God Hates God

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 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 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 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 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,

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 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 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 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,

The bane of my existence is 6.5 billion strong.

Fuck me, I’m outnumbered.

Love,
Munky