God Hates God

Dear Commuting,

Not so long ago, I was a smug walk-to-worker, taking occasional pauses to sneer at bus riders and play games of chicken with cyclists. Aside from having to live in fucking Camden, it was a good life, it was.

Since moving to the countryside, I have added to the list of banes to which my existence has become unfortunately acquainted: commuting. Most curses to my life can be momentarily imprisoned in a rather violent and bloody daydream, but the harsh unabashed reality of commuting is here to stay. A 20 minute walk, followed by 35 minutes on the train, 15 minutes on one bus, 15 minutes on another and, finally, the deposit of my arse into this here office seat. Although this journey has been rigorously tested for the purposes of efficiency, there is a single factor which fucks it all up – people.

For those who don’t know me, I’m a classic misanthrope. People are what are wrong with society, people are what are wrong with the world, the arts, food, television, work, socialising; basically, people fuck everything up for me and those around me. And people, due to their unashamed stupidity, selfishness and cunt-ocity, make my offensively long commuting journey a fucking nightmare.

From the banker cunts who can’t seem to find that 45p in their pockets to pay for a newspaper but could easily skim £300,000 off accounts to fuck over some poor people, to arsewit women who manage to take up the entire train platforms with their scrunchies and their white-trainers-with-‘natural tan’ nylons and their STOMP STOMP STOMP without actually bending their knees, to tourists who treat Marylebone Road as their personal playground of stupidity, to…come to think of it, all people must die horribly. Preferably something to do with bleeding from the eyes and having their skin turn to gel, ruining their very very very expensive suits. And these people, they’re everywhere! At every point in my peripheral vision there are cunts either wishing to get in my way, in the process of getting in my way or feeling the wrath of having been in my way.

Don’t get me wrong, here, I love where I live. I just find it odd that they condone dogging, wife-swapping and “I spent the weekend balls-deep in London’s finest”, but when I am heard to query, “So, if you were being bukkaked, what would you do if one of the blokes squatted down over your face and laid a smelly one?”, the collected wrath of their askew morality bears down upon me. These are people who never run out of ways to brag of their importance, yet rarely move as if they have any purpose or consequence in their day.

There is no way around commuting, but it could be easier if I banished the following from my journey:

1) Men
2) Women
3) Teenagers
4) Children

Until then, I beg them not to fuck with me as I’m reading my Guardian.

Bless,

Munky

P.S. This entire post will become eerily redundant when I get lightninged to death on the commute home.

Dear Eskimo,

You know we’re going to fucking miss you.

xxx,

Munky

Dear Canada,

On the typically banker-filled 18:33 from Marylebone last night, I couldn’t help but overhear some resident braying Buckinghamshire poshos discussing your relative merits.

“I went to Canada!” they cried, “And I didn’t see a single moose!”

“Where did you go?”

“Toronto! I couldn’t believe my poor luck, not seeing a moose!”

“Ah, yes, Tarquin, I am to take a journey to Toronto this fall. I dearly hope I am not ravaged by a bear.”

My head was engulfed by visions of vicious large wildlife scouring the streets of your most metropolitan city, searching for morsels of tourist meat to chew. For the sake of tourism, I would highly recommend that you introduce these animals into the local Toronto scenery. The people demand moose, or they shall not have anything to talk about in the awkward silences between self-congratulation.

Having grown up in Damned Near Canada, we Damned Near Canadians knew little about your country. “Prime Mini-what? What’s the capital? Oh, I don’t fucking know! Let’s go drink heavily and vomit in some Canadian’s garden!” To the tanked-up Yanks across the border, Canada is all bars, strips clubs, casinos and young American college women willing to hand out blow jobs. To the rest of the world, Canadians live harmoniously amongst elk and moose, supping mugs of maple syrup and dreaming of becoming Mounties.

American tourists have taken to wearing Canadian patches on their gigantic pavement-blocking, personal injury-causing backpacks, as they assume that the locals won’t treat them like shite if they pretend to be Canadian. “Let’s practice our Canadian!” they exclaim, “Aboot! Beer! All right, I’ve got it. Off to Europe we go!” What those idiots should actually do is some research into Canadian politics and popular culture, that way when snarky bastards such as myself question their actual homeland, they won’t be left flailing their arms and showing over-enthusiasm for hockey and maple trees. Europe has wizened to their silly little Canadian patch trick – if you’re dumb enough to wear one, you’re probably an American. What they should do is wander about being nice to people, then various members of society will be far too polite so as to accuse you of being an American. “I didn’t want to offend you by calling you American,” they’ll say. And then you can both have a big guffaw and wear bowler hats, eat jellied eels and practice your Cockney Rhyming Slang, or whatever it is that Londoners stereotypically do.

