You enjoy a visit from a handsome Taurus this week, but ultimately discover that, to your shame, the conjugal-visit trailer was bugged.
After your fourth hospital stay in as many months, you begin to mistrust the other members of your aerobatic biplane squad.
The whole world will hold its breath this week while you engage in a life-and-death struggle with heartburn.
You will soon become the first person in history to be offered sex because of your political-cartooning skills.
A humdrum week will be greatly enlivened when you discover fresh new ideas for home and office in the 64-page, full-color September Cancer catalog.
An embarrassing nickname comes back to haunt you this week, convincing you once and for all that you should never have strangled all those nurses.
The times call for rational, well-reasoned thinking. Under no circumstances allow your thinking to be clouded by superstition.
Scorpio is called the scorpion, but to be honest, you’re really more of a potato beetle.
You enjoy true back-to-school learning fun this week at the hands of a well-trained, double-jointed Korean sex instructor.
You are genuinely surprised to learn that you are the only one who likes your rapacious, malodorous, ugly little pet ferret.
The stars hereby grant you the secret of lighter, fluffier pancakes: Use sour cream instead of milk.
Bad weather, a balky stallion and 300 years of social progress conspire to ruin your fox hunt.
