I'm a cancer, although this comes as no surprise to many of you out there who have been saying all along, "that Povill kid's nothing but a damned cancer."
Still, it bugs me to be forever associated with the "silent killer" (not to be confused with the "silent-but-deadly," with which I am also often associated).
To make matters worse, the animal that represents cancers is the crab. Yes, we're crabs. As if cancer didn't carry enough negative connotations, they throw some pubic lice into the mix, just for good measure.
I don't know anything about how cancers act. I'm not one of those people who refers to a star chart to decide which way to wipe their ass. I read my horoscope about once a year, and I have about as much faith in its predictions as I have in the UNC Honor Court and its rulings.
Nevertheless, our current system of astrology has shat on me for too long, so to spite it and all the brainwashed imbeciles who regard it as the gospel, I've come up with my own version of the Zodiac. If it catches on, maybe they'll print it on placemats at Chinese restaurants.
The different signs are based on several factors, such as eye color, shoe size, lung capacity, belly-button type, average heart rate and most importantly, favorite "Cosby Show" episode.
In my system, however, you are free to choose which sign you want to be under depending on whether you like a particular horoscope, much like the way people try to pass off bad fortune cookie fortunes onto others.
There are only six signs, partly for simplicity, partly because I'm too lazy to think of any others. They are: Hippie, Dopey, Squeaky, Croakie, Gandhi and Julius.
HIPPIE: Today is a six. You will realize you're a filthy bastard and decide to shower today. Your refusal to wash your fake hippie dreadlocks, however, will render all your cleansing activities useless. Then, you'll play hackey-sack until you fall asleep, dreaming of the day Widespread opens for Phish.