Chocolate Covered Bananas

Dear Everybody,

2005-04-19T17:42:00.000+01:00

Dear Everybody,

I've fucking gone and moved.

Godhatesgod.com

Best,

Munky

Dear Doctors,

2005-04-14T12:43:00.000+01:00

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

Dear The Countryside,

2005-04-13T14:35:00.000+01:00

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

Dear Chocolate,

2005-04-12T16:13:00.000+01:00

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,

2005-04-12T12:56:00.000+01:00

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

Dear Mobile Phone Users,

2005-04-07T11:39:00.000+01:00

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.

Dear Jet-Lag,

2005-04-06T16:10:00.000+01:00

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.

Dear Booger-eaters,

2005-03-24T17:11:00.000Z

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

Dear Munky's Hair-Dresser,

2005-03-23T17:28:00.000Z

Dear Munky's Hair-Dresser,

Although you seem to find it funny, cutting Munky's hair into shapes previously reserved for Turkey Twizzlers and ruptured irises, I, Mr Munky have to live with the grotesque "creations" (pronounced: cray-ash-euns) which walk back in through my front door every two months or so.

Word has it that there is a wife hidden beneath these haircuts but, seeing as how I always spend the following eight weeks hiding from the jagged-headed Cousin It which stalks around my domicile, I am in no position to verify this possibility.

Save from the fact that someone Hoovers the flat every Saturday.

And that's not me.

Snip-snip,
Mr Munky

Dear Genetics,

2005-03-23T15:31:00.000Z

Dear Genetics,

In this alphabet soup of genetics, hundreds and millions of billions of trillions of weeny little Xs paired off, forming cozy writhing sexy love unions of lesbionic X chromosomes, thus making me female. I’m beginning to wonder, though, if greater sinister forces were at work, sneezing tiny little male Ys into this dirty sexy great chowder.

A bit like when you get your favourite Thai soup, and once you get to the bottom, you realise you’ve been eating peas all along. It is quite distressing and, frankly, I want my money back.

In one breath I can spout on and on about shoes and handbags and designers frocks and Paris Hilton and eyeshadow and ponies and glitter and giggling and boys and – oh my god – she so shouldn’t be wearing that…but equally balanced by a proclivity to swearing and the ability to belch on command.

Certainly I was hard done by somewhere along the line.

With respect,

Munky

Dear Clouds,

2005-03-22T17:57:00.000Z

Dear Clouds,

You serve a single purpose: you loosely form into the shape of abnormally large fluffy animals and thus give children fodder to annoy adults. “Look! That cloud looks like a bunny!” No, it fucking well does not, you stupid child, it fucking looks like a fucking cloud.

Being constantly surrounded by you, clouds, is terribly depressing and demoralising; a bit like being oppressed by that grey lint shit you pull out of the back of your clothes dryers. It is fairly innocuous stuff, but if a person had to look at it all day, they’d probably go mad and cut out their own eyeballs. And then, if they were really truly mad, they’d feed them to their goldfish or something.

I think that, in years to come, very important scientific research is going to find a correlation between clouds and murder/cancer/Camden/other very very bad things, and there will be a call to ban clouds. I say we start now.

Be gone damned clouds,
Munky

Dear The Residents Of Munky Road,

2005-03-22T16:05:00.000Z

Dear The Residents Of Munky Road,

I’m not sure if you’re aware of this but Munky purchased a new computer dongle thingy the other day, enabling wireless internet access throughout Munky Towers. Munky didn’t bother buying a wireless access point because none of you people have heard of encryption, and Munky can use your internet connection – yes, the one you’re using to read this very letter!! – for free. Munky can also look at your porn.

Now I know why the cat at Number 20 only has one eye.

Clickety-click,
Munky

Dear Readers of The Daily Mail,

2005-03-18T12:14:00.000Z

Dear Readers of The Daily Mail,

As a ginger-haired American who has permanently settled in the UK, it seems that I am the 'acceptable' face of immigration. This has been easily gleaned from the many conversations (read: blazing arguments) I’ve had with people on the subject. Without fail, a phrase similar to, “You’re OK, you’re an American,” will be spluttered from their piggy Daily Mail reading little mouths, as if my being white and an English speaker makes the tiniest bloody bit of difference.

