Dear mountains,

Dear mountains,

You’re really pretty to look at, but aside from that, you’re pretty fucking useless.

Regards,
Munky

Dear consumers of fast food,

Dear consumers of fast food (including, but not limited to, McDonald’s, Burger King, KFC, sandwiches, crisps and some types of fruit),

The only thing you are ‘too busy’ to do, it seems, is swallow before you open your fat fucking gobs full of food, displaying mashed-up food stuffs while you spray into your mobile phones, “Durrrrr, what you up to?” as the scrags of your partly masticated stupidity cling to your double chins.

Cordially,
Munky

Dear hot caffeinated beverages,

Dear hot caffeinated beverages,

Every day of my life there is a powerful struggle.

I have two options to survive the rest of the day; tea or coffee. I stand in the kitchen for at least five minutes, jerking back and forth between the tea and the coffee in an action film 'red wire, blue wire' scenario.

Today I chose coffee.

I chose wisely.

Yours truly,
Munky

Dear road grit,

Dear road grit,

I really really hate you because you camouflage poo as something more innocuous and tread-in-able, such as dirt or even homeless people.

Grit, you make poo the stealth bomber to my well-honed and highly advanced poo-dar. You give me poo-shoe, and for that I will never forgive you.

Best,
Munky

Dear William Faulkner,

Dear William Faulkner,

If I were magically endowed with the ability to travel through space and time, I would hurtle my way back to 1897 Mississippi and dip your teeny baby fingers in acid, thus ensuring that poor college students would never have to endure your variety of damaging literary allergens.

If you still managed to write with your horrifically disfigured nubbins, I will be obliged (for the betterment of collective world sanity and good taste) to dash back again and torch any possible reference to the Family Snopes, single-handedly the most tedious and brain-anaesthetizing collection of creatures ever to have been vomited onto a piece of paper.

If these efforts - selflessly performed for the benefit of all mankind – fail, I will have no other choice than to go completely eeeeeerk and sterilize both of your parents by way of death.

Always the best,
Munky

Dear Camden,

Dear Camden,

Outside my office there is curdled milk covering the pavement. I assume that it is breast milk, as the people in Camden would be foul and depraved enough to remove their mammary from their shirts and spray the mother fluid on the sidewalk.
Best,
Munky

P.S. Actually, the people in Camden would be so foul as to devour this fetid, curdled breast milk.

Dear Sainsbury's,

Dear Sainsbury's,

"A plump, juicy, fragrant berry ideal for eating on its own or as part of a luxurious dessert!"

It is just a fucking strawberry.

If a person is so dumb as not to know what a strawberry is, they sure as hell won't be able to read your bloody description.

Sincerely,
Munky

Dear cancer,

Dear cancer,

Every single moment of my life I wish you didn't exist.

And you never existed.

And you never hurt people I love.

Love,
Munky

P.S. Whoops, forgot to swear! Cunt, shit, bugger, etc.

Dear Mr Munky,

Dear Mr Munky,

Wearing fur into a health food store: fucking genius.

Welcome to my malevolent fold. I hope you find my realm of evil quite cosy.

Kisses,
Munky

Dear my former roommate,

Dear my former roommate,

I'd like to make a confession.

The day I moved out, I squatted over your car and pissed in your radiator.

I am so sorry*,
Munky

*Oh yeah, I'm not fucking sorry, you shitting psychopath.

Confessions really should be for those who feel a sense of guilt about their actions.

Dear snow,

Dear snow,

I like you. I like you an awful, awful lot. To me, you are what today’s youths normally refer to as ‘a friend’.

I like you because I live within walking distance of work, and I can laugh at all the poor cunts who are stuck in the destructive bedlam of London’s snow-induced transportation blackout.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!!

You made my day bright and lovely.

Love,
Munky

Dear Special K,

Dear Special K,

Who the hell are you to say what is a 'real woman' and what is not?

I'm as shapely as a stick insect, and the last time I checked, my vagina was not molded from rubber.

I am not the Pinocchio of my gender just because I'm a single digit dress size, you cunts.

Love,
Munky

P.S. Yep, just checked again. I am still a fucking 'real woman'.

Dear Mr Munky's shit trousers,

Dear Mr Munky's shit trousers,

Thank you for not giving Mr Munky the squids, thus proving my point that the only valid excuses for not wearing expensive demin are the following:

1) "These trousers, they gave me death."
2) "These trousers, they show my balls."

xxx,
Munky

Dear Mr. Pete Doherty,

Dear Mr. Pete Doherty,

I'm watching you on the television, I am. I didn't realise you were so gay (although, let's be honest, anyone who waggles their penis around inside Kate Moss probably likes fucking young boys.) The fact that you come across so gay actually makes me rather...

