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.
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Reinventing the lost fucking art of letter writing.
Blog Archive
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2005
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February
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- Dear mountains,
- Dear consumers of fast food,
- Dear hot caffeinated beverages,
- Dear road grit,
- Dear William Faulkner,
- Dear Camden,
- Dear Sainsbury's,
- Dear cancer,
- Dear Mr Munky,
- Dear my former roommate,
- Dear snow,
- Dear Special K,
- Dear Mr Munky's shit trousers,
- Dear Mr. Pete Doherty,
- Dear boys who hit on me,
- Dear Brett Anderson of Suede/The Tears/heroin fame,
- Dear the London 2012 Olympic bid committee,
- Dear Cosmo,
- Dear leather,
- Dear awful bloke in Café,
- Dear today,
- Dear Camden Council,
- Dear Mr Munky,
- Dear Kentish Town,
- Dear Amy Winehouse,
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February
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- Bwil loves nasty hookers. (Brian)
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- Shelly loves me 'cause she's my sister. (Shelly)
- Steph has an unnatural love of trees and gets naked on the internet because she has low self-esteem (Steph)