God Hates God

Dear Men,

Sitting with your legs spread wide wafts the stench of your unwashed balls to the poor souls who sit around you. No matter how clean you think your sack is, a warm day will always create an all-permeating testicle stench akin to a public toilet tampon receptacle . Stop it – your ballsack neither needs nor deserves the abundant space – or I will be forced to remove the offending balls by any means necessary.*

With love,
Munky

*Preferably with a dull and rusty implement.

Dear Summer,

All in all, I find you to be an amiable season, a real stand-up spell of nice weather and general loveliness. I applaud you for your fight against the winter doldrums and admire your ability to make flowers grow.

Nonetheless, I have found that most of your actions are not entirely on the up-and-up. You’re a sneaky fellow, summer, and I think I’ve caught you out.

In the winter, the twats and the cunts and the arseholes are far too cold to carry on their crime sprees of rudeness, and the mouth breathers charging about can only suffocate under their scarves. In the summertime, these mutants of good manners are to be seen everywhere, picking the gravel out of their knuckles as they stomp onto the city buses, the remnants of a day’s wages not earned scattered on their track suits. Now, one might say that I could merely ignore these people and allow them to get on with their masturbatory daydreams of Page 3 nipples, if it were not for the smell and the sight of these cretins.

You see, summer, their smell can be masked in the winter by their layers of clothing, by the slowing of stink molecules by way of freezing. In the summer, the never oft-changed underpants can be sensed from a full 400 yards away as the accompanying lady-folk of these cross-eyed clans hike their skirts in order to display the full expanse of white flesh, like a day-old slice of blubber from Moby Dick – roughly the same size, roughly the same colour and certainly just as putrid.

And if it weren’t for the sights and smells of shite warmed on the streets, I also find your actions of hayfever most disagreeable. Evolution of the Plantae Kingdom would have never have allowed the self-same admirers of these plants to suffer such an awful illness. I disagree that these allergens might be pollen, I reckon they’re tiny molecules of asbestos and knives and death which lodge themselves in your nose and in your tear ducts for the sole purpose of making Life Not Worth Living. And you look upon us summer, with your warmth and your sunshine and your glee - and you cackle! You laugh at us and our suffering!

I know you make things pretty, I know you make things bright, I know that my standing out in you will make the consumption of vitamin D redundant. I also know, though, that you have an ulterior motive, an attempt to nullify all your good work in order to make the people of the Earth suffer greatly.

Bring on the barbecues and Pimms, baby!

Munky

Dear Sky Digital,

A wise man once told me that he learned English from Bon Jovi lyrics. Applying this premise, I assume that I can learn Arabic from watching Al Jazeera for a weekend straight. Perhaps I might be able to understand the intricacies of world history by consuming at least 7 hours of The History Channel per week (or, by that regard, forget everything I ever learned about politics by watching 16 seconds of Fox News.) Maybe I will actually cook a curry from scratch that doesn’t taste like toasted bum fluff, thanks to The Food Channel. Last night I actually considered converting to, uhhhh, religion merely by skimming very quickly past the 27 available religious channels. But most of all, I’d like to become a borderline-retarded soiled nymph (“£5.17 an hour? To get out me tits and fondle me bits? Yes, please.”) with the aid of ‘The Daily Sport Live XXX.’

Please, Sky Digital, oh great provider of knowledge, make me a slut.

Cable television will change my life!
Munky

Dear my assailant,

You, sir, are the biggest cunt I’ve ever known. The most delusional cunt. The greatest woman-hating cunt. The most perverted cunt. You are now the figure of cunt which forms in front of my eyes when I materialize the word ‘hate’.

You don’t have the right – nobody has the fucking justification – to use a bus as their own personal playground of perversion and violence, to chase a woman who is clearly afraid of you, to grab her and hold her without the presence of sunlight and passersby to dull your fierce depravity.

You can forgive me for my accidental glance, the tactile silk dress, the packed bus which created a physical proximity between my genitals and your hands. Did I look weak? Abusable? Like the mother you always hated?

I don’t have safety anymore. Every head of black hair makes me paranoid, makes me form brass knuckles out of the broken fags and 2p coins on the bottom of my purse in the hope of making you just as fucking afraid as I was. I know I’m going to get over this shortly, but until then, allow me my bits and pieces of theoretical revenge.

Allow me the liberty of either fight or flight.

Munky

Dear Stress,

You’re an inevitable part of adult life in this awful modern world. Few people can claim to be completely stress-free, and they’re on serious mind-bending drugs. Or they do a lot of yoga, in which case they’re crusty cunts and I wouldn’t talk to them anyways. In many ways, I envy these people.

I read somewhere that trees don’t get stressed out. This has partly to do with the fact that they can’t comprehend the cuntery of mankind and partly to do with the fact that they’ve never dealt with estate agents. Even trees in Camden, forever doomed to stare upon the bubbling shit streams of society, easily shrug off their woes and happily continue to create oxygen. I envy trees, too.

In a recent survey, 99% of the world’s population answered ‘yes’ to the following question:

Are you, like, totally stressed out or what?

From these findings, it has been determined by some very intelligent and well-regarded scientists that stress is caused by ‘other people’, ‘work’ and ‘shit breaking’. Unfortunately, these three items can only be avoided if one chooses to live a semi-comatose solitary life in a cave with only unbreakable things as mates. For the other 6 billion of us knocking about this world, the only relief to be found lies in death.

Until then,

A very stressed out Munky