...noooooooooooooooo!!!

...AaAaAAaaaAaAaaaaAaAAgh!!!

...I can't say it!!!!

Shit. It actually makes me rather (gulp) like you.

You've broken my blog.

Cunt.

Dear boys who hit on me,

Dear boys who hit on me,

I'm rude to you because I imagine you all have crab lice and distended anuses.

Love,
Munky

P.S. Or maybe it is just because I fucking hate strangers.

Dear Brett Anderson of Suede/The Tears/heroin fame,

Dear Brett Anderson of Suede/The Tears/heroin fame,

You look a bit like you are a leftover shop window dummy from C&A, confused as to where the shop’s gone and why you're all plastic and stuff.

Which, of course, makes you a shit lead singer.

Kisses,
Munky

Dear the London 2012 Olympic bid committee,

Dear the London 2012 Olympic bid committee,

I have taken this opportunity, bearing in mind the current visit from the IOC, to change your slogan from ‘Back the Bid’ to ‘Oi, give us the fucking Olympics, you foreign bastards’.

Love,
Munky

Dear Cosmo,

Dear Cosmo,

I have written ‘Munky’s Step-by-step Guide to Great Sex!!!’ I hope you will publish it. Thank you.

1)Don’t have a funny vagina.
2)Don’t read Cosmo.*
3)Repeat 1 and 2 until you actual gain a bit of fucking self-esteem and learn to enjoy yourselves.

Then you can fill your pages with hot man-on-man action, because girls like that shit, too.

Thank you,
Munky

*I have it on good authority that inserting an ice cube into your husband’s arsehole is grounds for divorce. ‘Good authority’ being common sense, you arsing fuckwits.

Dear leather,

Dear leather,

Why so you cost so much? You're just made of a fucking cow. It's not like I want a jacket made of supermodels' eyelids.

And for Christ's sake, beef mince only costs £1.29 down at Safeways.

xo,
Munky

P.S. I hate cows. I went to the countryside once and the shitting evil cows chased me.

P.P.S. Phoenix is a nice cow, because everyone likes a 'baby cow escaping from a flaming pile of fetid diseased cows' story.

P.P.P.S. Although, a jacket made of Phoenix....hrmmmm...

Dear awful bloke in Café,

Dear awful bloke in Café,

Don’t pull that smug sneering bullshit face when eavesdropping on my girlie conversation about shoes, fluffy kittens, hair products, the necessity of boys and a multitude of other topics which necessitate vast quantities of oestrogen to appreciate. Don’t titter and shake your head in dismay when I squeal about the latest copy of Vogue.

I saw you pick your nose and eat it. I may be a big girlie part of the time, but you are a big booger eater all of the time. And you possess some of the worst table manners I have ever encountered, you socially inept cretin.

Cunt.

So don’t lord it over me as some superior species of thinker merely because I bathe, wear lipstick and choose, at certain times in my life, to discuss such topics as “jeans which give great ass” and “buying new eyeliner.”

Kisses,
Munky

P.S. And you smell bad.

Dear today,

Dear today (10 Feb),

Fucking shit off and leave me alone. I'm tired of you.

Luv,
Munky

Dear Camden Council,

Dear Camden Council,

Please hire people who can spell.

The 'Fir Access' next to my office is slightly alarming. I'm on the lookout for renegade evergreen trees...

Love,
Munky

Dear Mr Munky,

Dear Mr Munky,

“These trousers give me diarrhoea,” is not a valid excuse not to wear a £150 pair of jeans.

Love,
Munky

P.S. It merely makes me laugh to the point of hyperventilation at the thought of a pair of trousers plotting to give you the shits.

Dear Kentish Town,

Dear Kentish Town,

I fucking hate you because all of your residents either have seeping green facial scabs or are failed reality TV 'stars' who sell their tits to tabloids.*

And you smell of sperm. That disturbs me.


Kisses,
Munky

*Yes, Nush, that includes you.

Dear Amy Winehouse,

Dear Amy Winehouse,

Yes, we all saw you in the bar on Saturday night. It was hard not to notice, due to all your jumping, screaming and depressing/unpleasant/overwhelming desperation to be noticed.

We just didn't give a fuck, you annoying twit.

Love,

Munky

P.S. The same goes for The Black Eyes Peas last week in Harrod’s men’s department. “If people don’t notice me, I’ll dance on a chair, wear a BEP shirt and sing my own songs!!” Shame…