Your Weekly Horoscope by Trippy Koala
Photo: DF5KX / CC BY-SA 2.0

Your Weekly Horoscope by Trippy Koala

These horoscopes are provided for entertainment purposes only. The authors cannot be held responsible for any decisions or actions based, in whole or in part, on any of the information presented herein. Really, even if you believe in horoscopes (especially if you believe in horoscopes), you shouldn’t listen to anything listed herein … wait, drink water. There, that’s some advice you can heed.


You will crack a molar while masturbating this week. But at least you know you’re doing it right.


You will be saddened to learn this week that Lyle Jeffs is unjustly imprisoned in South Dakota, especially since all he did was what God told him to do through his infallible prophet, Joseph Smith. I mean, the guy was obviously spot on with chicks, black people, and American history … how could he have possibly been wrong about anything else?


Disappointed by, you will start visiting more frequently. Now _that’s_ some juvenile nonsense you can sink your teeth into.


You should decide this week to stop shouting “Jesus Christ!” every time you’re upset. He’s not listening, and even if he were, he really doesn’t care.


Your chili farts will cause the evacuation of an entire Wal-Mart this week.


Blah blah blah horoscopes blah blah blah something about you being a fatty.


You’ve always wondered if you were tough enough to make it behind bars. After Thursday you won’t have to wonder any more.


Every time that you look in a mirror this week, you’ll see a small, ghostly child standing next to you, reaching for you hand. Now, you could avoid mirrors all week, but that’d probably just piss him off. 


This is the contract you need to make with yourself this week: I, (insert your name), promise to stop eating nothing but vegan cheese substitute and listening to obscure Icelandic death metal. It’s the small steps that are the hardest.


On Tuesday, you will be bitten by a radioactive spider. On Wednesday, you will wake up to find that you’ve sprouted six tiny extra legs and a patch of zits above your unibrow that are actually six tiny eyes. You could go to the doctor, or — now hear me out — you could call yourself Spiderman and try to swing off the top of a building. Either way, you’re going to die. Pick the one that gives you the best obituary.


This week, the person at the patent office will laugh at you when you apply for a patent on your new ecofriendly toilet paper, “Five Fold Wipes,” and hand them nothing but a drunken drawing of you using your hand to wipe John Stamos’ ass.


This week you will sllowly loosee th abilvxty tu re ad. Dont wur-e though, because alkdn axcondfy a;ldknfd.

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