You will soon be down to your last biscuit, but it seems that no one will help you out from under the log.
Your attempt to publish your account of a year-long trip down China’s Yellow River will meet with strong opposition. Change your name from Irene Paulette Freely to something more dignified.
Now that Ray Nitschke has passed on, Dick Butkus will be assigned to follow you around and keep you on your toes.
Your lack of purpose in life prompts you to turn to the phone book, where you find the inspiration and strength you need to go on.
Your sighs of relief over the recent asteroid false alarm will be short-lived, as you have developed thick, yellow toenail fungus.
Your efforts to fit in are failing, but it’s not entirely your fault. Try relocating to a place where the locals tend to be more tolerant of people with giant, pulsating humps.
The same people who called you a big fat walrus will suck up to you shamelessly when you are chosen to star in the hot new CBS sitcom Mrs. Folds’ Slovenly Adventures.
You finally come to terms with the brutal, unsolved 1974 murder of your little brother when you remember that you beat him to death with an ice skate.
Avoid putting too much faith in trite, vaguely worded generalizations that concern your future.
You will abandon all rational thought and join a cult that worships a jealous old man with a white beard who can read your mind.
Everyone wants to earn your favor this week. This is because you are a judge on the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals.
Your goal of adopting a more open, European approach to your sexuality will be denounced by every nation in Europe except Germany.
