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Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Just Two Men Who Do Si Do

Just Two Men Who Do Si Do

Hello, Ducks!

Starzina Starfish-Browne here with your Eric’s! Daily! Horoscope! for  GoodPieRupeeTuesday, HookahDanangAniméAnew, VenuesChainsWithBenVereen’sNudeLegs, StiltLimeGunnerMitchWho?, May 21th, 2013.  It has come to Our attention that some Gentle Readers may be flummoxed by Our “Tuesday’s child is Jacques Cousteau” verse of late.  Here is a helpful hint:  begin singing at “GoodPieRupeeTuesday”, then continue singing throughout.  You will be amazed, astonished, agog, and aghast.  You’re welcome.

Happy Birthday, meanwhile, to John, who turns twenty-four somewhere or another that We’re going to have to look up…California.  Why We did not know that off the top of Our head, We have no idea.  Also, Happy Belated Victoria Day to all of Our Gentle Readers named Victoria.

We would ask if you missed Us, but We are already painfully aware of Our sound-of-one-hand-clapping-erasers status with YouPeople.  We were too busy yesterday with A Serious Writing Assignment to find time to pen an e-pissode of this frivolity.  Today, We shall be attempting to sell someone on said Serious Writing Assignment.  Also eating meatball sandwiches.  This, apparently, is why We have arisen at the crack of @ss.

Long-term Eric’s!Daily!Horoscope! readers are no doubt imagining “eating meatball sandwiches” to be some sort of perverse euphemism.  Alas (also alack), it means nothing more than the consumption of sandwiches containing meatballs.  For lunch. Sigh.

On the plus side, the aforementioned meatballs are homemade.  On the plus siZe, Our ass.

And now the HorrorScopes:

Speaking of meatballs, it is Jeffrey Dahmer’s birthday.  As if things weren’t already weird enough.

You have to let go of a personal issue for the day (It’s not a personal hygiene issue, is it?  Because We already have that Not So Fresh Feeling, and we haven’t even eaten any meatballs yet.)

(Is it just Us, or does this “meatball eating” business sound dirtier every time We say it?)

— even if it feels totally vital! (Everything feels totally more vital when you stick a random exclamation point after it!  AssHat!)

Things just aren’t looking good for someone close to you, (What things specifically are they looking at?)

and their needs have to come first for the time being. (Have a meatball!)

You are awfully good at taking care of yourself  (We ARE!  We can wipe Our Own ass and everything.)

(What the fuck is this dizzy cow talking about?)

— but have you been overdoing it just a little bit lately? (Overdoing taking care of Ourself?  As in, taking too good care of Ourself?  So We should just let Ourself go a little, is what you’re saying?)

Be brutally honest with yourself today, (Liar, liar, muumuu on fire.)

 and the answer just might be ‘yes’. (Which would be lovely, if We had any earthly idea what the question was.)

You need to deter your selfish urges and think of other people first for a little while (Indeed.  So, speaking of other people, what can other people do for Us?)

— if for no other reason than to put some more positive points into your karma account.  (Otherwise, Our mouth might write a karma check that Our ass can’t cash.  Also, karma karma karma karma karma chameleon.)

You can start small (Small?  Honey, that ship has sailed.)

— hold the door for someone. (Alternatively, hold the phone.  Or, hold your horses.  Or, William Holden.)

Pay the toll for the car behind you. (That’s no car, that’s Our ass.  Now you’ve hurt Our feelings.)

Little things mean a lot. (Also, lottle things mean a lit.  And, Lotte Lenya.)

Your social graces are astounding.  (That’s certainly one word for them.)

You know exactly what to put out there and what to play close to your chest.  (It’s like the Kenny Rogers song:  You gotta know William Holden, know Barbara Feldon, know when Anne Hathaway, not Nora Dunn.)

(Oh, is that stuck in your head now?  Too bad, so sad, anal sex with your dad.)

It’s part of what makes you so appealing. (That, and Our meatballs.)

A certain someone finds your sense of discretion most intriguing. (If you put “in bed” at the end of that, it sounds just like a Chinese fortune cookie.  (As opposed, We suppose, to a Lithuanian fortune cookie.))

In gaseousness,

Starzina Starfish-Browne

(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.