ARIES: I’m not gonna bother you with the astrological aspects I’ll be referencing, cause you have the patience of an overeater anonymous who just swallowed their last emergency glove compartment supply of mini Reeses and is stuck behind a stalled Volvo at a McDonald’s drive-thru. I’ll be brief. You’ll be having a lot of sex and it may not be as cheap as usual. All definitions of cheap apply.

TAURUS: You heel draggers have been scraping the sidewalks deeper than usual, if possible. For a couple of years, you see, Saturn has been slithering through your sign like an earthworm plowing dirt under cement. Isn’t such traveling supposed to churn plain dirt into fertile soil? How should I know. I’m no U.S. Forest Ranger (though my brother did spread this false rumor around Isla Vista when I kind of zoned out years ago). Enough about the even more boring me. You’re days away from having sweet yellow dandelions pop up around you.

GEMINI: Redorangeyellowgreenblueviolet. For once, goshdarnit, follow the recipe when it states “Do Not Stir.”

CANCER: Why do you open the beveled mahogany doors of your heart to reveal bowls of pilgrim stew with fresh grated parmesan garnish and baskets of warm rosemary bread, only to slam your doors shut the moment a wanderlust journeyperson desperately wants to enter? It’s mean. They didn’t treat journeypeople like that in Jesus or Chaucer’s time. You could at least offer these poor wandering souls a doggie bag! You mumble that they were staring and pointing at something scampering under a floorboard. Ay, so sensitive you can be. Just for that, the North Star may direct everyone to your house this season to axe your Lemon Pledged door.

LEO: You remind me of the beautiful glowing ball of fire at the end of Dr. Seuss’ “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” only you end up burning Whoville to the ground.

VIRGO: Whiners, the lot o’ you. Please don’t confuse this with being a complainer, exactly, cause I’m referring to that slightly high pitched, nasally sound you can produce. You’re like a really cute red wagon that squeaks. The kids don’t notice and could play with you all day long, but grown-ups plug their ears and turn haughtily back to the stock page. If you cease spinning your wheels to silence the squeak this holiday season, maybe a fully matured passerby will stop to check out your chrome and offer you a good lube job.

LIBRA: Sometimes you behave like a white bread sandwich, with very little meat, that has been hanging out in a brown paper bag with a banana. You end up spoiling innocent kids’ lunches nationwide because you’re the least autonomous excuse for a meal there is. But with Mars in your sign until Dec. 23, it’ll be like you’re sealed in a zip-lock freezer bag. Don’t get scared you co-dependent dandies, you’ll still be mingling with fruits, but when skinned of your plastic casing at lunchtime, kids everywhere will scream with holiday cheer, “I’m tasting YOU, dear sandwich! you! only you!”

SCORPIO: I wouldn’t advise slitting your wrists just yet. It’d make such a mess, and what with the holidays fast approaching, it’d be mighty difficult for your mom/ friend/superintendent to find a reliable and moderately priced cleaning service. Postmortem, you’re not one to put anyone out. It’s dying that you persist in burdening people with *yawn* (that’s you yawning, and I think it’s a bit rude, even if I’m not as smart as you). Uranus and Neptune, traveling through a squaring sign, are plopping silver tinsel into your abyss. Soaring high in the sparkly pit, you may end up finishing that novel. Finish reading it, I mean.

SAGITTARIUS: See Gemini.
(I’m not skirting work, for which you are notorious. See Gemini.)

CAPRICORN: All work and no play can make Cap a dull sign. And you people are the funniest ‘em all. Oh well.

AQUARIUS: You folks are cool. I don’t mean in the Fonzi “Aaaaay” way. Well, maybe a sliver that way, but mostly in the center-of-a-frozen-finger-pocket-just-out-of-the-microwave kind of way. That’s why it pains me to say that several bumbling planets that spend their stupid existence circling a ball of fire, are now encircling you with a warm jubilance I’m not sure you deserve. Good thing for you I don’t run the cosmos.

PISCES: A treasure hunt to offer you lost people some direction:
#1 look at pages 294 and 295 in the Nov. issue of Vanity Fair
#2 suck on a ring finger, one night stand style
#3 sleep on a bench at the NJT station in Hoboken