He sees you when you’re sleeping; he knows when you are naked

Hello, Ducks!

Starzina Starfish-Browne here with your Eric’s! Daily! Horoscope! for Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday night’s alright, December 29, 2012.  Happy Birthday to Justin, who turns twenty-four today right here in The City That Loves you (On Your) Back, aka The City Of Brotherly Love Handles.  It is unclear to Us at this juncture, but We may actually lay Our two eyes upon said Justin later in the day, which is not something We can often say about those whom We are wishing well on the occasion of their twenty-fourth birthday.

So, at any rate home is the tailor, home from the tea.  Whatever the fuck THAT means.  Who the hell keeps using these meaningless old sayings, anyway?  It’s not like anybody actually READS, fercrissakes.

Meanwhile, when last We spoke (in depth, anyway (because We are NOTHING if not deep (not real meaningful, but REAL deep))), We were anticipating The Apocalypse.  Which turned out to be not all it was cracked up to be. (Speaking of old sayings, there’s one that has certainly altered its meaning over the years: “cracked up”.  Heh.)

We trust you will forgive Us if We seem to be dithering.  For one thing, We are happy to be typing this on a computer that does at least SOME of what We tell it to do.  And (B.), We are debating going out to run Our daily errands before the blizzard begins.  So if a big long pause happens here, you’ll know that’s what We did.

So did you miss Us?  We did in fact go out to the outside world.  Of course, it took Us so long to make Ourselves presentable enough to do so that the snow had already started by the time We did.  On the plus side, nothing was laying yet.   Which should come as no surprise to anyone who knows Us.  Why, if We would just stay outside for the duration of the blizzard, We could probably prevent ALL the snow from getting laid, as well as Our Own Self.

And now, as many of Our recent e-pisstles have, of necessity, been rather rushed, or e-ncore presentations (as an aside, We were given to wondering on a recent train trip why they had “egads” prior to The Electronic Age.  Shouldn’t they have just been “gads”, which were ultimately replaced by “e-gads”?   (Vacation time shares are still available in Our mind for the months of January and February.)), We intend to wax loquacious on a topic of recent interest to Us all: The Holidays.

(Parenthetically (hence the parentheses), the phrase “wax a loquacious carrot” just leapt unbidden into what passes for Our mind, and We thought We’d Cher.)

Now, lettuce be clear.  Contrary to what Faux News would have you believe, We don’t think there is any War On Christmas.  Christmas is alive and kicking, and looks like it will be so for quite some time.  Naturally, We say “Happy Holidays” just like the next person, but We start saying it at Thanksgiving (which is, you will notice, a holiday), when One would sound like a complete idiot if One said “Merry Christmas”, and We continue saying it all through Hanukkah, when it would be rude to say “Merry Christmas”, because Christmas hasn’t come yet (neither have We, but that’s a digression of another color), but Hanukkah has.   And, quite frankly, We have no idea when the fuck Kwaaaanzaaa even is (or, clearly, how to spell it), but just in case, We’re covered there too.

And what about the phrase itself?  “Merry Christmas”…really?  You wish for Us to be merry for one day, while, when We say “Happy Holidays”, We are wishing for you to be happy beginning at Thanksgiving and lasting all the way through The Feast Of The Epiphany (or, at a stretch, Martin Luther King Day, if you procrastinate about taking your tree down).    And who even says “merry”, anyway?

All that said, however, We would like to address a simple assault on Christmas, which is becoming more and more prevalent in this E-gads E-lectronic A-ge.   Somehow, it is becoming socially acceptable for wannabe hipsters to take to their keyboards and spew endless screeds under the subject line “I Hate Christmas”, in the course of which they slyly mock those of Us who do not:  “Oh?  Do you really still send cards/put up a tree/roast a goose/dress up like the Grinch and deflower a virgin?  I didn’t think anyone did that anymore.  It’s so…Dickensian.” (Okay, We just put that “Grinch/virgin” part in there to see if you were paying attention.)

