Horoscopes – Issue #75

THIS MONTH: Skullbeard and Dr. Ian Super

Traveling back in time, Skullbeard and Dr. Ian Super engaged in 3D chess around the primordial ooze that was to become Man.  Finding no solace in the game, they decided that they would instead bless the readers of ION with more stunningly accurate horoscopes. Through consultation with stars and scrolls they give you this gift.

ARIES: Good news!  It’s football season!  Not impressed?  Well I’m making bacon chip nachos!  That’s nachos with bacon chips instead of tortilla chips. Excited now? No? Ok just come over, I’ll give you an H.J. I just hate drinking alone.

CAPRICORN: Tyler the Creator called.  Your future may well be more odd than his. You will most certainly usher in a new era of chillwave electro featuring Usher and Nepalese throat singing. Stay hydrated, and get some Buckley’s.

LEO: Those Zubaz pants make your package look seriously big. Seriously. And your muscles too. I see you this winter, jeanin’ it at the ski hill, Oakley Razors, Hornets jacket in the wind. I’m pretty sure you’re drunk. Side note, do you know where you can get a decent pair of Jams?

SAGITTARIUS:  Well, despite your best intentions, your nickname “Pontoon” has stuck. No matter what you do, this moniker will follow you around until the end of your days. Lose the weight, no change. Get surgery, nothing’s happening. Don’t get down on yourself though, you bring happiness to everyone you see. Try seeing a frown on the face of anyone who has just shouted “Pontooooooooon” from across the street.

GEMINI: When you run you sweat like Patrick Ewing; pit stains that touch at the tits. So don’t sweat anywhere near me or anywhere near my kid because he can smell that shit coming and he knows what you do when you’re alone at night. PlentyOfFish is your only hope.

SCORPIO: Your ruling planet is approaching A BLACK HOLE.  Hit the breaks! Full stop! As a matter of fact, grab vast quantities of Pep ‘N’ Cheds, licorice ropes, and non-biodegradable food stuffs and stay under your bed.  DO NOT peek out under the covers! When shit’s cool I swear that we’ll get a hold of you.  DO THIS NOW!!!

PISCES: I see you’ve moved to the city!  That’s cool, but when you lived here there’s no fucking way you would have worn a bowtie. Seriously, your dad wants it back and it better not have crotch stains on it.  You used to be into pro sports and didn’t care about hand me downs, now you’re all tweed jacket on Facebook and Twitter.

VIRGO: Don’t let ‘em tell you croquet isn’t a real sport. It is. Especially the way you play; all wind sprints and squat thrusts. So what if there’s no national team that you can rep, the WNBA exists and look at the muck.  Don’t give up on your dream, even if your dream is giving up on shit.

LIBRA: You know what? Rebecca Black hates you too. I’m serious. If she sees you this month, that bitch will drop kick you in the face, rip off your arms and beat you with them. Then she’ll leave you to bleed-out. Just like that. It’s Friday, bitch.

TAURUS:  Ok you’re a deep dish; a real hit in Chicago.  But don’t get too big for your britches. Pizza the Hut… was found dead in his car… he ate… himself… to death.  So don’t forget your roots, and I don’t mean a red Gatsby cap.  Seriously girl, I would have bought you all the Arby’s in the world.

CANCER:  Oh baby!!!  Your mouth breathing is totally working for you.  Your ball sweat cures cancer (that’s you!)  If you’re a woman and you drink your own breast milk, you become a neutron star!  Don’t hesitate! Drop that R-bomb!  (“R” for “can i haz a rub n tug?”)

AQUARIUS:  Hmm, your feng shui is unraveling.  A backyard wiz is not a fountain, and you’re not even Chinese.  If you were, you could at least do the math: there’s no money in softcore… unless it involves vampires for some reason.

OPHIUCHUS: The tests came back: negaffirmative. We need to talk. Don’t make me re-mail you the directions!  I sent them already.  In fact, don’t come.