It was a Virgo

It was a Virgo who was helping me along all afternoon. I did my best to evade her, but she caught up with me at the bookstore. “Kramer, you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting Virgo, can you?” I was trying to mount an argument, but I was entirely unsuccessful. Just then, we were sitting outside on the patio of Guero’s, another friend walks by, and I make some hasty introduction, “and she’s a Virgo,” looks like there is pattern here. I was wondering aloud with my neighbor, in a completely unrelated event (thank good that boy’s not a Virgo) about the chances for the Dallas Stars to win the whatever cup in Ice Hockey. “And why isn’t there any one named ‘Bubba’ on that team? How can they call themselves a Texas Team, Texas Flag on the shoulder, without a goalie named ‘Bubba’?”