Now, I’m not saying that a lot of the anti-immigrant sentiment comes down to racism…oh, silly me, yes I am.

As an immigrant, I pay taxes and National Insurance, yet I have no recourse to public funds. If I lose my job or lose my legs, it is prohibited (yes, actually illegal) for me to pocket or request a single pence in help. No jobseeker’s allowance, no disability, no dole for me – just a big fat £000.00 weekly check made out to ‘Immigrant’. Fuck all, zero, nil, nothing. I pay in, but I am disallowed to get anything out. And those, folks, are the facts on immigration. So how is it again that these backwater fuckwits bleating on about immigration are shouldering my existence in this country?

Rubbing up against copies of The Daily Mail in the hopes of spreading my immigrant spores to the drooling masses,

Munky

Dear Dog On The Bus,

2005-03-17T14:15:00.000Z

Dear Dog On The Bus,

First up, I love you and wish to make you mine. That goes without saying. But you seem to have failed fully to comprehend the various rules concerning bus travel in this great city of ours. First, you bore neither Oyster card, nor travelcard, nor ~~80p~~ ~~£1.00~~ £1.20 – and yet you still took up as much space as any other passenger. Except the fat bitch with body odour, obviously.

Secondly, once your paws are planted on the sticky swamp which passes for the bus floor, it would help if, in future, you kept them still. It upsets me when the driver’s one-emergency-stop-per-minute driving style leads me to tread on your ickle footsies. And it upsets me even more when your mutarded owner scowls at me for doing so.

And, finally, it is unusual to travel on the Number 29 to Camden Town and not lay a big, fat turd on the seat. So, if you were holding back for reasons of etiquette, feel perfectly free to poop away in the future.

Woof woof,
Munky

Dear The Daily Mail,

2005-03-17T13:03:00.001Z

Dear The Daily Mail,

Whereas I absolutely understand that you do your best to appeal to the piss-soaked underbelly of this frankly mediocre isle, why do you try to perplex the racist masses so? You contain vaguely truthful, harmful fairytales of immigrants, of gypsies, of gay people, of war – but most of your ‘readers’ can't - nor want to - read, leading them to an unpleasant conundrum. So what I suggest you do is this following:

Make your paper a single page long and on one side publish a series of pictures of things that these mutards are supposed to fucking hate. It will save them time and save you money!

On the other page, print a very large target so that those of us with nourished brain cells know where to heave the heavy objects.

An immigrant,
Munky

Dear AudioBooksForFreeDotCom,

2005-03-15T17:46:00.000Z

Dear AudioBooksForFreeDotCom,

Yes, but does it shoot you if you listen to pissing R&B?

If so, I'll take a crate of 'em, and hand them out for free down Chalk Farm Road.

Boom Banga-Banga,
Munky

Dear Steven Wells,

2005-03-15T17:20:00.000Z

Dear Steven Wells,

You have written a very, very good article today. Well done.

Nevertheless, you remain a bald, Northern cunt.

Sorry about that.

Smooches,
Munky

Dear The World,

2005-03-15T11:02:00.000Z

Dear The World,

The bane of my existence is 6.5 billion strong.

Fuck me, I'm outnumbered.

Love,
Munky

Dear Annoying Bloke (pt 2),

2005-03-14T17:07:00.000Z

Dear Annoying Bloke (pt 2),

Bragging to all and sundry about your Friday night dirty sex tryst does not make you suave, attractive, cool or desirable. It just puts us off our morning toast and reminds us that there are, in fact, some incredibly desperate women in this world.

Adoringly,
Munky

P.S. And no, she probably did not enjoy herself, you self-centred fool.

Dear Trees,

2005-03-12T22:43:00.000Z

Dear Trees,

Right. So let me get this straight.

Your leaves supply life-giving oxygen to all mankind, but you spend half of your lives without foliage.

That's just a bit fucking selfish, isn't it?

Cheers,
Munky

Dear Japanese Horror Movie Directors,

2005-03-11T12:23:00.000Z

Dear Japanese Horror Movie Directors,

Thank you very much for providing me with lots and lots of ickity moments over the years. I especially enjoyed the torture sequence in ‘Audition’, the heads blowing up in ‘Battle Royale’ and the lovely tongue scene from ‘Ichi The Killer’. Ta for those.

