“Marty” Brooks's Anti-Astrology Column
This Month (July, 2ØØ1): “They're burning balls of hydrogen, moron!”

Aries (March 21 - April 19): Guess what, doofus?  The stars have exactly zero impact on your personal destiny.  All of the thing that happen to you happen either because you are A. A total idiot, B. Extremely unlucky, or C. A terrible combination thereof.  The sooner you get real comfortable with the fact that wiggling around with star charts and Tarot cards and your dumb hippy friends isn't going to help you the better off you'll be.

Taurus (April 2Ø - May 2Ø): I believe we met at a party, right Taurus?  If I remember correctly you're a total dick.  That being said, the constellations have the following to do with what happens to you this month: NOTHING.  They're burning balls of hydrogen, moron!  They're millions of light years away from Earth!  They don't have ANY impact on whether or not you get to have hot butt sex with that young creature you've been spying on at the coffee shop.  Actually, I can tell you right now, no butt sex for you.  None.

Gemini (May 21 - June 2Ø): OK, let's do the math, Gemini.  Stars are so far away from Earth that astronomers (who are SCIENTISTS, unlike astrologists, who are FUCKHEADS) have to build super-huge antennas and position them on top of mountains far, far away from metropolitan centers so that they have a slim chance of receiving enough electrons to have any idea of what's going on out in space.  Does that make sense to you, Gemini?  A few measly electrons, that's all the astronomers are askin' for!  And you think that the “mystic energy” of the stars somehow shapes your personal destiny?  You so dumb!  If it's so far away the electrons don't even make it to Earth how the FUCK is “mystic energy” supposed to make it?  Get a life.

Cancer (June 21 - July 22): Free crash-course in existentialism, Cancer.  The most basic fact of human reality is that we live in states of perfect freedom.  No matter how pressing the circumstances, we must still make decisions.  Even if we choose not to act, our indecision itself is a decision.  The ethical weight of the world is on every human as they are forced to project values into the world with their decisions.  Why does this matter to you?  Because, you dingus, you try to cop out and blame the goddamn constellations for decisions that YOU MAKE.  The stars didn't make you jack off in the break room at work!  The stars didn't make you buy that Limp Bizkit CD!  It's your fault! 

Leo (July 23 - Aug 22):  So, let me get this straight.  You think that because you're a “Leo” you're aggressive and virile and “commanding?”  What a total asshole!  You can run around bossing people around and showing off your genitalia to kids on the bus all you want, that's just you courting a prison sentence.  The stars didn't have anything to do with it.  In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think all Leos who buy in to their supposed personality archetype should be run over with tractors and left to rot in the hot sun.

Virgo (Aug. 23 - Sept. 22): Sit down, Virgo, and shut up.  Here's another ABSURD fallacy of astrology: everyone born within an arbitrary range of dates all have similar personality traits.  How friggin' dumb is that?  I, “Marty” Brooks, was born on September 9.  Does this mean that every single person on the planet born from August 23 to September 22 shares my love of not putting on pants on weekends?  Does everyone pooped out by their mothers around the same time I was spend their hard-earned dollars on ironic tattoos they will later regret?  Are they all attracted to short-haired sweater-wearers with glasses?  Do they all look at internet porn too much?  YOU TELL ME, Virgo. 

Libra (Sept. 23 - Oct. 22): Here's what I know about you, Libra: Nothing.  You know why?  Because even referring to you as “Libra” is insanely stupid.  There's probably about 5ØØ,ØØØ,ØØØ Libras in the world (or so.)  Chances are very good that some of you will, in fact, meet a “tall dark stranger” this week.  Others will toil in rice paddies and still others will crowd around Osama Bin Laden (who is a bad, bad man in the Michael Jackson sense of the word “Bad”) and think about creative applications of C4 plastique.  HELL…Osama himself might be a Libra.  Here's Osama's horoscope: You will sit around thinking about how little you like America a lot this week.  You will pray to Allah, oh, about five times a day.  You will cultivate your big beard.  You will be convicted of something in absentia.

Scorpio (Oct. 23 - Nov. 21): Scorpios have a special place in my heart because they're supposed to be crazy and (Beastie Boys quote) “very sexual.”  Honestly.  When mothers have Scorpio babies, do they comment on the obvious horniness of their Scorpio infants?   Do Scorpio toddlers buy dildos?  Do we all lose our virginity to lascivious Scorpios?  Actually, I did, come to think of it.  This proves nothing!  Nothing!

Sagittarius (Nov. 22 - Dec. 21):   Hey, fucko the clown, guess what?  When horrible things happen to you this week it won't be because the stars conspire against you.  Chances are good it'll happen because your so-called friends conspired against you.  Either that or you dipshit co-workers and/or your boss conspired against you.  Maybe the person you bone joined in the conspiracy.  Any way you slice it, this week is gonna suck, but it's not the fault of the stars.  Even if no one conspires against you, you'll still manage to fuck it all up just by being dumb.  You'll drink too much Thunderbird with the bums down by the little store off of NE Knott and you'll drive your van into a pole.  You'll get caught stealing office supplies at work.  You'll (ha HA!) swim in the Willamette and die.  Don't blame the stars, though, and don't blame me, shit-for-brains.

Capricorn (Dec. 22 - Jan. 19): Pull on your thinkin' cap and sit your big fat ass down and ponder this, Capricorn: The existence of constellations is predicated entirely on the Earth's position in the galaxy.  We only see the stars arranged in their formations because of our vantage point way out in Butt-Fuck-Egypt, West Arm o' the Milky Way.  The stars that form the amorphous groupings that look NOTHING like hunters or bulls or crabs in the first place aren't even close to each other, they only look like that because we're so damn far away they sort of line up in little boxes that some dickhead Greek decided looked like a pitcher of water.  Hey, I've got an idea for you, Capricorn: GET A JOB.

Aquarius (Jan. 2Ø - Feb. 18): Actually, the stars do affect your destiny, and you're going to die when you choke on someone's cock in prison.

Pisces (Feb. 19 - March 2Ø): Let's take a long, hard look at your life, Pisces.  You either live with your mom or in an apartment with eight total assholes in Northeast (who play in a BAND!) or in your van down by da river.  What are possible methods towards getting out of this dire life situation?  You could consult the stars!  You could find out when opportunity draws nigh and seize the chance to better your position!  You could find out when the stars dictate that your romantic life is waxing and hot, HOT sex is en route!  You know what?  I'm lying, because nothing is going to help you, the stars are just big hot clusters of atoms that don't give a rat's flying fuck about you, and you're going to be in that van until they find your frozen corpse in it and sell the van to a scrap yard.  Up yours, baby!

“Marty” Brooks welcomes comments via his website at kungfuramone.rackm0unt.org