God Hates God

Dear Caterpillars,

I’ve always had a love/hate* relationship with you. I wish you the best in your pursuit to become butterflies, but would rather that you didn’t, you know, touch me. Ever.

Nonetheless, I feel awful for the atrocities I have forced upon you and your like. I need to absolve these caterpillar sins.

When I was but a wee munky, my sister and I captured one of your brethren and detained it until it died. I did it for malice, but my sister loved him. We had a proper burial, officiated by my father and attended by all of the local children. It would have made you proud to be a caterpillar.

Later in my youth, a friend and I took one of your acquaintances hostage in the hopes of turning him into a butterfly. We forgot about him and, later in the summer, found a half-dust butterfly which had unnecessarily suffered in our makeshift canning jar prison. He died from a combination of neglect, asphyxiation and me being 7 years old and evil.

As a young teenager, I ate the arse of a distant cousin of yours in order to impress a boy I liked. She didn’t taste very nice and, unfortunately, the boy never went out with me. This was before I discovered short skirts and flirting, and let me tell you, the rewards in dressing like a big rampant slut far outweighed the consumption of a caterpillar.

My dog used to eat caterpillars, resulting in projectile canine diarrhea sprayed across the walls in my lovely house. As the reactionary effect of cleaning poo off my walls and having to deal with a poorly puppy, I planned a full-scale revenge against caterpillar-kind, complete with bombs, sweaty torn t-shirts, and a lot of shouting. I killed every caterpillar I could find, making them explode with the pressure of a heavy spray from my garden hose. I would be a liar if I said it didn’t feel nice to see those gigantic squishy caterpillars squirm in the throws of death, that this form of retaliation didn’t make me cackle with retaliatory joy.

I had to get this off my chest. I feel much better. Thanks.

Forgive me,

Munky

*No, I actually really fucking hate you, you viscous sacs of green writhing evil. Fuck off, the lot of you.

Dear My Hometown,

You and I have never gotten along. You liked cow-fucking, I liked poetry. It was never going to work between us. We were worlds apart and, after long examination of my soul, I left you.

But in the years we have been apart, I found myself longing - nay! – yearning! to be near you. Oh woeisme, oh lackaday – were you my one true town, were we meant to be together?

Oh! The peace! My! The trees! Look! Stars in the sky absolved of smog and light pollution! Oh the beauty you provided, was it no wonder a part of my heart still lived amongst your streams of violent inbred rednecks and mountains of chemical waste?

When I was last with you, you bestowed upon me a gift, a gift which offered great clarity to my heart and my soul. Ahhh, do you remember the scene? I, walking my dog near my parents’ house, was given a present of fat spotty rednecks in Nascar shirts cloaked in a film of crystal meth, comprised of 2 parts human and 98 parts gesticulating feces.

And this gift told me, “Are you a boy or a girl?”

“A girl,” I retorted, gazing quizzically at my silk dress and high heels.

“Get out of our fucking town, you fucking dyke!” they gleefully shouted.

And oh! Did they make chase! Luckily they were weighed down by generations of their brainless ancestors giving birth to ever-increasingly grotesque versions of the standard homo sapien! They quickly forgot their rage against my short hair, and wandered off in search of a sheep they could clusterfuck while fashioning white hoods out of copies of ‘Mein Kampf’.

And from there I lifted my eyes to you, my hometown, and gave thanks for this, the clarity which I desired!

I now realize that I’d rather be forever haunted by the munching jingle of maggots eating my own flesh than live near you ever again.

Thanks a million!

Munky

Dear Everybody,

Hey! Thanks for comin’!

Take a look around the new site. It is exactly the fucking same as the old one, but only this time you get a dodgy religious reference and cute stick figures.

Bring on the fundies,

Munky

P.S. Is this like a housewarming? I want some fucking presents.

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,

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 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 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 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,

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.