If your birthday is this week: The stars say, treat yourself. Sleep in a washing machine box instead of a dumpster that smells like rotten fish tonight.

Aries: Your boyfriend is not cheating on you. No one considers necrophilia cheating.

Taurus: Your medium pizza will arrive three minutes late.

Gemini: This week you will be assaulted in a parking lot with a cake. It’s traumatic and delicious.

Lemini: Your personal assistant has been rubbing his balls on your writing instruments. Maybe you should consider a raise and stop biting your pen.

Cancer: Good news! Your coffee maker isn’t broken, but your dog vomited into your coffee grinder.

Leo: Your hiatus from the Zodiac is over. Unfortunately, your future involves mostly eating beef jerky and watching reruns of Monk.

Virgo: The stars say, don’t order the soup. But then again, stars don’t eat. Fuck the stars.

Libra: This week, during a test drive, you’ll swerve to miss a cat, but hit it anyway. You’ll go off the road, down an embankment and crash into a terminal cancer patient ward injuring several of the dying patients. When you and the car salesman get to the county lock up, you’ll both be groped by some of the other prisoners. Later, at night, the salesman admits that this isn’t the worst test drive he’s ever been on.

Scorpio: If you don’t want your socks to smell like semen this week, make sure you buy some quality galoshes that reach at least to the ankle.

Sagittarius: You will get to meet Tiger Woods. Unfortunately, it’s when you catch him getting oral from your girlfriend. Still, you get his autograph.

Capricorn: A Native American Indian Chief will give you a new name on Xbox live. You shall be known as “Little Dead Bitch Running”.

Aquarius: You will catch the Coors Light Bullet Train. Unfortunately, the driver is drunk and wrecks on the next platform.

Pisces: This week, you’ll pee in a completely new place that you’ve never peed before. A toilet. And not just around and on the seat.