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Tuesday, August 16, 2011

In time, mais oui, we may.

Hello, Ducks!

Starzina Starfish-Browne here with your Eric’s Daily Horoscope for TwistieTie, August 16, 2011.    Really, weather?  REALLY?  Three days in a row now?  The only way this could be worse is if We were (subjunctively) spending the week at the beach.  Or Dinah Shore, as We say here in Fluffya.  Although, yesterday’s beachfront-property-of-Our-dreams notwithstanding, all of Our beaches these days are woefully subjunctive.  (It occurs to Us that the preceding sentence would probably sound better in Frawnch.  Simply because most things do.  Actually, if translated into Frawnch, that sentence might become the screenplay for an entire Frawnch fillum.  Kiss Us quick, We’re Gerard Depardieu.)

Not one, but TWO of Our Gentle Readers took exception to certain remarks We made yesterday concerning presidential candidate and rabid hellspawn Mrs. My Husband Took It Up The Ass In The Fire Island Pines And All I Got Was This Twelve-Inch Corndog.  Specifically, they objected to Our assertion that she was from “The Left Side Of Hell”.  “Wouldn’t,” they each said, virtually verbatim, “she actually be from the RIGHT side of Hell?”

Well, to put it simply, no.

We understand your confusion, which stems from the political interpretation of the words “left” and “right”.  To quote a Stephen Sondheim lyric about a fascist society, “The opposite of left is right, the opposite of right is wrong. So anyone who’s left is wrong, right?”

It’s Hell, people.  There IS no “right side”.

(Parenthetically (hence the parentheses), even if Hell were (subjunctively) divided into Left and Right along political lines, the harpy in question would STILL be on the left side, because that would be more Hellish for HER (as well as for all the other people on the left side), and the point of Hell would seem to be always to be MORE Hellish rather than LESS Hellish.)

That said, there is no politics in Hell.

Wait; hear Us out.  Politicians who are sent to Hell (i.e. all of ‘em) are expressly forbidden to speechify or otherwise participate in any political process.  And those non-politicians who, here on Earth, perpetuate endless tiresome political conversations (“Now if Adlai Stevenson had won the election…Zzzzzz…”) are forbidden to talk about anything but the weather.  (It being Hell, they remain equally annoying, because all they ever say is “Hot enough for ya?”) For those of Us who loathe politics and political discussions, there are televisions which broadcast nothing but presidential debates between the aforementioned Adlai Stevenson and Millard Fillmore, interspersed with mudslinging commercials alternately for and against Grover Cleveland.

But Election Day never comes.

So do you have your tickets to The Wedding Consultant yet? A vote for Iris Holcombe is a vote for Us continuing to pay Our mortgage.

Speaking of whoring, here’s a seldom-seen video of Millard Fillmore in drag:

And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for: the lost Adlai Stevenson/Grover Cleveland sex tapes.  Or, the HorrorScope:

You can’t make heads or tails of what that colleague or kid is trying to tell you, but it’s not your fault. (No doubt that damn Timmy has fallen down the well again.)

They really are being unclear, (They are, after all, a collie.)

 but that doesn’t mean they can fix things any time soon.  (Ah, but WE could fix THEM.  (Heh.  See what We did there?))

Your emotions are all right under the surface today, and it won’t take much to get you feeling stressed out.  (True dat, boo.  One more day of rain, and We’re headed for the belltower with an Uzi.)

An innocent comment could trigger a bad reaction.  (Once We’re in the belltower, nobody’s innocent.)

 You’ll have to watch for frustration to rear its ugly head (How nice for Frustration, to have a choice of heads.)

(That was virtually Shakespearean, that last bit, wunnit?)

— there are certain things that are just beyond your control, (The top of Our pantyhose being one.)

and that’s that. (Also, Jack Sprat could eat no fat, and his wife was Steve McQueen.  (Hey, you have YOUR nursery rhymes, We’ll have Ours.))

 If you can’t change something, it’s a waste of time to try. (Your first clause is superfluous.  Also, the first cut is the deepest.)

 Instead, use all that energy to think up ways to work around the things or the people that you don’t like.  (Why? What was wrong with Our Uzi plan?)

 Karma is a tricky thing. (It’s virtually a chameleon.)

While you may believe that doing good deeds helps your invisible good vs. bad tally sheet, (To say nothing of Our tallywhacker.)

the reality is that the best gesture is one made for selfless reasons. (We gotcher “gesture” right HERE.)

Kindness isn’t a game. (It’s all fun and games till somebody with an Uzi puts out your eye.)

 (Your YOUR-O-Scopes:

Starzina Starfish-Browne was born in the wagon of a traveling show…well, okay, not really. She was actually born in Lowake, Texas, the daughter of a beautician and either a garage mechanic or the town mailman. At sixteen, she escaped her humble beginnings by running off with Doctor Browne’s Traveling Medicine Show and, more to the point, Doctor Browne. Following the dissolution of this unfortunate entanglement (Doctor Browne was a Virgo and Starzina is, of course, an Aries), which produced a daughter, Starzina entered a contest in Soap Opera Digest and won a scholarship to Oxford (yes, in ENGLAND), where she earned her doctorate in the newly-created dual major of Astrology and Human Sexuality. There is absolutely NO TRUTH to the rumor that Starzina’s second daughter has Royal blood, despite tabloid photographs allegedly depicting her cavorting on the Italian Riviera with Princes William and Harry, clad only in Prussian helmets and armbands of questionable taste. Starzina currently resides with her daughters in Philadelphia, the City That Loves You (On Your) Back, where she enjoys Double Coupon Day at the local SuperCruise and “encouraging” the coxswain of the Penn rowing team.