But don’t you think you’ve left something out? Like ENDINGS? Specifically, endings which don’t involve the entire storyline disappearing right up your collective anuses? Endings which don’t come across as though they were chanced upon during a two-minute forage inside some drug addict’s diary, hunting out the biggest nonsensical dream-sequence bollocks you could possibly find? There’s a reason ‘Forest Gump’ didn’t conclude with a 15-legged horse singing backwards at the bottom of a well. And that reason is: it’s got fuck all to do with the plot.

PS: And tell your kids to stop hanging out with Gwen Stefani. It's not big and it's not clever.

Hugs and kisses,
Munky

Dear My Boss,

2005-03-10T12:54:00.000Z

Dear My Boss,

I’m woefully underpaid yet eager to please. I’ll do pretty much anything.

Just don’t make me crawl around underneath Eczema Desk.

Ta,

Munky

Dear Drivers of Luxury Vehicles,

2005-03-09T14:50:00.000Z

Dear Drivers of Luxury Vehicles,

Perhaps you should take your eyes off your ego for just a moment and gaze upon things like, oh, traffic signs, especially those which point out that you are, in fact, disallowed from turning right onto Kentish Town Road. That way, I won’t be killed by your stupendous self-centred unawareness and you won’t have to waste the precious energy you usually reserve for beating up homeless people and wanking over body building magazines on shouting at me for being in the way of your vehicular replacement for a tiny todger.

And you’re a cunt.

With greatest respect,

Munky

Dear Microsoft Word,

2005-03-08T14:55:00.000Z

Dear Microsoft Word,

Whenever I begin to draft these entries, you send some rapist-eyed animation of a paperclip onto my screen, pointing out the fact I’m writing a letter (oh, really?) and asking whether I’d like some help with that. Well, yes, actually; I would. I would like you to write 100 words on the unbearable irritation of existence, including at least one ‘cunt’, several ‘fucks’ and the occasional reference to menstruation (damn you all for rumbling the format of this blog!!)

Unfortunately, the only kind of help you seem able to offer me lies in turning my page background all flowery and twee. It looks like the kind of paper My Little Pony would have used to write a suicide note on.

Dead horsey.

Cheap mince.

Actually, that’s cheered me up.

Thanks for the help,
Munky

Dear Mr Annoying Person,

2005-03-08T13:25:00.000Z

Dear Mr Annoying Person,

Although I absolutely understand that you are forlorn and looking for female attention, I will not, under any circumstances, have lunch with you. I’d rather have rodents chew off my nipples.

Perhaps it has to do with your absolute lack of table manners, the chewing which is so horrifically reminiscent of cows giving a messy birth or of animals eating their own sick. Perhaps it is how you cough as you belch, attempting to mask the great rumble of burp which shimmies its way up your oesophagus and into the air I breathe. Perhaps it is how you shamelessly forage for elastic nasal mucus in those nostrils of yours, then eat them as if they’re you’re favourite flavour of Hubba Bubba. Or maybe it is how you throw things about to divert attention from your audible passing of rectal gas. Maybe.

Always the best,
Munky

Dear Supermarkets,

2005-03-07T11:48:00.000Z

Dear Supermarkets,

‘Hand selected’ is not positive selling point when marketing fruit and veg. It merely means that some complete fucking stranger, no doubt nicknamed ‘Shittyfingers’ by his friends, has handled my courgettes and apples.

Sincerely yours,
Munky

Dear David Walliams,

2005-03-05T20:48:00.000Z

Dear David Walliams,

Although I was delighted to shake your comedy hand when we were introduced earlier, I have been forced to spend the rest of the day washing the abiding stench of Titmuss cunt off my fingers.

Showbiz mwah,
Munky

Dear Sanitary Towel Floating Under Hammersmith Bridge,

2005-03-05T09:06:00.000Z

Dear Sanitary Towel Floating Under Hammersmith Bridge,

You float so gracefully, there with the ducks and the geese and the swans. Drifting along on a current, bobbing away with the tide; winding your sweet, sanguine way through to the canals. And then, who knows? Perhaps to Camden, where you will, at long, long last, meet up with your bloody brethren.

PS: I didn’t know Sarah Jessica Parker was in town today. Golly.

