Dear Rome,

Dear Rome,

My experience of you is as follows:

1) You have a lot of falling down buildings. Clean up your act - a bit of timber, plaster and nails will go a long way.

2) Traffic laws hardly exist. I was playing 'chicken' with traffic and didn't even know it.

3) I felt bad taking a wee at The Vatican. Nonetheless, I thought my atheist wee might eat away those holy loos.

4) Tourists should keep their farts to themselves at the Sistine Chapel.

5) When people are wearing green stickers while listening to a tour guide, they have paid for said tour. Strategically placing your hand over the general location of said green sticker only makes you look like a cheap, thieving tourist, Chunky Munky.

6) I'm sorry I was a bit rude to that group of Americans. I just found it quite sad that the leader of your church, the physical embodiment of Christ on earth, denounced the Iraq war and you didn't listen to him. You paid more attention to a halfwit who resembles a monkey. And not even a nice monkey - like my lovely cute monkey brethern. If I were religious, I think I'd choose to follow somebody who was chosen by God than somebody who was chosen by that corrupt lot in Florida. But that's just me. And when the Pope lit a candle for peace, your scowls screamed your unnerving hypocrisy. You scared me, and thus I was mean to you.

7) I had the best meal of my entire life. There were 7 courses and each one contained lobster. My Jewish husband nearly imploded with the religious consequences of eating shellfish near The Vatican.

8) The hotel experience deserves a post of its very extra special own.

Love,
Munky

P.S. Rome was actually quite ace.

Dear all,

Dear all,

The following is, like, the WAY most important thing to have happened in my life recently. No, really.

Sunday was a Designer Warehouse Sale, where women gather to buy designer clothing and be bitchy to eat other. It was real 'Handbags at Dawn' material. There was a communal changing room, which was a whirlwind of norks, minge and designer threads. It is fodder for boyhood masturbation. For women, though, it is a chance for a 'model-off'. Who can sway their hips the best? Who has the least amount of cellulite (not her, *snigger* *bitch*)? Who has the best posture? I, on the other hand, wore foul underpants and couldn't be arsed to shave. I was the furry, pale pervert in the corner, people-watching these freaks with low self-esteem who make themselves feel better by being mean to people.

One girl swayed over to me, hands on hips, "I like that dress, what size is it." (Notice, that wasn't a question, it was a statement of low self-esteem.) "An 8."
"Hrph, let me try it on."
"Erm, OK, but I am going to buy it."
"Hrph."
"Hrph!"
"HRPHHH!!!"

Honestly, she couldn't even zip up the damned thing (nevermind the fact that the dress was rather cruel to her breasts, which seemed to want nothing more than to break free), but she stood in front of the mirror, inspecting herself with such overwhelming satisfaction that she covered the room in a fine film of awe.

"I think I am going to get it."

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

She didn't, of course. It was merely a bitchy mind trick to make me believe that she looked so amazingly superbly fantastic in this garment and I, so shit and root vegetable-like, that I should create a frilly shrine to her beauty and poise.

Love,
Munky

P.S. I know that didn't fit with my usual style. But don't worry - the misanthropic vitriol is still there!

Dear Everybody,

Come to 'Munky's Big Fuck Off Party'.

Munky's coming home to Michigan, baby.

Love,

Munky

P.S. Free ass-tags all around.

Dear My Head,

Dear My Head,

When you explode, could you make sure you aim my skull fragments at annoying people's jugulars?

Ta,

Munky

P.S. By annoying people, I mean everybody.

Dear Dr. Death,

Dear Dr. Death,

I shitted up my back. Can you help?

Ta,

Munky

P.S. Can I pay by check?