The stars command you to forego meals of chicken, beef and swine for the tender meat of the chimpanzee.
A burgeoning career -- a newspaper editor comes -- an end when a blow -- the head renders you unable -- perceive any form -- preposition or subordinating conjunction.
Your lifelong agony of multiple personalities finally pays dividends when you're caught red-handed with the corpse of your natural hitchhiker prey.
Your dreams of fame and superstardom are assured when you land a job as a backup singer on Toto's new remix album.
The Bible may tell you to be fruitful and multiply, but the stars command you to masturbate until you faint.
Love means never having to say "I'm sorry." "Whoops -- didn't mean to get it on your face," perhaps, but never "I'm sorry."
The stars remind that the old adage "If you want it done right, you've got to do it yourself" was never meant to apply to haircuts or sexual gratification.
The next time a panhandler asks you for change, don't just look away and rush hurriedly by. Slow down, and take the time to laugh as well.
A plummeting cement mixer finally teaches Dad the true worth of a good pair of steel-toed boots.
The stars urge you to enjoy your fairy-enchanted weekend, because come Monday you'll once again be fat and legless.
Silence is golden. Brain your neighbor's collie with a garden spade.