Use the bins provided,
Munky

Dear artists,

2005-03-04T14:27:00.000Z

Dear artists,

If art is ‘all about interpretation’, why do you get so upset when I interpret your art as being shit?

Xxx,
Munky

Dear Jordan,

2005-03-04T09:53:00.000Z

Dear Jordan,

Ah, right. So you think you can represent the UK in the Eurovision Song Contest, do you? You, with the fake tan so badly applied it looks as though you’ve been sprayed with silage by a blind farmer tending a herd of spongiformed moo-moos? You, with eyes colder and deader than a shrivelled chicken breast, left slowly to rot into icy dust at the back of a never-opened freezer draw?

You, the nation’s foremost celebrity whore, shitting out sleaze, silicon and sprogs like someone’s exploded a water-balloon full of laxative over the seventh circle of hell, then sent you swimming out through the faeces to bring the chunky bits back up to the surface, ready for celebration in Heat!Now!Ok!Closer!Reveal!Felch! ?

You, the nation’s foremost screaming, wailing, vomiting, staggering, spread-eagling, soul-selling, shit-wearing, star-fucking, brain-rotting, self-pitying, self-worshipping, self-destroying, airheaded nobody?

You?

To represent the United Kingdom?

Yep, you’ll do perfectly.

Best of luck,
Munky

Dear Fat Woman On The Bus,

2005-03-03T17:59:00.000Z

Dear Fat Woman On The Bus,

I understand that it must have been very disturbing when that perfectly pleasant young man had to engage in physical contact with you this morning. I appreciate that, for a microsecond, your world must have turned upside-down, simply because his thick coat pushed against your very tight coat, possibly creating a little friction. I sympathise with your plight that, for the duration it takes a cheetah to sneeze, your capacious sense of personal space was downgraded from penthouse to bedsit.

But did it occur to you, before you screamed blue bloody murder at the gentleman in question, that he needn’t have "pushed past you" at all had you not been so fucking fat?

No? Well, maybe it will next time.

PS: You fat bitch.
PPS: You know how you were telling your equally fat friend that your grand-daughter’s always ruining low on her mobile credit, so you always have to call her back? That’s because she spends all her money on condoms, crack and poison to put in your tea. Because she fucking hates you too.

0845 345 1500, luv…
Munky

Dear Dizzee Rascal,

2005-03-03T17:46:00.000Z

Dear Dizzee Rascal,

I know you’re just a rascal, and a dizzee one at that, but carrying pepper spray on your person is a little bit girlie. Do you also carry a rape alarm and a multi-coloured collection of scrunchies in your pocket? Do you keep some super-glue handy in case your heel snaps off, and a copy of Grazia magazine (total shit! every week!!) in your mock-croc handbag? Do you coo at the fashion sense of the Desperate Housewives? Do you think Freddie Llungberg is straight? Do you calorie count and take pole-dancing lessons and drink Smirnoff Ices?

Are you me?

Innit,
Munky

Dear Sunny Camden,

2005-03-03T17:04:00.000Z

Dear Sunny Camden,

'Tis a sunny day in ole' Camden Town. The crack glistens and the heroin shines with the rays of the sun. The goths unite in song with the Chavs, and the chorus line of media-types make their way through the streets, Vaseline smeared on their teeth so their smiles never tire.

So light up, my fellow Camdenites, and let the spark of your cracklighter against the aluminium foil ignite your soul!

Or rather, fuck off you scaggy cretins. You’re ruining my perfectly nice day.

Yours truly,
Munky

Dear Sarah Jessica Parker,

2005-03-03T10:06:00.000Z

Dear Sarah Jessica Parker,

Despite your khaki prancing and tossing about of flowers, whenever I look at you, I just see…

…menstruation.

You look like you’re constantly on the go, like there is an ever-present crust of menses on your girlie bits.

Adoringly,
Munky

P.S. You should star in the remake of ‘The Blob’.
P.P.S. Ha, I am so damned funny and witty.

