A wonderful romantic experience looms ahead for Taurus, which really sucks, as you’re a Virgo.
The interesting thing about your future isn’t its extreme brevity, but how many angry, drunken Cossacks it holds.
Your quest for abs of steel ends tragically this week when you cut yourself in half with a welding torch.
Sometimes it is best to simply let events unfold. However, doing so for the past 25 years was probably a mistake.
The kind of pressure you’ll deal with this week would kill a lesser man, which, unfortunately, is exactly what you are.
You’ve got a pair of gams that just won’t quit, making things quite awkward when management is forced to let them go.
Something deep inside of you will reawaken this week. Plan to spend most of Thursday sitting in your bathroom.
You’ll soon come to regret catching fist-size chunks of jagged hail on your tongue.
Any well-read person will notice several parallels between the story of Beowulf and your disastrous housewarming party this week.
Your frequent boasts of being a real lady-killer will finally gain some credence when an FBI forensics team digs up your backyard.
You’re no Mother Teresa, much to the utter shock and dismay of all those blind orphans in India.
Try as they might, the stars can’t see the point in telling you about next week. You’ll just do whatever you damn well please, anyway.
