While I usually pay little attention to pseudo-sciences such as Astrology, I must admit to being a bit entertained by one of the local paper’s Sunday Horoscope section. This is not your average Fortune Cookie horoscope; there are no lucky numbers included. The guy who writes the column is something of a goofball, but I can’t stop reading them because they are so bizarre.
We all know that most horoscopes are written such that they could apply to just about anyone; much like a fortune teller at a carnival. But this guy is way off the chart; the astrological chart. I suspect he drinks a little too much Zinfandel wine out of the box.
Now bear with me because I’m going to quote his column for you: Oh – btw, my sign is Capricorn; yes I’m a December baby.
“A neurosis is a secret that you don’t know you are keeping…your assignment is to uncover one of those secrets in yourself. It may not result in an instantaneous cure of your minor personality glitch, but it will be a potent first step that will set in motion a series of healing events. Be brave, Capricorn. I guarantee that any ugliness you might find lodged deep inside you will be entangled with surprising beauty.”
Excuse me? I beg your pardon? Are you talking to me?! I’m a closet neurotic? I have a minor personality glitch? Get out! And I’m supposed to search deeply for that nagging neurosis and do something with it so it turns into a healing event? Have you not heard of the Hadron Supercollider experiments which could conceivably lead to the end of the world and do you fully understand what could happen to the universe if I let out one of my deep, dark secrets? Ahem. Okay. I’ll do it but just because I’m a good sport; not because I have any secret neuroses hidden at all. None. Well, maybe three. But that’s all. Three…and they’re small. Well, two of them are small. One is massive. I’m letting the massive neurosis out of the box…
I detest Oprah Winfrey. There I’ve said it. I’ve kept that hidden deep within me for years now for fear of having the hordes of Opraites stampede my door and demand my head on a platter. I can’t stand to look at her; to listen to her; to see her constantly changing hairdos. Half the time I don’t recognize her – she’s fat, she’s thin, she’s fat, she’s thin. I don”t care to hear about her precious little school on the other side of the world (we love you Mama Oprah) gag (while there are children here in America who could use a hand up). I’m sick to death of her book club picks and refuse to read them. I believe I have better literary sense than she. I don’t give a fat fuzzy rat’s patootie if she hangs out with Stedman or with her BFF Gayle. I could give a hoot what her favorite items are; and, if she endorses a political candidate you can be danged sure I won’t. I detest her magazine O (how original); I abhor her favorite Dr. Phil. She almost sucked me in with Dr. Oz but he’s getting on my last nerve, too, sanctimonious skinny thing. Wait…I need to take a breath…okay now recently she had a major announcement to make and ya know what? She sucked me in and I actually watched this broad stand in front of an audience of vapid women, and she did a fine acting job as she shed a tear and announced she was retiring…in ANOTHER TWO FLIPPIN’ YEARS! Oh for the love of Mike — I was dancin’ around my family room until it dawned on me I was gonna have to put up with her for another season or two before she would actually be gone.
Did I successfully lay bare my soul for you and spew forth that deep-seated neurosis that’s been haunting me for over 20 years? Coz I certainly feel better for having gotten that out of my system finally. Maybe there is something to this astrology stuff — I mean it always worked for Nancy Reagan…