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Thursday, December 4, 2014

Time passages






Hello, Ducks!




Starzina Starfish-Browne here with your Eric’s! Daily! Horoscope! for Friday’s Eve (for that “not-so-fresh” feeling),  December Fourst, 2014.



Happy Birthday to Our Sistah Ovella, who turns twenty-four today.  We had fired up Our celebrity birthday website to see who else was born on her special day, when suddenly and without warning the words “Wink Martindale” appeared and gave Us the feeling of déjà vu all over again. The next thing We knew, We were tiptoeing through the tulips of December Fourst e-pissodes of Eric’s!Daily!Horoscope! past, and had fallen down the rabbit hole of meta-meta-metanalysis.  Not unlike Alice’s Restaurant Doesn’t Live Here Any More Through The Looking Glass Menagerie.



(Some days, Our litter-hairiness completely astounds even Us.  (This is not one of those days.))




You are going to have to bear with Us, as We are going to share some blasts from the past here, without benefit of Way Back Machine Sound Effects…



Turns out that, on Our Sistah Ovella’s birthday last year, We said this:



Happy Birthday to Our Sistah Ovella, who turns twenty-four today over in Camden, New Jersey.  Where they made up “soup in a can”.  And not a moment too soon, neither, as people were getting real tired of the previous concept, “pocketfuls of soup”.



We were about to point out, all excitedly, Our newly-learned fact that Our Sistah Ovella shares a birthday with Wink Martindale.  Turns out, We had newly-learned that self-same fact last year, and apparently, promptly forgot it.  Sometimes it seems as though Our senility has Alzheimer’s disease.



You put your brain cells in, you put your brain cells out, you put your brain cells in, and you shake ‘em all about.  You do the…



What’s that dance called again?




Before We move on, here is the previous year’s Ovella birthday greeting, as referenced above:




Happy Birthday to Our Sistah Ovella, who turns twenty-four today.  (It occurs to Us this morning, for the very first time, actually, that mayhaps We should stop revealing people’s ages in these e-pisstles.  What if, for example, you are actually acquainted with Our Sistah Ovella, and you wish her a happy birthday.  Whereupon she, in a sudden fit of coy, says, “Guess how old I am.”  If you blurt out “Twenty-four!”, it will be just as though you had peed in her coy pond.)



That was a long way to go for that coy pond joke.  The things We do for YouPeople.



WHHHAAAAATTTT???  Not only Our Sistah Ovella’s birthday, but also Wink Martindale’s?!?  What time is the parade?



Okay, so that’s 2013 in blue, and 2012 in green.  Here is the 2011 e-ntry for good measure, as it will become germane momentarily:




Happy birthday to Blair, who turns twenty-four today all the way across the state in La Pittsburgh.  And happy birthday in advance to Our Sistah Ovella, who turns twenty-four this weekend, and who used to have a bevy of Blairs all her very own. 

(Can there be any question that “bevy” is the correct collective noun for Blairs?  Much as geese come in gaggles (and, presumably, in other geese) and crows come in murders (and, presumably, in other crows), Blairs clearly come in bevies (and, presumably…well, you know).  Drove my bevy to the levee in my Chevy, and all that.




(We would like to point out at this juncture that, although Our specific Blair and, indeed, Our Sistah Ovella’s Blairs are male, the pixturing of the Blairs doing themselves is an all-purpose fantasy, as the original Blair-ness of Our Sistah Ovella’s Blairs, most of whom were not actually named Blair, was based on her rooming with them at school and was a reference to the female Blair on The Facts of Life, in which Ovella’s roommates were dubbed Blairs because they were most assuredly not Jos, Natalies, or Tooties. (It occurs to Us, parenthetically (hence the parentheses) that the plural “Tooties” is even stupider than the singular.) Our Own Personal Blair, who IS actually named Blair, is also most assuredly not a Jo, a Natalie, or a Tootie.)



(Aren’t you glad We cleared that all up for you?)



(Orange you glad We didn’t say banana?)
)



As We are all twenty-four now, We would have been twenty-one that year, so We can’t go back any further, lest We be accused of corrupting the morays of a miner.  (When an eel bites your heel while it’s copping a feel, that’s a moray…)



Before leaving the subject of Blair and the Blairs  entirely (doesn’t that sound just like a 50s a capella group?  Or would that be Blair and the Blairettes?), faithful non-naked-skimmer Gentle Readers are no doubt wondering if We ever received Our sext from Blair, now in Colorado.  As We have not, here is this blast from some year past, with an embedded blast from the past to confuse things even more:



So, hot on the heels of Picturing Allen And Kevin Naked Week and Picturing Peter’s Peter Week, despite the disaster that was Picturing Bryan’s Birthday Suit Week (from which you really would have thought We’d have learned Our lesson), We bring you Picturing Blair In The Buff Week.



Now, as Blair once resided here at Casa de Crackpot with Us and HimSelf, propriety forbids Us from saying whether We’ve actually ever seen Blair In The Buff or not. However, what follows is a description of one of the previous weeks, and, as no one has ever claimed the prize in question, all of the rules still apply:



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In other news, Picturing Peter’s Peter Week continues apace, and continues to include, presumably, Picturing Peter’s Pubic Hair, unless there’s been some sort of bizarre manscaping incident. We did in fact ask Peter for his nom de pubes, so We could report back to Our Gentle Readers, but We as yet have had no word on what, if anything, Peter has named his pubic hair. More on this story as it (ahem) develops.


