Although your cancer, if treated early, has a 96 percent recovery rate, doctors are strangely reluctant to treat you.
Your financial outlook isn’t a pretty picture, but it does have a certain dark, Brueghelian magnificence.
Your new diet will cause you to become so skinny that, when sitting around the house, you will do so on a single, easily determined side of the house.
Although it was fun to hear your name on television, you still don’t think the president should use the State Of The Union address to put prices on citizens’ heads.
Learning to accept change is a sign of maturity. Enjoy spending your golden years begging for it on the corner.
If you learn one thing this week, let it be this: What matters isn’t whether you’re innocent or guilty, but what you wear to the trial.
Luckily, the trend of closed-casket funerals has allowed you to take certain aesthetic shortcuts in your work.
You’re really getting tired of big business screwing over the little guy in the subplots of all those TV movies.
You won’t so much haunt the world after your death as become the spiritual equivalent of that guy who kept coming back to visit high school after graduation.
Your fake-sounding French accent is even more heinous considering that you grew up in the countryside around Toulon.
You always seem to improve the performances of those around you, usually by slipping them amphetamines while they’re not looking.
You can’t really help the way people feel about you, especially if the dumbasses refuse to listen to reason.