Now, the “I Hate Christmas” people seem to come in two varieties.  The first are those who think the whole thing is just too much work.  For this lot, We hold out hope, as it is indeed not possible in this day and age to have a real tree with lighted candles, roast goose and boiled turkey for a sit-down family dinner for thirty-seven, homemade presents for every member of said family, wine from one’s own vineyard, and snow on the lawn to order through which one drives in a one-horse open sleigh, whatever the hell that may be, to Midnight Mass.  In fact, it probably never was, except possibly for Queen Victoria.

But Christmas, like everything else, is a thing that evolves and changes with the changing times. Once One convinces these people that they can pick and choose among the traditions (preferably after plying them with some wine from One’s Own vineyard), they will generally come around.

The other “I Hate Christmas” group is much more troublesome and, dare We say, hopeless.   When THEY say “I hate Christmas”, what they mean is, “No one will kowtow to my every whim and vague notion of how this holiday should be, not only for the day itself, but for the twelve days surrounding it.”  This lot is generally best avoided for the entire holiday season (and, in fact, for every other month of the year).  Because guess what, monkey butt?  Unless you are a four-year-old only child (and not necessarily even then), there is no one who feels that his or her primary job is to make sure YOU have a happy Christmas, especially at the expense of his or her own.

Now, We would like to say that We were about to tie this topic up with some neat little philosophical bow, in which We expound upon Seven Steps To Loving Christmas And Having A Happy Holiday Season.  But surely you know Us better than that.  So all We have to say is, next year, if you hate Christmas?  Shut yer fuckin’ fruitcakehole and stop pooping in the punchbowl of those of Us who do not.

KThxBye.

Here is the link with which you may share Our Starzina’s Time of the Month Horoscope: CAPRICORN video with your friends:

http://youtu.be/m3Aa_X_HoVM        

 

We have no time to cope with Kelli’s ass(tromalogical) ho(roscopulations), as We have ablutions to perform, presents to wrap, and wassailing to come a-.  TCBITWWW is comin’ to town! So here are

 

(Your Your-O-Scopes:

 

http://www.humorscope.com)

 

(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://agskylab.blogspot.com/.  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.

                                                                                                                                    

Making movies on location

Greetings, Euthanasia Really Isn’t Chinese---


Here is your horoscope for Friday, February 12, 2010 (Happy Abraham Lincoln’s Actual Birthday. And Happy Beginning Of The VD Weekend: May all your chancres be pustulent, and your discharges scalding. And Happy Presidents Day, although We’re sure We’ll see you again before then. What a jam-packed, fun-filled holiday weekend! Now if someone would just deliver the mail and take away the trash, We’d be good to go.):


(Speedy recover to Our cousin Chris, who is having surgery today to repair his injured driving finger. (“Driving finger” being, of course, the middle finger of One’s left hand, the left hand being the one that goes out the window when One is driving.))


(It was, of course, Lily Tomlin who said (We paraphrase) that humans invented language because of their deep need to complain. (And, parenthetically (hence the parentheses), if there’s a job out there that requires complaining raised to an art form, sign Us up.) It was We, however, who, in addition to We-We-We-ing all the way home, said that humans invented SitOnMyFaceBook so they could look up people who had dumped them years ago and find out that they were now fat and in relationships with ugly people.)


(Not, of course, that this happened to Us this very morning. And not, of course, that We’re gloating about it.)


(If you are still stuck on “We-We-We-ing all the way home”, perhaps you’re not ready to be a full-fledged Eric’s Daily Horoscope reader. But you’re in luck! Any day now, We shall be launching Eric’s Daily Horoscope Junior, for children 8 years old and up. (We’re stopping right here, because, seriously, We just thought of that joke as We were typing it, so that’s really all there is. But really…would the junior high school set love Us, or what?))


(Meanwhile, on Eric’s Dream Channel last night (which bears no relation whatsoever to Barbie’s Dream House), the dream that We can remember involved Us getting on a plane. As We went through the door to the plane, We pulled a half-empty two-liter bottle of Diet Coke™ out of Our garment bag and handed it to the stewardess, saying, “I can’t take this on the plane, can I?” Because Our dreams apparently have product placement now.)

