Won’t waste my time reading astrobabble starbollocks, sorry gypsy lady but it just don’t cut the mustard. A theory has gotta hold water or else, shit, it just pisses inconsistency, see? So my objection, my nascent resistance, stems not from a lack of faith in an ancient system revered by many, but rather in the shambolic means in which this system, among others, has been cobbled together from scraps of supposedly irrefutable tracts of knowledge by hucksters and charlatans, shifty-eyed snake-oil merchants with scant regard for anything other than their next pocket full of fool’s gold. An ancient system, yes, and thus conferred that status of being untouchable, unquestionable by virtue of longevity. Hmmm. Age is no fait accompli - if anything, things tend to get less reliable as they get older. Things start to creak – the memory goes, things fall apart, as the man said. Not that I don’t trust wisdom – that’s another tale for another time, but hackneyed chicanery which preys upon the needy, why, that’s just cruel.
Explain the system in plain terms, back it up with cold hard facts, and you’ve an audience rapt. Any less, and you’re no better than a shyster down the used car lot, getting peoples’ hopes up through smoke and mirrors, filler and fibreglass. No better than a property developer, lining his nest with the scalps of the foolhardy, milking the eager and making prospective hay while the market still shines. First off the ship, the rats are. Gutless swines, sure wouldn’t take a chance on their own account, hell no – someone else always pays, no such a thing as a free lunch. Oh, no. Somebody else is always coughing for that bill. Waiter, the blank cheque please, there’s a good man, and make it snappy, we’ve uneasy waters ahead, synoptics are off the chart. No more consistency in the market than there is in the stars, might as well be making the important decisions by divining the insinuations of the varying degrees of iridescence on a bumblebee’s ass.
That’s why we’re in the shit, people – we’ve lost control of the big decisions, we’ve handed the important stuff over to oligarchs who employ glorified soothsayers with no more compunction than a backstreet abortionist. We – and I mean all of us – are too busy listening to the spurious advice of fraudulent fakirs to see the bigger picture. Moribund and lacklustre with the greasy patina of jadedness, we’ve been snookered by operators too smooth for our dulled radars, once so finely tuned, to register.
The sneaky bastards.