Dear Everyone Who Knows Mr Munky,

Dear Everyone Who Knows Mr Munky,

You are cordially invited to a party to celebrate Mr Munky’s 30th birthday this weekend. We will have the following:

a) Bass-thudding music so loud, people in Afghanistan will be scratching their heads and wondering why the bombing has restarted.

b) A queue of people so long at the toilets, your chances of actually doing a wee-wee or a poo-poo are approximately zero. Unless you just let rip in your pants.

c) Lots of people with wee-wee and poo-poo in their pants.

d) An incredible number of Japanese people, each one of whom confers infinite coolness upon Mr Munky, purely by dint of the fact that, having invited them, he must also know them. And, by knowing them, he must be oh-so-bohemian.

e) One chair / seat / square inch of floor space per every 50 attendees. Room in which to move / breathe / undertake the basic functions of human existence and interaction is so 90s.

f) The Queens Of Noize.

g) Nibbles.

Alternatively, no we fucking well won’t. Parties are bloody horrible, so you are all invited to send the cold hard cash you would have spent on booze / drugs / cabs / hiring hitmen for the Queens Of Noize to Mr Munky instead. He will then spend it on Mrs Munky, to make her feel a little bit better about being married to an old, old man.

Eternally,
Mr Munky