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Tuesday, September 23, 2014

You love me for my pink Cadillac

Hello, Ducks!

Starzina Starfish-Browne here with your Eric’s! Daily! Horoscope! for GoodPieRupeeTuesday,  September TwennyTurdst, 2014.

Leapin’ lemurs, it’s Libra!  And not a moment too soon…Virgo was truly wearing Us right the hell out. Is it just Us, or does Uranus always feel out –of-sorts for you during Virgo too?  Also, for the entire month of Virgo, it always feels as though someone is snooping through Our underwear drawer.  And telling people what they find there.  And NOT in a good way.

At any rate, Our Libra video is above, and here is the link with which you may share it with both of your friends:

Happy Birthday, meanwhile, to Joe, who turns twenty-four today, somewhere in the suburbs of The City Of Brotherly Love Handles.

And Happy Belated Birthday to Angela, Butch, Chas, Christina, Paul, Rob, Tyler, and OurAmericanCousin Claudessa, each of whom turned twenty-four somewhere in the past three days.  While it was still Virgo.  And Uranus was catawampus.

(We initially typed that as “cattywumpus”, which is, of course, how it’s pronounced.  Micro$oft Weird™ then informed Us that We had misspelled it, and provided the correct spelling, which you see above, which looks lamentably incorrect.  Who knew that that was actually a real word?  Not We. Live and learn, and lick lemur labia.)


Other things that have Us out of sorts include trying to make a schedule for Our staff at the Murder Mystery Factory…We are pretty sure We need to hire more actors.  So, if you are one, hit Us up.

If you are wondering where We were yesterday (you DID miss Us, didn’t’cha?), We were cooking dinner.  Not for you.  Jealous?

We have a focus group tonight.  Ninety minutes of Us being focused.  Will wonders never cease?


In random news from the WorldWideInterWebNetz:

English is confusing because "booty call" and "butt dial" mean very different things.‏


Condom = “cumbrella”


And heeeeerrrre’s the HorrorScope:

In celebrity birthday news, Bruce Springsteen is sixty-five today.  (Sorry to just blurt that right out like that…hope you didn’t pee your Depends™.) 

Also, somebody called Zach Tyler Eisen is twenty-one.  Not only do We not know who that is, We have panties that are older than that.  (They say “Ye Olde Tuesday” on the front.)

The rest of the year will seem to fly right by, along with a few hundred others, after you're frozen in a giant block of ice.

Despite the efforts of literally hundreds of singers to tell you "let's go," you have yet to actually go.

You'll come face-to-face with many of life's mysteries next week, none bigger than why the Angel of Death looks like a younger, slimmer Roy Clark.

You're not usually the kind of person who cries at weddings, but this one's of a former lover, you're at a strange place in your life, and soot gets in your eyes when the whole church burns down with everyone inside.

It's sad to think that when they tell the story of your life, you'll only be remembered as one of two guys whose most notable achievement was to walk into a bar.

You and a man with no arms will be stuck in an elevator together for three and a half hours, but it'll only take you eight minutes to piss him off with insensitive questions about ass-wiping.

Just when you start to think that you haven't seen the strange men in lab coats for a while, bam, there they are in line with you at Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

After your 17th time around as an underpaid office worker in the late-20th-to-early-21st centuries, you're really starting to become disenchanted with the whole reincarnation thing.

Sometimes you actually hate yourself for going out and drinking until five in the morning, but most times that's just what you tell people.

You'll discover a brilliant legal loophole that will both get rid of that annoying guy at work and force the Department of Justice to serve you any meal you want.

You firmly believe that everything has a soul, which explains why you think your tape dispenser is a bad person.

The jury won't be able to really feel disgust at your habit of eating your murder victims, because, hey, who doesn't love deep-fried food on a stick?

Namaste, MotherFuckers.

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.