Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Dear Everybody,

Dear Everybody,

I've fucking gone and moved.

Godhatesgod.com

Best,

Munky

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Dear Doctors,

Dear Doctors,

I have created my own super-scientific cure based on osmosis for all infectious diseases.

I am ill. If I surround myself with people I don’t like, my body will strive to create a condition of equilibrium between my illness and their health. I will therefore infect dozens, nay, hundreds of my adversaries with this awful infirmity. Sure, this doesn’t make my illness go away, but it sure as hell makes me feel better when my foes begin to hack up death-phlegm and drip green shit from every facial orifice.

Now give me a fucking patent and a million billion trillion pounds for my genius,

Munky x

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Dear The Countryside,

Dear The Countryside,

Recent statistics show that you are full of cheep-cheeps and twigs and farmers and piggies and sunshine and funny smells and cider, while Camden is full of cunts. You sound lovely. Indeed, on the few occasions when I have put Camper to your squishy soil, I have found myself roughly 99% less likely to be attacked by someone spitting crack-juice directly into the wound they’ve inflected upon me by coshing me over the head with an iPod. (Although it can sometimes happen in Beaconsfield.)

Consequently, I would like to move myself, Mr Munky and my world-famous silk dress collection into you. In the words of daytime television, I would like to "Escape To The Country". Sadly, it seems that everyone else has beaten me to this - perhaps because they’re all a bunch of bastards who can use their days off work to watch daytime telly and be inspired rather than having dirty cameras shoved up their anuses. Who knows?

Anyway, the upshot of this is that the country seems to be full, and property prices / rent are about as high as Pete Doherty’s stepladder. Nevertheless, I have faith in the internet and the enormous networking circle that anything up to 50 daily visitors (wow!! ahem) bestows upon a blogger. So, if any of you know where I can either buy or rent a beautiful, listed cottage with enormous rooms, gorgeous views, bugger-all commuting time into London and room for several sausage dogs (all for next to no money at all), then please let me know.

Thank you!
Munky xx

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Dear Chocolate,

Dear Chocolate,

“A moment on the lips, a lifetime…” on my fucking forehead, because none of my friends have the concrete gonads to tell me about the shit smear between my eyes.

Love,

Munky

Dear My Colonoscopy,

Dear My Colonoscopy,

Things you don’t want to hear as you slip into sedation:

“Is this the clean camera?”

God Bless the NHS,

Munky

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Dear Mobile Phone Users,

Dear Mobile Phone Users,

If it weren’t bad enough that you insist on forcing me to partake in your vocal urine by geographical locality, now you have invented a mobile phone gadget bloody bragging right which renders me violent when in your company.

I don’t fucking care if your phone has a 3 megapixel camera, can map the human genome or bend the properties of space and time. It is just a fucking phone, a chunk of poorly made plastic which cost the manufacturer 2p to construct and £2 to market to mindless fucks like you.

Do you really need a fucking camera? If something is so beautiful that you require a picture, some shit-ass mobile phone camera won’t do it any justice. Just give it up and confess that all you want to do is take up-the-skirt shots of schoolgirls followed by a bonanza of sneaky public masturbation.

The purpose of mobile phones is simple; you mindlessly blabber into it and the person on the other end feigns interest. Repeat until your network shits on itself and you lose the call.

All would be saved and well if you used your phones for the power of good, but even the imminent demise of all mankind which only you can prevent isn’t enough for you cunts to stop texting your mates for bit of mutual illiterate abbreviated thumb-based blathering.

Ring ring,

Munky

P.S. My phone can fucking send and receive calls. Don't call me, I won't fucking answer.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Dear Jet-Lag,

Dear Jet-Lag,

From here forward, I shall refer to you as ‘Simon’, as I’ve never encountered a likeable Simon. Parents must pick up their bouncing baby boys and, upon noticing the cunt-eyed cuntery visible even shortly after birth, name their child suitably – Simon. But I digress.

Nothing cures Simon, not even a hug. Not even if one maniacally and violently hurls the hug provider in the direction of the Simon will Simon relent. Simon causes you to accidentally get peanut butter on your head when eating toast and forces you to blabber and tittle like a schizophrenic baby.

Worst of all, Simon makes you write nonsensical shit like this. Simon, I shake my feeble Simon-ed fist at you.

Fuck me I’m tired,
Munky

P.S. For those who are too fucking thick to figure out what I was trying to say…uhhhh…I didn’t actually have a fucking point. I just wanted to whine a bit, gurgle loudly with the juices of my sleep-deprived stupidity, and then fall asleep with my mouth open.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Dear Booger-eaters,

Dear Booger-eaters,

MmMMMMM, lovely. Lovely, lovely boogers. Yum, yum, yummity-yummity-yum. Take it from your nose, roll it round your tongue, feel it trickle down your throat like an oyster basted with love. Smack your lips, grin your grin. AhhhHhHHHh...

Except, no. It's fucking foul. Consider this: would you eat an entire plate - nay, a bowl! - of boogers? Would you chow down into a piggie trough of nose-grit? Would you feast yourself, Mr Creosote-style, on a banquet table, groaning under the combined weight of the nation's entire snot supply?

No. No you fucking wouldn't.

So are boogers like caviar? Are they like saffron? Does a little go a long, long way? After nibbling down one, do you wave away further servings with a giggly 'Ooooh, no. I couldn't possibly. I'm stuffed to the gills!"? In which case, didn't you consume enough when you were a baby; and shouldn't you have grown out of it by now?

Or are you, in an eternally infantile manner, still masturbating yourselves publicly before shitting all over the carpet on a regular basis?

Ah. Fair enough. Eat away...

MmmMMmmMMmmMmmm,
Munky