It occurs to Us that, unlike the previous Picturing Allen And Kevin Naked Week, in which We have previously peeped at the penii at hand (as it were), Picturing Peter’s Peter Week is a completely different exercise, involving, as it does, one hundred percent imagination, and absolutely zero sense memory.  So if Allen or Kevin, say, were (subjunctively) to sext Us (as the kidz say) a private parts picture, per se, (“per se” didn’t really make sense there, but We were waxing poetic (although perhaps We shouldn’t say “waxing” so close to Allen and Kevin’s private parts)), those would be previously peeped penis pixtures, whereas (seriously?  How literate are We?) if Peter sexted Us a private peter picture, that would be a Peter’s penis picture premiere.


Meanwhile, lest you three gentlemen think this is all just random fun at your expense, the first one of you to send Us a private parts pixture (via phone, email, or SitOnMyFaceBook message) will receive a prize via return mail.  (And no, by “prize”, We do NOT mean a pixture of Our Own private parts.)



And, in case you were wondering, gentlemen, that PRIZE has yet to be claimed.  So fire up those cameraphones and Make. Our. Day.  (You’re picturing Clint Eastwood dressed up as Starzina now, aren’t you?  And this entertainment is ALL FREE.)

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Competley unrelated to Blairs, penises, Blairs’ penises, and Our Sistah Ovella’s Wink Martindales, We had this to say about Holidailies™:




We have been perusing the avalanche of entries over at Holidailies™ (http://www.holidailies.org/ ).  Holidailies™, in case you have been nakedly skimming, is a portal/porthole/piehole where a gaggle/bevy/murder of bloggers all commit to posting daily blog entries for the entire month of December.  Said entries are listed in the order in which they were posted, accompanied by a short excerpt or summary.  For which, quite frankly, Thank Gawd, because said excerpts or summaries have allowed Us and Our short attention span to pick and choose, as We could not possibly read every contribution.




Turns out, these Holidaily™ people?  Write Things That Have A Point.  Which would, at first blush, seem to make Us a whore of another color.  Long-time Eric’s!Daily!Horoscope! readers, however, will recall that We DO have an overall point, which is to make YouPeople feel better (or, sometimes, saner) by comparison.  You’re welcome.




We wrote the preceding paragraph specifically to be Our excerpt for today.  We are especially proud because said excerpt has to be sixty or fewer words, and We came in under without having to edit at all. (This entire experience is getting way too meta for Us.  Is One still writing if One is writing about writing? If Helen Keller falls down in a forest, is there sound?)





Also, We recently very nearly recreated this entire screed, which We had done so much better the first time:




… We are about to embark on a short screed which (A.) has an actual point and (2.) is quasi-serious.  Also, it has nothing to do with dick.  (You’re shocked, We can tell.)







Here We go:


So We have learned, in Our twenty-four years on this little blue globe of Ours, that people have difficulty coping with unsolicited niceness.  And, this being the time of year (supposedly) when there will be more of said niceness than usual, We thought We’d offer a little insight.




Now, We’re not talking about the sort of one-off nicenesses that happen naturally in the course of everyday life.  (Although We ARE, parenthetically (hence the parentheses), concerned that, while Micro$oft Weird™ acknowledges the existence of a singular “niceness”, it refuses to allow for the existence of any MORE “nicenesses”.  Sigh.)  Anyone who’s not a complete barbarian knows that, if someone, say, holds the door for you, you say “thank you”.  If someone buys you coffee today, you say “thank you” and buy them coffee tomorrow.




But what about an ongoing campaign of niceness involving time and effort on the part of the nicer?  (For the purposes of this discussion,  We shall assume that the nicer is not incurring any financial expenses in the course of said campaign, as fiscal inequality is not a wicket into which We wish to stick it.)




(You did all get that We are now identifying the two people involved in this transaction as “the nicer (nice-er)” and “the nicee (nice-ee)”, right?)




As the nicee, you might be unable or unwilling to reciprocate.  You might even suspect the nicer of having (dun-dun-dun) ulterior motives.  And you might even be right.




But guess what?  While you are by no means obligated to give in to whatever the ulterior motives may be, or to reciprocate, or even to say “thank you” (although that last is stretching a point), you really MUST acknowledge that a niceness is happening.



Why, you ask?



Because the nicer might JUST be a person who does nice things.  And, if those nice things are not acknowledged, he or she might be just a little less likely to do them next time.



Which means that, by failing to at least acknowledge the nice things, you could be cheating some future recipient out of nicenesses.




Meanie.



Now please note that “acknowledgement” can consist of (and Our Southern Gentle Readers will understand this best) as little as the simple phrase “bless your heart”, but still, acknowledgement there must be.



(Meanwhile, “meanie” isn’t a word?  The hell?!?)




Okay, We’re done time-travelling.




Speaking of birthdays, (and of Prince Harry’s birthday suit (as One does)) , We have leapt recently into Sagittarius, Our video for which is above.  (If We had Our finger on Our ephemeris We could tell you exactly when.  (Dirty-minded Gentle Readers with limited vocabularies just went scurrying off to Google “ephemeris” on Wikipedia.  Quests for knowledge are HAWTT.))
Here is the link with which you may share Our Sagittarius video with both of your friends:   http://youtu.be/6f1m5GLfk1Y  





And here, for your further edification, is Our very first Sagittarius video:







Moving on, didja know that We have been e-pisstling e-pissodes of these e-pisstles in one form or another since 2001?  And that the earliest dead-tree archival records from 2004 are now TEN YEARS OLD, and can be found (for a small fee) here: http://www.lulu.com/shop/eric-singel/erics-daily-horoscope-2004/paperback/product-300894.html  ? 



Thank Gawd We didn’t stray from the point.



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In celebrity birthday news, Our Sistah Ovella was apparently also born on the same day as Our future ex-husband Aiden Grimshaw.  Go ahead and Google him on Wikipedia; We’ll wait.





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:  http://sett.com/astrogeek895/.  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!)

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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.