Gretchen Prunebowel is a library worker facing unemployment thanks to the unjustified persecution by extreme right white wing fringe meanies. I talked to her at her office only the other day. She was sad. I was so sad that I wanted to raise taxes just to make her stop crying. Always active in activist causes, she is one of the prime movers for the installation of needle drop off jugs in library washrooms. As she put it not having a safe place to shoot up in a library is a leading cause of oppression. Especially when she/he/it/whatever is waiting around after a job opportunities seminar to pick her/his/its/whatever kids from the library reading program. But there is more of her good works. She is working to bring in a Toronto bylaw requiring snow blower operators to wear an approved snow blower operator safety helmet when operating a snow blower…

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The Age of Aquarius is upon us. Well, almost. March 12, the transition begins; by April 5, it is over. Where are we now? In the Middle, the Middle. If you are a Capricorn, you should start to laugh, and laugh.

Look at the cockroaches run. You can see fear in their eyes, on television. The big names, the big people, going down, going away. The rich ones are taking their carpet bags of money and heading for their two hundred acre farms. Too bad their money is in Confederate scrip. Fiat currency of the declining power. Mortgage backed paper, municipal bonds unglued by pension shortfalls, and arugula on sale the day before someone takes a geiger counter into the produce department.

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Oh, look at that. Coverage of Godzilla destroying Japan is now mute. That third Arab war of the Third World War is ho hum. No, the main stream media has their focus on the passed Queen of Hollywood, Liz Taylor.

Give it a few days, it will pass. But who is The New Queen? Obviously, it is Madonna. This new queen still has her creative juices, and excels under the guidance of more than one of the Muses. Truly gifted, and with a gift for business, a taste for power, and, now, thunderbolts. Fear Her.

“So, I see here that you are applying for the position of telemarketer…”

I’m not sure what would inspire someone to have a donut implanted in their head, but The Mayor thinks it’s a delicious idea. The little fella on the left looks to have a couple of Tiny Tim’s in his skull, while his lover on the right went for the Canadian Maple donut. Good choices, boys, and thank goodness you aren’t into pizza’s.

The other day as I was taking part in the ribbon cutting ceremony for the new Orange Julius at the Mitchieville Town Center (open Saturday’s until 9 pm for your shopping convenience), when this, what can only be described as an assault on my eyes, waddled her barge up to the counter for her free 2 oz serving of Passionaid Guava Delight Juice. I noticed this quadruped had a ring on her wedding finger. Maybe “ring” is being too generous, as that would never fit. Hulahoop is probably a better word. But I digress. Anyway, she was pretty enough, face wise, but she was a physical wreck body wise.  And it made me wonder whether it is possible to find someone physically attractive while at the same time finding that same person physically repulsive? Does that make sense?

And then I get to this picture. This girl isn’t beautiful by any means, but she sure aint ugly. She’s very medium. But that lebret makes her look positively disgusting (yes, I know, beauty is subjective – blah blah). So, on the one hand, this girl is somewhat physically appealing, while on the other hand she’s a real dirty piece of work.

So I suppose my answer is yes: you can be physically attracted to a person while at the same time be physically disgusted by that same person. I, for some odd reason, want to shoot hockey pucks at her mouth. But that’s The Mayor, he’s one kinky bugger.

You know, a labret is the piercing one gets below their lower lip. Usually it’s a stud piercing. What this girl has done is stretched the hole, and after it got to the size of a silver dollar or so, she stuck a plug in there. And the rest is history. Betcha she has “daddy problems”.

Ya, so there ya go.

“I’ve looked over your resume, Spike, and I have to say you are exceptionally qualified for this job. You not only meet, but you exceed any expectation we could possibly have of you. It seems that you an absolutely perfect fit for our company. The only problem I see, and I think it could possibly hinder your work, is that giant, gaping hole you have in the side of your head”.

“Ah yes, the giant, gaping hole. Perhaps i can wear a hat while I work”.

“You are a solutions man, Spike, welcome to Little Tykes Daycare. You start first thing Monday morning at 7″.

It is very unusual for me to be this angry. Normally, I am filled with peace, and contentment. No, I am a boiling pot of water, looking to splash on your hands. Where is my peace? Someone has made war upon my tranquility. That someone is political correctness.

In my impressionable youth, when I was a charge in the care of the many, highly paid, education professionals of the Toronto District Board of Education, astrology was taught to my class. All of the grades in my elementary school had a module or two. It even found it’s way into one of the school plays.

Some parents complained. Teaching astrology in school was an affront to majority Christian culture of those times. But the activists just ignored the wishes of their masters, called them names, and carried on. And so, I was a pawn in the schemes of the activists: in their plot to undermine Christianity by introducing competing religions, doubt, materialism, and mummery. Astrology was one of those tools.

Hippies were big on astrology. Astrology was good to hippies. Hippies, they got what they wanted. They got high paying, low effort jobs, with pensions, and that rich creamy goodness feeling that comes from being holier than thou. Great, hippies. So, where is my cut? I did what the hippies wanted: Astrology was used to undermine Christianity. So where is my part of the spoils?

I need a better job. So where are all the high paying staff astrologer positions? They have stupid hippy human resources departments. Useless wasters of oxygen, only good for food in a Viking winter. Those hippies got jobs. Where is my job? Now, when I call up hippy places, like the government, academia, social services, whatever, I get laughed at when I suggest that maybe the activist judge needs a staff astrologer. I have been used by the hippies. I have been cheated.

I was so angry, that I gave my girlfriend a black eye. Sonjia DeSade, I must admit, likes it rough. Underneath those latex catsuits she wears, she is bruised. But this time, when I hit her that special way that raises up a beautiful bruise, I was not thinking about the intense sex to come, but of how it felt to take out my anger on another human. It felt good. But it will feel better when I unleash my focused anger at the swine who lied and cheated me. I was in the coalition … where is my ministry?

Now, I am powerless in the ways of the world. I have no armies, no police, no parking enforcement, no taxation department. Not me. I am just an angry astrologer, struggling to make ends meet, cut off from the jobs reserved for incompetents, dullards, and oral-rectal place holders. I will just have to make do with what I have.

Hmmm. I have some older works on necromancy down in the basement. On the bookshelf beside the freezer. I wonder what I can cook up?

What a great way for the children of oppression to strike back at evil capitalism. I predict that these will be coming to Toronto, hmmm, soon. Given the lack of enthusiasm for the main stream media in reporting things that make their fringe leftist cousins and sex partners in academia, socialist social services, and government look bad, your first exposure to these just might be when you are caught up in one.

Again, putting things into perspective is impossible for some people, but if they would just get a grip and look at how amazing this world, and in particular how amazing we have it in the west, they wouldn’t say idiotic things like, “economic conditions are worse now than they were in the 30’s.”

As The Mayor has always contended, we have the worlds richest poor.

What’s even more disturbing than this picture is the fact that I have so many pictures of creatures like this that I found it really hard to choose which one I was going to use today. I ended up picking the one that will haunt your dreams for eternity. I’m just going to end this post right now and back up from the monitor very, very slowly. No sudden movements…

This is not how I want the Manager of Chucky Cheese to look. The saving grace here is that Mung has gone full hog and gotten every single modification a human (debatable, I know) could get. This means that if you ever got into a fight with Mung, all you would have to do to win is to pull on those monster ring ears of his, or squish his horns into his skull, put your hand through his nose and pull, or push the beads back into his face. Mind you, to do that would mean you would have to actually touch him. And truth be told, I’m not sure anyone should ever touch Mung.