Dear Everyone Who Knows Mr Munky,

2005-03-02T15:38:00.000Z

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

Dear The Air,

2005-03-02T15:04:00.000Z

Dear The Air,

While I appreciate that you, like God, have a very difficult job, being everywhere all the time and everything, I would like to register my disgust at your recent activity. I learn that you contain 78% oxygen, 21% nitrogen and 1% argon-y shit but, somehow, that doesn't seem to add up. Because, from where I'm sitting (over a toilet bowl, painfully reacquainting myself with my barely-swallowed lunch), you seem also to contain approximately 99% disease. As in the air-borne virus death disease which has passed into my lovely body from the bodies of repulsive, contaminated, bastard Camden cunts.

Make yourself useful and carry good things in future - such as puppies, floating in your breeze. Or big cheques made payable to Munky, wafting about in your currents. Or the head of whichever pikey fuckbag gave me their stomach flu, bobbing along the ground like a particularly bloody tumbleweed.

Air kisses,
Munky

Dear 13 year olds who ask me for a ‘smoke’ or a ‘light’,

2005-03-02T12:36:00.000Z

Dear 13 year olds who ask me for a ‘smoke’ or a ‘light’,

Although I don’t approve of children smoking fags, I must always oblige your requests because otherwise you’ll punch me in the head and set me on fire. My rationales are completely selfish, but at least it will prevent The fucking Sun from running a ‘tragic’ story about my ‘tragic’ death from a ‘tragic’ addiction.

Cordially,
Munky

Dear mountains,

2005-02-28T10:42:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-28T10:39:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-25T14:40:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-25T10:43:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-24T16:10:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-24T12:44:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-23T17:44:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-23T17:14:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-22T10:19:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-21T18:39:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-21T16:54:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-20T17:23:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-19T17:35:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-18T20:11:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-18T18:34:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-18T16:27:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-17T12:13:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-16T14:12:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-13T21:48:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-11T13:31:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-10T18:02:00.000Z

Dear today (10 Feb),

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

Luv,
Munky

Dear Camden Council,

2005-02-08T13:33:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-08T10:29:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-07T17:39:00.000Z

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,

2005-02-07T13:03:00.000Z

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…

Dear pigeons,

2005-01-26T16:41:00.000Z

Dear pigeons,

I hate you because I'm afraid you'll shit in my mouth.

Best,
Munky

Dear Adobe,

2005-01-25T13:03:00.000Z

Dear Adobe,

Your shitting little software bug in Creative Suite has cost me 6 hours of my very precious time.

And all I needed to do was change the time zone from GMT-Cardiff to GMT-London. THAT WAS IT. 6 hours of resetting the shitting PRAM, updating pre-bindings, resetting the NVRAM, multiple reinstallation of the OS and of Creative Suite, cleaning caches, running fucking fsck, dumping preferences, fixing the bloody permissions; all the while looking like the complete fucking moron who shitted up the poor designer's computer. And all I needed to do was to change the bloody time zone.

How the fuck was I to know that you don't like the Welsh?

Love,
Munky

P.S. Oi, a little mention on your pocking little support site would have saved me all this stress and time.

Dear Pronunciation Police,

2005-01-21T10:28:00.000Z

Dear Pronunciation Police,

Despite my years in the UK and my ever-rounding vowel sounds, there are still some words I still can’t enunciate without sounding like the small-town corn-fed Midwestern redneck I am.

I present to the court the word ‘yogurt’. No matter my laborious efforts, no matter your guffaws of mockery, no matter your rigorous pronunciation training program, I will always say it with a twang that suggests in-breedin’ and off-roadin’.

Love,

Munky

P.S. The word ‘bollocks’ shits me up, too. Bollocks. Bollocks.

See? Aw, bollocks.

Dear my stomach,

2005-01-20T10:15:00.000Z

Dear my stomach,

If I give you some candy, will you shut the fuck up?

Kisses,

Munky

Dear smoking,

2005-01-19T13:34:00.000Z

Dear smoking,

I love you. I love how you make me smell bad, which is OK because I have a boy who smells bad, too.

I love you. I love how fellow smokers give me the nod off appreciation and encouragement.

I love you. I love how I can be mean to people I don’t like by blowing smoke on then and blame it on ‘wind change’.

I love you. I love how you make me feel satisfied and happy 20 times a day by merely fulfilling an addiction need.

I love you. I love how you make me look ‘well hard’, cool and sexy.

I love you. I love how a burning cigarette can also be used as a weapon against all the really mean people in Camden.

