Presenting the astrological world's first Ganjascope, a timeless foretelling that reveals your past, present, and future at once. We take the logical out of astrological
Penultimate Day Campaign
Join the Pug Bus in its crusade to have December 30 declared National Penultimate Day. Our goal is to rescue penultimate from the puss-warted clutches of abusers of the language. What's more, we can give that snooty "Auld Lang Syne" business a well-deserved kick in the shorts. For the ultimate—and the penultimate—news about our glorious campaign, click here.
The Grammar Prick
Meaner than a dried-up, old-biddy Language Arts teacher, The Grammar Prick will split your head if you split an infinitive or if you dare misuse penultimate. Visit The Grammar Prick.
Postcards the Book
The book that inspired a website was written by someone who was actually raised by pugs. Postcards is a welcome addition to any nightstand.
Some photos cannot be shopped. They are perfect just the way god made them. Such perfection does not happen by accident, and wise, indeed, is the man who says "you can't photoshop this.""
The Fuck It List
Ten Things You Should Quit While Not Going Gently into That Good Night
3. Seat Belts
4. FOX Fucking News
5. Paying for Music and Movies
6. Your Stinking Bucket List
7. Pissing Indoors
8. Hugging Anyone You're Not Fucking
9. Stupid-ass, Dip-Shit, Old Fart Hats
10. Bathing or Showering Regularly
Trigger warning! The content of this website may cause raging panic attacks in hypersensitive snowflakes who suffer from androphobia, galactophobia, emetophobia, corprophobia, claustrophobia, fear of taints, and other psycho-sexual maladies too numerous to mention.
Ganjascope℠ Wins New York Times Trichome Award Sep 18, 2019 - 6:06
Virgo (8/23 - 9/22): Following several bong rips of Hell's OG—your typical nightcap—you dream that you are having tantric sex with a palm reader named Madam Velveeta. She tells you to imagine that you are your favorite pet. Then she tells you to imagine that you have fallen asleep and you are dreaming. When you wake up, you vow never to let the dog sleep in your bed again.
Libra (9/23 - 10/23): If people can patent strains of weed, they ought to be able to patent themselves. Right? Wrong. Your attempt to patent yourself meets with failure and ridicule when a panel of scientific experts declares there is nothing original about you. Before seeking prominence in the world, you should work on becoming a household word in your own house. Start tomorrow by wearing a name tag to breakfast.
Scorpio (10/24 - 11/21): This week the things that turn you on turn on you. What’s more, you are haunted by a sepulchral voice that moans, “Humpty Dumpty died for your sins.” When you go for a drive to clear your head, you notice the following sticker: “Objects seen in the rearview mirror may not necessarily be real.” Such is the price you pay for your fondness for live concentrates. Observe the speed limit for the time being and resist the temptation to think of yourself in the third person.
Sagittarius (11/22 - 12/21): Your love of irony mutates into a full-blown paradoxical reaction to life under the influence of Mary Jane. Dandruff shampoo turns you into a blizzard with feet. Cough medication makes you hack and sputter like a flooded outboard motor. Deodorant produces a rancid, road-kill aroma about your personal zones. I'd lay off the Beano, contraceptive devices, and hemorrhoid preparations if I were you. Focus on treating the illness not its symptoms. Begin by understanding the difference between irony and coincidence. If time permits, work on the difference between imply and infer.
***image3***Capricorn (12/22 - 1/19): During a reenactment of Pickett’s ill-considered charge at the Battle of Gettysburg, you sneak off for a joint and discover a document that proves Lincoln plagiarized the Gettysburg Address from a Bull Run Life, Casualty and Cow Theft brochure. Instead of making you rich, your discovery brings you nothing but calumny and venom, and you will find it impossible to get insurance.
Aquarius (1/20 - 2/18): You will have a recurring dream in which you travel to a strange land where the temperature is always a prime number; but on the day you arrive, the thermometer will read 80 degrees. Fearing the wrath of their gods, the inhabitants of that strange land will remove all the vowels from their alphabet. Thn th sht wll ht th fn.
Pisces (2/19 - 3/20): Beware imitations when shopping for drugs on the Dark Web, or you might put your faith in a zircon in the rough. Don't hide your light under a bushel either, a breadbox is less translucent; besides, nobody looks for a light under a breadbox. Watch the history channel. It's better to learn from our mistakes on television than it is to repeat them. Color outside the lines if you want. The wages of sin are tax-exempt.
Aries (3/21 - 4/19): Your astral twin is abducted by aliens from the Mothership Eninac, where artificial intelligence is hooked on phonics. That explains the mechanical but seductive voice whispering in your third ear this past fortnight. Before giving into its importunings, ask yourself “What would Tommy Chong do?” Look beyond name dropping and hectoring others in fashioning a response to demands placed on you by loved ones and co-workers. You need to be more flexible. Your modality is, after all, mutable. Later in the week, take in a movie.
***image4***Taurus (4/20 - 5/20): Taurans are highly possessive, adore their own company, and mate for life. These qualities suggest an interesting solution to current relationship problems—self-sex marriage. Think of the benefits: always knowing when your partner’s in the mood, never getting grief about rolling over and falling asleep afterward, never being assaulted by morning breath, never having to watch your partner Bogart a joint. If anyone is creative enough to be his or her own soulmate, it’s you, oh bullish one. So why not walk down the aisle with the one person capable of making you truly happy—yourself.
Gemini (5/21 - 6/21): In the foreseeable future—or the next few days at least—you become the Velcro Pup of Good Fortune after finding a eighth of Sour Mango under your bean bag chair. Happiness dances along in step with you like pom-poms dangling from the rearview mirror of a purple Rolls Royce driven by some fly mother-fucker in a pimp hat. You could draw to an inside straight or race railroad trains to the crossing. If there’s someone you’ve been meaning to piss off—or somebody you’ve been longing to piss on—there’s no time like the present.
Cancer (6/22 - 7/22): Your celestial bong may be half full or half-assed. This condition prevails when the arrow of the sacred roach clip of foresight and knowledge is paused halfway between the two-headed weasel and the boardwalk icon. The weasel is the symbol of paralyzing self-doubt, gnawing despair, and twisted knickers. The boardwalk icon portends the acquisition of great wealth, but that acquisition depends on a fortunate roll of the dice. Your next move may be critical, so move carefully if at all, and wash your hands after using the loo.
Leo (7/23 - 8/22): Once in a hundred leap years, when Sirius Doggy Dogg enters the House of the Seven Gables, a canine is born whose birthdays are not divisible by seven. Many will be this wonder dog’s blessings, and great will be his wealth and fame, but he still won’t be allowed in restaurants unless accompanied by a blind person.