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Hey losers! I'm Pam. After I lost my job, my health insurance, and my
Prozac, the voices in my head came back, and now I can tell the future. Rad, huh?
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JANUARY, 2004
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Happy New Year, Losers! Can you believe it's already 2004? Remember way back in the 20th century when we used to sit
and fantasize about how amazing life would be once we entered a glorious new millennium together? Boy, your future
sure lost its luster after a thousand days of unemployment, severe depression, and chronic Ramen noodle halitosis.
It's no wonder I dumped you for a hermaphrodite with a pubic mohawk.
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Better control your anger this year, Aries, or the only friends you'll have left will be other Aries. And I wouldn't
wish that on anyone. You bastards give off more bad energy than a Russian nuclear power plant. So stop blowing your
stack, OK? Yeah, you're surrounded by morons, but when your heart goes all John-Hurt-in-"Alien," they'll be the ones
laughing. So chill out. Make believe you're a human being or something.
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You possess limitless supplies of grit and emotional fortitude. That's why people call you when life pisses on them, but
forget your number when it's raining money. This year, you need to shake up this routine. Get a little unstable. Freak out
in public. Hit the bottle for breakfast. Weep uncontrollably at the drop of a hat. You deserve it. Besides, you'll have
plenty of time to return to being the cripplingly neurotic, emotional sponge your ruined childhood forces you to be. Rad!
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Just because you laugh at your own jokes doesn't make them funny. And just because you talk to yourself, it doesn't
mean anyone listens. "But I listen," you say. Look, Gemini – unless you drop the self-love routine
and take a stiff shot of reality, you're going to end up a total nobody. The kind of nobody who lives in ranch
house, or works at the IRS, or drowns in their own puke at a frat party. Mind you, any of those would be infinitely
preferable to turning into a snotty fake astrologer for some shitbird website.
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You have a lot of love in your life. That's because the people around you are terrified you'll hammer nails into a
baseball bat, set it on fire, and go apeshit if they stop loving you. They're right, aren't they? You're a regular Roman
candle stuffed full of shrapnel, aren't you? Take my advice, Cancer: medicate yourself – heavily – with whipped
cream propellant and gin. Sure, you might drool more, lose motor function, and slur your speech... but that's the price of happiness.
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Here's a simple resolution for you Leo: stop being such an asshole. How do you do that? Simple. Get yourself a big cast
iron skillet. Then on the flat side, write these words with a silver sparkle pen, "I'M A HAPPY KITTY." And every time you feel
the need to be the self-righteous, big-mouthed ultra-putz you are, just wallop yourself in the face as hard as you can. Go on
and try it. Try it again. Hey! Try it yet again. Who's the happy kitty? You are, Leo. You are!
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(august 23 - september 22) |
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How will this year shape up for the Princess of the Zodiac? Two words: fat pants. Buy them. They're always
on sale at Old Navy. Just hunker down and don't fight it. You can spend the next twelve months eating rice
cakes and sawdust, but it won't help. The stars have decreed that you will always be a big fat bitch with
thighs as thick as elm trees. So get the pants. Take the path of least resistance – and maybe if
you're lucky, you'll get a horrible eating disorder next year.
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(september 23 - october 23) |
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This is the year when Visa and MasterCard will finally carpet-bomb your credit rating into total oblivion – and
rightly so. After all, you did go more than a little overboard with the after-Christmas sales, Libra. How many rotisserie
ovens and goose down pillows do you need anyway? I'll tell you how many – NONE! Your father was right – you
squander money like a total retard. So next time, call me, and I'll help you squander it right – at the discount
liquor wholesaler in Jersey City.
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(october 24 - november 21) |
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Your year won't be so bad, Scorpio – providing you follow my simple instructions: bulk up on Entenmann's
pastries (preferably the chocolate-covered donuts), then lock yourself in a closet with a plastic bucket and an aerosol can
of Lysol. The formaldehyde-soaked pastries will sustain you, the bucket is for relief, and the Lysol is a double treat – it
disinfects and gives a numbing buzz you just can't beat. Don't like that advice? Tough. You get what you pay for, you
cheap bastard.
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(november 22 - december 21) |
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Sorry Sag – the Ugly Duckling is just a fairy tale, not a guarantee. Nowhere is it written that if you
get a new hairdo and lose the dork-ass glasses, that you'll be anything approaching attractive. In fact, in your
case, the makeover could do more damage, knocking you down the ugly ladder a few rungs. But hey – it's inner
beauty that counts, right? BWAH-HA-HA! Oh, I'm sorry. Of course it is. Inner beauty. Boys want inner beauty – and
handjobs on the first date. The stars have spoken!
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(december 22 - january 19) |
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You know that spam promising to increase your penis size, thanks to the application of a magically effective patch?
Guess what? IT DOESN'T WORK. So stop being such a gullible toolbox this year, Capricorn. It's a scam – and you should
have known it as soon as you saw the doctored "after" photos of Pee Wee Herman sporting fifteen inches of flaccid bratwurst.
Still think it's real? Then just stab a light socket with a wet fork already.
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(january 20 - february 18) |
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I know this is your time of the year, Aquarius. And sure, that's as good a reason as any to act like a human iceberg.
But everyone knows that under that glacial façade really beats the heart of a manipulative bitch. I don't know what to
tell you about this year. Just give into your negativity-fueled superiority complex and you'll have a fine year. Yeah,
your soul will end up looking like a cancer-riddled smoker's lung, but souls are overrated. I mean, you can't even see them.
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You're like a slug skiing on a salt slope, zipping along trying to keep your balance or melt. How to keep going? Get
satellite TV, a DVD player, and TiVo. Then curl up with a tub of cake frosting, and if the mean people start banging
on your door demanding rent, bills, or familial contact, well, you know what the volume button is for. Tune out the
make-believe and tune in the "Real World" – which is still running on MTV, I think. I don't know. I spend
all my time chugging Robitussin.
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