I love you. I love how you make me friends through our common love of smoking.

I love you. I love how I spend more time outdoors because of you.

I love you. I love how you make me enemy through the simple act of having smouldering dried leaves touch my lips. It is way better than the days when doing something really bad would make me enemies!

I love you,
Munky

Dear the people who call me a 'commie liberal',

2005-01-18T17:28:00.000Z

Dear the people who call me an 'anti-American commie liberal',

I suffer a mental mêlée with the moral dichotomy of being pro-choice and anti-capital punishment. Both are legalized killing, making my stance on each hypocritical. At least I admit it.

I am a small town American.

I am a Londoner.

I am wary of any actions taken or laws enforced on theory alone, i.e.:
The war in Iraq.
GM foods.
Global warming.
Gun control.

I am fully aware that there are genuine motives for said actions and laws, i.e.:
The war in Iraq.
GM foods.
Global warming.
Gun control.

But it still doesn’t always make them right.

If you read the above stories, you’ll just wind up being as confused as their categorisation within this text.

Repulsive, hateful, malicious ignorance can be masked by passable proofreading. But only just.

Home-schooling does make you weird.

I’m not an environmentalist. I just like things to look pretty, smell pretty and not give people cancer.

I am an atheist, but recognise the need for people – all people – to practice their religions (or lack of) openly in society. I also realise that this is difficult, as each religion (or lack of) has their faction of hate which would render this impossible.

Religion is merely a matter of geography. If I were born in Pakistan, I would pray to Allah. Michigan? God.

‘Liberal’ isn’t a dirty word. We all became the way we are through our life experiences and varying degrees of study. Sometimes these combinations of life experiences and study makes one conservative and other times liberal. The only unacceptable standpoints are those which arise from hatred, ignorance and the wilful disregard of facts. Unfortunately those positions have become the norm.

For the deceitfully religious, leather-wearing fur-haters and cheerleaders: you cannot pick and choose your morality.

Would you kill because of pride? Spiritual pride? Home pride? School pride? Self pride? False pride?

If God protects America (86% Christian), He protects Rwanda (80-93.6%) and Columbia (90% Christian), too.

Youths With a Mission's Method Kamanzi: "Rwanda had been evangelised but not discipled."

And we all know what happened there (genocide.)

A significant portion of the worldwide Christian population would say the same about a significant portion of their Western Christian counterparts. Please, starting now, become disciplined.

I've seen The Pope's Christmas Midnight Mass in the flesh and cried with joy.

I've seen the KKK in the flesh and cried with hatred.

I've seen Abu Hamza in the flesh and cried with fear.

Love,

Munky

Dear the stupid fuckers I call my 'friends',

2005-01-08T21:47:00.000Z

Dear the stupid fuckers I call my 'friends',

It is official. You are going to have to tolerate 11 days and nights of pure unadulterated Munky-ness starting on 25 March. Deal with it.

Love,
Munky

P.S. Get my 'Big Fuck Off Party' planned.

Dear The Stupid Fuckers at Sainsburys in Camden,

2005-01-07T13:46:00.000Z

Dear The Stupid Fuckers at Sainsburys in Camden,

My New Year's resolution is that you all perish in a horrific accident and I get to watch.

OK, maybe I don't want you dead. You have families.

Suggestions welcome as to how these absolute cretins should suffer.

Best wishes,
Munky

P.S. This is because you all possess the rare but perpertually irritating attributes of being both fucking stupid and fucking rude.

Dear Rome,

2004-12-28T17:55:00.000Z

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,

2004-12-09T13:52:00.000Z

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,

2004-12-02T19:56:00.001Z

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,

2004-12-02T13:40:00.000Z

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,

2004-12-01T13:15:00.000Z

Dear Dr. Death,

I shitted up my back. Can you help?

Ta,

Munky

P.S. Can I pay by check?

Dear tea-thieving tea thieves (pt 2),

2004-11-23T17:30:00.000Z

Dear Tea-Thieving Tea Thieves (pt 2),

I noticed that you've now decided to eat my cranberries and my gluten-free bread. Accordingly, you are now also eating my pubic hair.

Yum yum,

Munky

Dear Chris Evans,

2004-11-23T17:10:00.000Z

I saw you taking that morning-after walk of shame.