(There are those, no doubt, who will object to Our use of the word “stewardess”, blah-blah-blah sexist, blah-blah-blah “flight attendant”. We are here to tell you that, if We got all the way to the door of the plane with a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke™, We are clearly back in the day when the term “stewardess” flourished. Also, the soda probably had cyclamates in it, and you’re lucky We didn’t say Tab™.)


(We took Our seat in the plane, which, speaking of back in the day, was oddly decorated with faux wood paneling and royal blue shag carpeting. It was also very sparsely populated with other passengers, each of whom had at least several rows of seats to themselves, as did We. We began perusing the WorldWideInterWebNetz on some device which We can only presume was an iPad, which was peculiar, because We’ve never even seen an iPad in real life (We still have a StupidPhone…that is the correct term for precursors to SmartPhones, yes?). At any rate, the device was larger than a phone, and had no keyboard, and We were perusing a message board We belong to, to the point of reading a message from someone whose username We recognized, talking about how a rather significant birthday had “snuck up on her”. The stewardess at this point served Us a cup of boiling hot coffee, which kept spilling all over Our right hand (and the royal blue shag carpet) as We perused the InterNetz with Our left, because the plane was now taxiing all over the streets of Philadelphia. Which, in Our estimation, was not getting Us any closer to Our destination of Los Angeles. In addition, it occurred to Us that We had never alerted TCBITWWW that We were coming, nor had We made any arrangements for accommodations or being picked up at the airport. Oddly, Our InterNetz-Perusal Device seemed to be read-only, so We were unable to use it to do any of these things.)


(There was also a subplot involving a rich invalid in a wheelchair, with a nurse, who had a private room (!) on the plane, but enough about stupid dreams. We never did get to LA; in fact, the stupid plane never left the streets of Philadelphia. Sigh.)


(That was one of those stories that seemed to have much more of a point when We started telling it. Speaking of pointy things, the WaitStaff’s post-VD sketch comedy show Desperate and Dateless plays for one night only at the World Café Live at 7:30 on Friday, February 19th, and you can buy your tickets here: http://tickets.worldcafelive.com/eventperformances.asp?evt=3418 .)


(Did he just say “speaking of pointy things”?)


You could get into an unnecessary battle over a minor issue today as your key planet Mars stays busy rubbing unyielding Pluto the wrong way. (“Rubbing Unyielding Pluto” was, of course, Our nickname in high school.)



Everything might appear to be going along fine (Oh, please. We don’t even get the illusion of “fine”. Our world, and welcome to it.)



until all of a sudden major parts start to fall apart. (Speaking of falling apart, if today’s horoscope seems a little short, it’s because every Ass(tromalogical) Ho(roscopular) site We went to decided to freeze up on Us when Our pop-up blocker started to block pop-ups. We’re not even sure whose prognostications are prognosticating prognosticationally on Us this morning. It’s a jungle out there, and you know what They say: don’t be the bunny.)



(That’s from Urinetown: The Musical. For those who were wondering. And, for those who weren’t wondering, just be grateful We didn’t do the “how much wood would a woodchuck chuck” thing with that pop-up blocker bit back there. You’re welcome.)



Don't panic; (Oh, go stick your head in a pig.)


(Micro$oft Weird™ has stuck a blue squiggly line under “go” in the preceding sentence. Which should mean that it thinks We have chosen Our word incorrectly. However, if it thinks that, it should have a word in mind that We should have used, yes? So when We click on the squiggly blue line, it should tell Us what that word is, instead of coming up with no suggestions, because otherwise, why is it annoying Us with its fu(king squiggly blue line that goes nowhere?)


(We can only imagine that it would prefer “Oh, do stick your head in a pig” (and, in fact, it doesn’t blue-squiggly-line that sentence at all, but (A.) why doesn’t it just say so, and (2.) that sounds awfully prissy and British for Our Own Personal Self.)



just keep returning to the basics and try to simplify your life. (One Uzi, one belltower. Simple.)



(YOUR-O-Scopes:


http://www.humorscope.com


Reach out and cowgrass someone.)