Gemini (May 22 – June 21)
Your new apartment is troublingly compact—not enough room to swing a cat in! That’s a problem, Gemmy; the Hoboken Cat-Swinging semifinals are Thursday and you are way behind on your preparatory cat-swinging regimen.
Cancer (June 22 – July 22)
One must strive never to gild the lily.
Chrysanthemums, however, are another matter entirely.
Leo (July 23 – August 22)
Having lost the stomach for animal sacrifice, you begin replacing live goats, cows, etc. with stuffed versions thereof. Despite the purity of your motives, local children suddenly discover Mortality when they find a cotton goat’s head, severed from its fluffy torso. So far, so great! Next step is to shiv a plausible wax figure of Santa during neighborhood caroling. You’ll have taught the tykes two important lessons: life is brutal and so are the hobbies of lunatics.
Virgo (August 23 – September 23)
A special deal for Virgos, good from now until the Great Quincunx That Lenny Foretold: enter to win a set of elegant collectible figurines of Trop’s editorial staff — including Tom Dibblee in both “business casual” and “spaceman”! Simply collect 12 box-tops, two turtle doves, and at least one social disease. Burn the box-tops and welcome the doves into your innermost circle of friends. We’ll be in touch about the figurines.
Libra (September 24 – October 23)
This week’s FAQs: “Is it me?” “Where are the cheese crackers?” “Good lord what happened to you?” “Do these make me look […]?” “How is [well-known septuagenarian rock star] still breathing?” “Seriously has no one seen the cheese crackers?” “On a scale from zero to America, how free do you feel right now?” “You never even loved me, did you?” “OK if we take some triscuits and just like microwave them with parmesan won’t that be just as good?”
Scorpio (October 24 – November 22)
Your collection of Mad Magazine back-copies sells on eBay in a tight race between Taurus and Sagittarius, which Taurus wins by a nose and at least one horn. Do not squander this newfound lucre. Banks are not to be trusted, and the bottom fell out of silver some time back. Best to bury the cash in some wild distant region, and also to send us a map — for safekeeping.
Sagittarius (November 23 – December 21)
Having misread the headline in a trend piece, you type an op-ed decrying the hubbub over “Tigger Warnings.” Why (you ask, brimming with righteous fury) should we spoil all those wonderful A.A. Milne stories by divulging, at the outset, when and where Tigger will enter. Tigger enters whenever the artist pleases. Tigger is a friend to all beings; clean living was the dream of his youth and the avocation of his riper years. KEEP THE GOVERNMENT OUT OF MY TIGGER.
Capricorn (December 22 – January 20)
Cap! Here’s a fun game this week: take all your fashion cues from fuzzy trend-pieces in the New York Times. Wear yoga pants constantly, regardless of gender; never remove yoga pants is basically the first rule. Also wear monocles, i.e. one in each eye, just to be thorough, but resist the urge to join the monocles atop your nose, for in that perilous moment a monocle ceases its ethereal, monadic existence and becomes another accessory entirely. Grow a beard, regardless of gender, then trim it in increasingly putrid ways. Also something about flannel.
Aquarius (January 21 – February 19)
Astronomers will pop the champagne when they discover another moon circling Saturn. In the cold light of the following day, they rub their eyes and find that, on closer inspection, the celestial object is nothing but that Henry Miller novel you stole from your dad 18 years ago.
Pisces (February 20 – March 20)
After you declare intellectual bankruptcy, several cheerful advisors from the Epistemic Bank of South Dubuque compile plans to refinance your imagination, your conscience, and both of your mortgages because Lord you’d have to be intellectually bankrupt to fall in a hole that big.
Aries (March 21 – April 20)
Blather all you want about “new polyesters” and “oh but the prostheses are so breathable these days.” This year’s Furry Convention will be held in Tijuana, and the invite is terribly thoughtful but it sounds like being locked in a heat-trap or something. One verb: hydrate.
Taurus (April 21 – May 21)
Alfred E. Newman would be proud, Taurus! Take care of your new collection and do not fret over the rather obvious truth that this obsession with Mad Magazine is an elaborate and totally doomed attempt at compensating for the gap between your front teeth. You are a beautiful poppet just the way you are! Repeat the central mantra: “What, me worry?”
Ted Scheinman is a culture reporter based in Chapel Hill. He has written for the Oxford American Quarterly, the Los Angeles Review of Books, Pacific Standard, Slate, and various other screen- or print-based concerns. His first book of nonfiction will appear via Faber in late 2014. He once gave Sam Shepard his autograph, and Tilda Swinton once served him coffee. (We're really not kidding — click here!) Follow him on Twitter: @Ted_Scheinman.