by R. Gordon Dalrymple
Monday, December 14, marked an alignment of auguries unprecedented in human history (I think): as the Electoral College voted to decide the next American president:
- The Geminid meteor shower peaked in brilliance
- A total solar eclipse in parts of the southern hemisphere
- Comet Erasmus most visible
- Jupiter and Saturn on a visible collision course, culminating with the Grand Conjunction on Dec. 21— the Winter Solstice
The two planets are opposites; Jupiter is progressive energy while Saturn is conservative, according to Vedic astrology. The last time they conjuncted? Year 2000; Gore vs. Bush. I am NOT making any of this up. Google or Bing it all, skeptics!
A coincidence of portents like this could spur an ancient Roman soothsayer to head for the hills and fall on his sword. I’ve never put much faith in astrology — a sore spot in my marriage with Wendy — but now seemed like a perfect time to give metaphysics a try…
I set up my clarifying augury operation at exactly 12:01 am on Monday with Wendy’s Ouija board mounted over a vintage Tudor Electric Football game board connected with a long extension cord. With the Geminid meteors glittering overhead and the faint glow of Comet Erasmus visible on the low horizon, I felt the night pregnant with prescient cosmic waves and particles.
I asked pertinent questions before blindly dropping raw organic chicken livers marinated in virgin olive oil and chipotle Tabasco sauce (to render them more conductive of etheric vibrations — or quantum field fluctuations, take your pick) onto the Ouija board. If the slippery livers didn’t fall squarely on a letter, I flipped the Tudor Football switch and agitated them until they skittered decisively into place.
The vibrating contraption was not so quiet; it was going well until about 3:30 am, when a shout startled me: “What the Hell are you doing?” Wendy, sleepy eyed in robe and slippers, behind me.
My explanation did not mollify her. “It’s your business to go off and slaughter the mammoths and enemy tribes. This is woman’s work,” she said. I suggested she was being a bit hypocritical; I had often dissed her crystals, Tarot cards, fairy posters and the like, so why was she now gaslighting a sincere New Age convert? “Because you are a total dilettante and have no clue what you’re doing,” she fumed. “Fool! You don’t mix natural and artificial energy like this, it distorts everything. Electricity! Typical male mechanical solution… and what have you done to my Ouija board?! It’s bloodstained!”
“Ssshhhh. Listen,” I whispered, pointing at the night sky. “Is that a 747 or 737?” In ancient times, observing the passage of birds was critical for divination; with birds absent, I was noting the passage of airliners instead — their trajectory and exact position in the zodiac.
“You are sick!” said Wendy. “Clean off my Ouija board before you turn it into a necronomicon and summon God-knows-what infernal spirits to meddle in this crisis!” She yanked the extension cord from the socket before retiring in a huff. “Stupid white male!”
That really hurt, so my session was cut short, but I’m confident my data informs an accurate prophecy in these turbulent times:
Beware the tides of December
Biden fracturing his foot was the seminal bad omen kicking off a series of cascading fiascos. In early January, his medical boot snags on the ladder of Marine One; his head smacks the hard fuselage and he falls into a deep coma.
Acting POTUS Kamala Harris appoints Pete Buttigieg as VP, who comes out of the closet again — as a transgender woman this time. “Please call me Petra,” he declares at the inauguration, wearing a curly blonde wig and sequined Christian Dior dress. This is a bridge too far for Texas, South Carolina, and Alabama: they wave the Gadsen flag and secede from the Union.
In February, President Harris faints during a press conference — she is four months pregnant. Rumors abound that Bill Clinton or George Soros is the real father, sparking a fierce evangelical debate: “Is all life sacred, or is it permissible to abort the AntiChrist?” Either way is another bridge too far for 12 more red states from Idaho to Florida — they secede and join the Profederacy States of America (Pro-Life, pro-Liberty, pro-Gun), electing Donald Trump as Supreme Infallible Commander for life.
On July 4th, President Harris strikes back, cutting off all Social Security payments and DOD funding to the rebellious states, crippling their military bases, defense industries, hair salons and Arbee’s restaurants. Angry cane-wielding senior flash mobs torch dumpsters and hobble into the state capitols, demanding recompense, but the rebel states are broke and cry Uncle!, begging to re-suckle the bounteous, quantitive-easing teats of Uncle Sam and the Federal Reserve. But Harris/Buttigieg posit one condition: the PSA must surrender all firearms over .22 Long Rifle caliber. This is yet another Remagen bridge. “We’ll eat our bullets first!” brays the governor of South Carolina.
The crisis escalates as the 2022 mid-terms approach, loyalist and rebel unions mobilizing for all-out armed conflict, when Joe Biden, to be known as the Great Compromiser, snaps out of his coma and asks, “Is the turkey ready? What have I missed?”
That’s as far as I got before Wendy’ interruption. She will be visiting her folks in New Jersey on the climactic Jupiter-Saturn Solstice conjunction next week, when I will be able to resume divination and complete this forecast…
