Last Horoscopes Before the End

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  Phew, last horoscopes before the world ends.  Saturday, if we're still around, days will get longer, life will be bright and fun, and everything will be easier.  Am I the only one who hasn't seen Kung Fu Panda?  Should I squeeze that in during these final hours?  Aries, the thing for you to do is stockpile lethal injections.  Someone you love will need it sometime, and it never hurts to be prepared.  You should also sign up for the text message service that will tell you if the Tolt Dam fails.  I'm sorry to start this off on such a grim note, but the world is ending, after all.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  So I made a hat and I have exactly 3.5 stories about it, which is a lot given that I've only had it for a couple weeks.  If I don't come up with any ideas for these horoscopes, we'll probably run through all 3.5, which is a sorry way to go out.  Three and a half stories about a hat.  Rather, Taurus, I'd like to turn your attention to this very precise chart about the stomach flu, which I developed after conducting unfunded independent research here last week.  The point is this:  see if you can stay in the zone of gratefulness as much as possible.

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21): My children have invited me to do some excellent things this week.  R. wants me to go out into the woods with an axe and find something vaguely christmassy, tame it, and bring it inside.  I'm willing, as long as it isn't a holly bush that smells like cat pee.  Or anything that smells like pee of any sort, in fact.  Gemini, have that kind of week.  The kind where you say yes to stuff, and there are no bad smells involved.

Cancer 6/22 – 7/21:  M. also invited me to do something involving an axe, but it's killing old hens. I guess we'll do that as a little family outing on xmas eve, which could sound creepy, but I don't think it is.  Let's hope the axe isn't dull from the first outing, because the Linguist says that the neck of an old hen can be difficult to cut through, which is a bit of a horrible thought.  The whole event is a cross between horrible and a key step in gathering material for writing The Ladies Abridged Guide to Surviving the Apocalypse, which I haven't started yet.  And here the apocalypse is upon us.   Cancer, see if you can get ahead of the curve this week.  Oh, and here's a question:  where are the biographies in the my library?  Can't find.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  Hey, we're already to Leo and no stories about the hat!  Consider yourself lucky.  But I'm sorry, that doesn't leave us with much.  Maybe you could read this article about how to sign e-mail.  So many options, but let's just go back to "From," followed by your name.  I know, it's redundant.  Is  a little redundancy among e-mailers really such a bad thing?

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  I was commenting to R. the other day that the word "smartass" is pretty common, but "funnyass", which is a way better word, is little used.  As in, "that was a funnyass comment about my hat, R."  He was quick to say that you really don't need "ass" after funny, but if you're saying something irritating like, "Well, a broken clock is still right twice a day," then you do need it.  I disagree.  (Not on the broken clock, just on the rest of it.)  Anyway, back to your horoscope, Virgo.  You're practical and diligent, and those are good things, especially all the time.  But for these last days, just relax.  Oh, and should't I see you before the world ends?

Libra (9/23 – 10/22): My daughter has a co-worker who, every day, says, "Hey, if you give me a massage, I'll read the obituaries to you!".  I asked how that's working out, and M. says that the woman is quite good at reading the obits.  We all need something with barter value, I guess.  Me, I will recite King County Code in exchange for massage or pretty much anything.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  Okay, hat story.  I'm sorry.  So I show up to meet a new customer in the field, and he's late, and apologizes, but explains that he was listening to NPR about the new marijuana laws.  "Did you know," he says, 12 seconds after meeting me, "that they put pot in peanut butter now?  Oh, I bet you  already knew that." Right?  I'm not giving off the, "hey, you're in good hands with me, your solid consultant" vibe?  So I tell this story to C., and she's all, "Yeah, were you wearing that hat?"  Which I was.   It goes on from there, but let's wrap up with this:  see if you can get a note from your doctor authorizing whatever it is you want.  Bedrest, high fat diet, whatever.

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  So, remember how I was trying to get a job writing the bottle cap sayings for Redhook, and they declined?  Since then, they've changed bottle caps, and they all just say BH.  Which, it turns out, stands for Ben Harris.  Since I'm a researcher, I have learned that Ben was a Redhook employee killed by shrapnel from an exploding keg.  Which is super sad and unnecessary death, but really, is that what we want to think about every time we crack open a beer?  I think not.  Sagittarius, I know you think it's ridiculous, or possibly the word is ironic, that to solve that problem I've switched over to Dead Guy ale.  But at least it's direct.  Solve some of your own problems today.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  R. comes downstairs this morning and says, "Okay, here's the plan.  I take a shower, and you apply 220 towards starting a fire and making breakfast."   Capricorn, you apply 220 towards everything, so maybe just take a little tiny break.  Light one small candle, or, if you prefer, just curse the darkness.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  So I took my mom to see the Lincoln movie last week, and I invited my uncle along, and all in all it was a pretty good outing.  But I'll say, hands down my favorite part was when my uncle said to my mom, "Wow, we haven't been to a movie together since 1937."  Which turned out to be true.  And the conversation went on from there in interesting directions until the movie started.  Aquarius, go to the movies with your people once in a while.  (Yes, I am your people, in case there was any doubt.)

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  So I was at C & The Linguists the other day, eating my breakfast while they snoozed, and there was a Scholastic book about Galileo on the table that looked interesting.  But Pisces, I don't know how to bring up that I'd like to read it, because it's written at I believe the 4th grade level.  Which might be my level too, but I hesitate to confess that.  Can I say, "Hey, would I be able to borrow that book when your 7 year old is finished with it?"  Or would that destroy what little credibility I have, given the hat and stuff?   Pisces, anyway, this week will be over soon, and next week will be easier, and next month will be even easier.  May it be so.