know, you don’t know, ain’t nobody knows, no matter how much they say they do. My advice to you is “Know yourself”. Only you can’t, on account of you’re a Sagittarius, and nobody knows what on God’s green earth that is. This next week is gonna be full of confusion for you, but don’t you worry; you’ll get a knock on the head come Friday, come to by Sunday, and by the middle of next week you’ll be convinced you was an Aries anyways.
This week when you go see a movie, watch out for the popcorn. Some of the husks are gonna get stuck in your teeth, and when you go to toothpick ’em out, you’re gonna pop out the caps on one of your cavities, and boy is it gonna hurt. (See what I did there? Caps and corn? Yeah, I’m a genius.)
Back in the ’60s, some hippy said, “This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius” and it was supposed to mean something. Now, I ain’t no treehugging, hippy-dippy, bong-smoker, but maybe things did change and the Age of Aquarius, whatever that is started. Well guess what? It’s over. So stop thinkin’ you’re all superior for it being your ‘age’, ’cause it ain’t anymore. Nope, this here is the Age of Uranus, so wipe that grin off your face and stop actin’ as if yours don’t stink.
It’s all about the fishes, which is where you’re gonna be sleepin’ if you don’t pay the protection money you owe.
Let’s make this short and sweet: Sometime in the next year a huge snake is gonna swallow you whole. Serves you right for jumpin’ ship from Capricorn-land and callin’ yourself Serpentarius. Ain’t you got no loyalty?
That’s all I got. I gotta say, this is a lot harder than that psycho woman makes it out to be. Next time, she better buy me a cuppa joe or somethin’ for my troubles.