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Friday, March 2, 2012

I left my little suitcase in Berlin

Hello, Ducks!

Starzina Starfish-Browne here with your Eric’s Daily Horoscope for FliedLiceWithSixYouGetEggRollInHalfHourYouHunglyAgain, March 2th, 2012.  Happy birthday in advance to Cliff, who turns twenty-four this weekend.

Speaking of birthdays, We found it odd this morning that the WorldWideInterWebNetz weren’t all a-Twitter (heh) over whatever Justin Bieber had done for his eighteenth birthday.  Naturally, being An Inquiring Mind Who Wants To Know, We felt compelled to search out the scoop. Turns out, he was on Ellen, being gifted with a $100,000 sports car.  (If you run across any pictures or video of this event and are confused, Ellen is the blond one.)

Are We the only One who finds it peculiar that, in certain instances, “scoop” and “poop” mean exactly the same thing?

In honor of Justin’s birthday, won’t you please share his latest video with your friends?  Seriously.  The poor thing’s birthday is now Yesterday’s News, so We probably won’t hear another peep out of him till he turns twenty-one.  Or grows pubes.

In other news,  please get your tickets now for The Real HouseWives of South Philly March Into Madness!, playing one night only, Tuesday, March 13 at 8PM at Helium Comedy Club:

Thank you.

Meanwhile, you will recall that yesterday, We were forced to stop e-pisstling Dixie so We could trundle off to the wilds of New Jersey to make a dollar.  Being the intrepid explorer that We are, We took something called the “High Speed Line” to the very last stop, which, if memory serves, was called Lichtenstein.  Then We were met by a cab which took Us to, We kid you not, Berlin.  The cab driver informed Us that the best corn in the world was grown in the fields past which We were being driven.  We don’t know about you, but We’re pretty sure that, in general, if one is in a cab, and the cab is going past cornfields, One is in the wrong cab.  Just sayin’.  The shortest part of the entire adventure was the encounter during which We earned Our money.

(Was it just Us, or did We sound like a two-bit hooker just then? (Also, since “two-bits” means a quarter, is it therefore impossible to have a one-bit hooker, or does it just mean you always have to do her twice? (Inquiring Minds, and all that.)))

On the way back, We bought a new shower curtain.  (No, not in a cornfield.)

You are, no doubt, all agog at how We manage to cope with all the excitement of Being Us.  They were going to make a movie about that once, but then John Malkovich became available at the last minute and they dumped Us.

The layers of Deep Meaning interspersed with Pop Culture in here are just like an onion.  (We mixed an onion with a donkey once…We got a piece of ass that made Us want to cry.)


And now, Charlene Tilton at windmills. Alternatively, the HorrorScope:


Avoid any heavy-duty business today — you need to keep it all light and fluffy.  (Oh, We promise:


We shall not poop

Into your soup

Nor scoop Our poop

Onto your stoop


We shall not poop

While Hula-Hoop-

-Ing on a sloop

With Betty Boop


We promise not to scoop Our poop

Into your mother’s chicken coop,

Onto your brother’s Boy Scout troop,

Or on your Aunt Jane’s last Froot Loop™.


No pooped-in soup,

No scooped-on stoop,

No Hula-Hoop poop,

Or Betty Boop scoop.


This poem’s become an endless loop,

So We might cut off your head and shit down your neck.


There!  Another brilliant children’s book written!  If only We could find a decent illustrator, We’d be rich, We tell you, RICH!)


If you can stick to pictures of kittens (Can We picture them in Chinese restaurants?)


and chit-chat about Hollywood divorces, (Is Ashton Kutcher a free man yet?)


you can get back to serious business soon. (Indeed.  Because Our new children’s book isn’t going to illustrate itself.)


 If someone’s offhand remark leaves you feeling especially emotional today, don’t freak out. (WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, “DON’T FREAK OUT?!?)


(Heh.  See what We did there?)

(Sometimes, One requires infinite patience to wait to complain about something to the proper person.  Sometimes, the proper person is someone who can do something about One’s complaint.  Other times, the proper person is someone who doesn’t know any of the parties involved, and can’t further complicate One’s complaint by reporting back to them.)


(Snatch this pebble from Our snatch, Glasshoppah.)


What they said might have seemed harmless, but it could have triggered something deep inside of you that you’re not quite sure how to identify. (Wow!  It’s like she went all psychic all of a sudden.)


Let yourself sit with this awkward feeling, and don’t try to overanalyze it.  (There’s no poop involved, is there?)


Throughout the day, you’ll slowly begin to understand why the comment bothered you — by tonight you will have solved the mystery.  (Kiss Us quick, We’re Nancy Drew Carrey.)




Be flirtatious with someone who you’d like to see more of. (You heard the lady, Naked Skimmer…We’re talking to YOU.)


(We recently made a list of the Gentle Readers whom We’ve actually seen naked.  It was enlighteneing.  And impressive.)


By showing that you’re approachable and interested, it’s less intimidating for this person to ask you out. (Oh, yeah.  Our phone shall no doubt ring any second now…)


(How about now?)


Relax, smile and use body language to give the green light.  (Let me hear your body talk, your body talk…Our body says, “Fuck you!”)


(Your Your-O-Scopes:

(Meanwhile, why We didn’t think of this sooner, We’ve got no idea, but better laid than necking, as they say (and how right they are!).  For real live actual ass(tromlaogical) ho(roscopular) advice, please visit Our good friend AstroGeek here:  Our Own epistular musings are of use to you only insofar as making you feel better by comparison, but he will give you actual pertinent advice for your very own lives, based on upon the positions and transitations of all manner of planets, planetoids, asteroids, Altoids™, hemorrhoids, and other heavenly flotsam, jetsam, and Jetsons.  Plus, he knows all about Uranus!)
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.