You are obviously stalking me and want to be my babydaddy.

Hahahahahahahaaa! You ging twat loser.

Yours,

Munky

P.S. On second thought, please be my babydaddy. Munky wants more shoes. Fur shoes.

Dear The Pope,

2004-11-23T17:03:00.000Z

Dear The Pope,

I like you. Your head is all smushy.

Ta,

Munky

Dear My Tapeworm,

2004-11-22T16:53:00.000Z

Dear My Tapeworm,

Although I am not certain if you exist, I'll keep feeding you coffee 'cause I'm pretty sure you like it.

Huggies,

Munky

P.S. I think I'll name you 'MacGyver'.

Dear Fantasy Football 'Managers',

2004-11-22T16:19:00.000Z

Dear Fantasy Football 'Managers',

Must you derive such a sense of self-worth out of your 'fantasy' score?

Let me remind you that I picked my players solely based on their rilly nifty haircuts and I'm nearly doing as well as you. You big men, you.

Love,

Munky
xoxoxoxox

Dear Skanky Nasty Woman on The Tube...

2004-11-22T16:10:00.000Z

Dear Skanky Nasty Woman on The Tube,

Yelling "FEEEEEEKK OFF!" while allowing your child to shit in a newspaper NEXT TO ME does not make you a Good Mother, no matter your drunken, unintelligible protests.

Luv,

Munky

xxx

Dear The Man Who Lives Beneath Me...

2004-11-22T16:07:00.000Z

Dear The Man Who Lives Beneath Me...

I've noticed that you have very very very loud sex. I'd just like to say Big Up Your Cock!

Despite, what are the power tools for? That's just creepy.

Luv,

Munky

P.S. I've also seen the hookers.

Dear 'Children in Need'...

2004-11-19T19:40:00.000Z

Children do not need to watch this shit.

Kisses,

Munky

Dear Marzipan,

2004-11-19T18:37:00.000Z

Being stuck to a cake does not real cake icing make.

Please take note and fepp off back to the 70s.

Thanks,
Munky

Dear Sweat Glands...

2004-11-19T18:22:00.000Z

You’re not impressing anyone with your constant dribbliness. You’re like an old man’s wang… and who’d want an old man’s wang stuck under their armpit? Not me, that’s who! My clothes would also request that you stop using them as some kind of cashmere jumper to cry on. If you have problems, go and seek help from your brethren instead. Go ask my pituitary glands for advice. Or my lymph nodes. But don’t take it out on my fine, tailored garments.

Piss off, in other words, until the summer. When I will require you to stop me dying of heat-stroke. Your working in the winter does not mean I am be impressed by your splendid work-rate and diligence. It merely means I smell.

Thank you,

Munky xx

Dear Mr Young Buck

2004-11-19T17:54:00.000Z

Thank you for (allegedly) going bonkers with a knife at this week’s Vibe Awards. It was quite exciting, and awards ceremonies like this need to be glitzed up a bit by the occassional bit of eeeerk-ness! When you get released from prison (alleged, blah, blah), could you please go on to stab whoever decided that the Number 29 bus should never stop along Camden Road in the mornings, whoever is responsible for my having a big, swollen spot / zit (delete according to your nationality) on my nose and Geri Halliwell, who was fucking rude to my friend this week. Thank you.

PS: could you stab 50 Cent as well, please? I know he’s your homie and everything, but he upsets my ears. And he won’t mind being stabbed because he’s dead hard and stuff, and it will help him sell more records anyway. In fact, stab him in 11 places including through his mouth. Stab him in the exact same places where he was shot. Or not shot, depending on your belief in the machine we like to call hype. Think of it as a join-the-dots painting or something.

Ta!

Love,

Munky xx

Dear Mr...

2004-11-19T16:02:00.000Z

Dear Mr. BMW-driving cunthead who parks in MY off-street parking spot,

The little brown pellets you keep finding in your car? They're rat poos. They came out of my pet rat's anus.

Deal with it or move your car.

Love,
Munky

Dear tea-thieving tea thieves,

2004-11-18T14:05:00.000Z

Dear tea-thieving tea thieves,

Placing a sign on my tea does not make you the rightful owner.

Accordingly, I have licked my palms and touched all of my teabags. I hope you get all my diseases.

Love,
Munky