You won’t be hit by a bus this week, exactly. Circumstances will unfold so that you’re traveling at almost 100 miles an hour when you strike a stationary bus.
The stars do not usually warn mortals of specific outcomes or specific futures, but if you throw away a pair of face cards to try and fill a straight one more time, they’re going to come down there and kill you.
You’ll be swarmed by a rare strain of Americanized killer bees who, unlike their Africanized cousins, just want to hang out and watch TV all day.
Nothing of note will happen in the part of the week when you’ll still be around.
After three long years, and 18 months before parole, prison sex is just as boring and rote as any other kind.
You thought the magic lamp looked kind of weird, and you’re still sort of wondering what exactly that genie meant when he said you would now be immortal in dog years.
The sun and moon themselves will fall madly in love with you and set about vying for your affection by showering you with gifts, so, unfortunately, you’ll be killed Thursday afternoon by a dozen roses and a box of chocolates traveling at near-orbital velocity.
Do not give up hope for happiness and companionship, for love is very real. However, none of the trite behaviors or quasi-magical aspects you attribute to love actually exist.
People are starting to wonder exactly how many times someone has to yell “Get Funky!” at you before you actually take the hint and do so.
You’ve always known that people are good deep down inside, but it’s still a pain to carve away the excess skin and flab to get to the savory parts.
Your future seems to contain a great amount of fluorescent lighting, a lot of spreadsheets, and a great many people trying to avoid meaningful contact with you; basically, everything you went to college for.
You’ll be simultaneously struck by mystical lightning, bathed with otherworldly cosmic rays, and injected with the Apollo Serum, so you’ll be a pretty powerful superhero if you ever get out of the coma.