I once got lost and accidentally drove into Canada. I picked up some furniture at my sister’s place, then headed down the highway to a friend’s house. After reaching the point of no return, I had no other choice than to drive across the bridge and lie to the Canadian customs officers. “What is your business in Canada?” “Uh, I was going to visit a friend.” “With chairs? Are you sure you’re not selling them, thus taking away tax revenue from Canada, you evil evil American?” As it slowly dawned on me that they were going to search me up my bum, I finally admitted my fault – and bless those darned Canadians – they laughed. So then I drove into Canada and distributed my drugs and shit/piss porn amongst good Christian schoolchildren, and we were all happy.

I view Canada as snack utopia; they have the best candy bars from both Britain and Canada. I therefore theorize that one can judge the relative worth of a country on the company that snack shelves keep.

And it’s like the government keeps a close eye on both the UK and America and their popular culture and laws follow suit, “Socialist health care and Snickers bars: YES! Bermuda shorts and warmongering: NO!” Canada’s toilets are bigger, too, thus being able to handle a proper man’s shit. And that’s why Canada is such a great place.

I once knew a cunt from Hamilton, Ontario, though. I trust you took care of him accordingly, so he could not further mar the good name of Canada.

Oh Canada,

Munky

Dear People Named Robin,

According to established entomology, the forename ‘Robin’ is traditionally derived from the well-known bird, the robin. With a familiar red breast and recognizable early morning song, robins have historically been a familiar and friendly part of our everyday lives.

Both masculine and feminine in variation, famous Robins include Robin Cook, the former British Foreign Secretary who shook international politics by resigning in protest of the Iraq war, Robin Hood, who famously stole from the rich to give to the poor and Robin Gibb, member of 1970s multi-platinum supergroup, The Bee Gees.

Unfortunately, Robin Cook is better known for his wandering penis and grotesque elfin-like appearance. Robin Hood is derided for being made into a tremendously shite film starring the ever-awful Kevin Costner and spawning the most fucking irritating song ever recorded, ‘(Everything I Do) I Do It For You’, performed by Canada’s least-liked export, Bryan Adams. And Robin Gibb is dead.

So, perhaps, we must then explore the entomology for the robin’s species classification. The aforementioned red-breasted bird who has chirped out the soundtrack to rural generations is a member of the family Turdus. Better known amongst ornithologists as ‘Thrush’.

So, actually, Robins, you are named after ‘Turdus’ – which sounds a lot like ‘turd’, which is better known amongst youthful circles as ‘poo’ or ‘shit’. Or ‘Thrush’ – which is spelled identically to ‘thrush’, the itchy cottage cheese-like infection of a lady’s hoo-hoo. So, really, what we should call you is Shitty ItchyFlaps.

…

…

Ha ha ha! Hahahahahahahahaha! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Ha ha,

Munky

Dear My Desk,

Apparently a messy desk is a sign of a creative mind. That is to say, creative people are dirty fuckers who don’t throw much of their shit away. By this regard, I must be fucking brilliant. Children worldwide should take field trips to my desk and be graded on essays about my amazing ingenious mind. I’ll even give them souvenirs from my desk, if only to alleviate the strain from the desk legs, buckling under the weight of papers, CDs, toast crumbs and a Roland Rat plushie

While at University, my lecturers would sneer at us and exclaim, “Just wait until you are in the real world!” Fearing that ‘the real world’ would be a inhospitable and frigid land of alcohol-free slave wages and electric probes inserted into our tear ducts, we were relieved to learn that the ‘the real world’ is actually much like university, only we have to keep our mess confined to an area one metre square.

Archaeologists believe that messy desks were invented in 105AD alongside the development of paper, survived the sudden increased popularity of stylish office bins from Ikea and are now on the decline. A government source revealed, “By the year 2023, messy desks will be completely replaced by streamlined social surfaces.” Of course, this vastly important press release was completely overlooked due to cosmic media coverage of random B-list clebs waggling their penises around inside of The Vaginas of the Blonde and Vacuous.

Now where the fuck did my notebook go?

Munky

Dear Make Poverty History,

Although I admire your efforts towards feeding people and stuff, when the vast swathes of the population cast aside your plastic bracelets for something newer and trendier, there’ll be a great global technicolour environmental catastrophe on our hands, a vast armada of good intentions clogging our waterways.

It’ll be like those sad pictures of seagulls stuck wing over beak in the deadly vice grip of a 6 pack holder. In years to come, our children will learn of pollution by pictures of cute bunny rabbits suffocating on Make Poverty History bracelets, and then you’ll be sorry.

If only saving the world weren’t so fucking trendy,
Munky

Dear Insomnia,

Oh, for shit’s sake. Honestly.

I’d really fucking appreciate if you would just fuck off to the night from which you came. Allow me to get on with my day of wild and crazy computing tedium without the weight of less than three hours of sleep tugging at my fucking eyelids.

If man was created to function on 8 hours of sleep or more, then why this cruel trap of insomnia? Was it like the Eve/apple sin thing, where women are forever doomed to spend 1/2 of their time in a state of hormonal/homicidal unrest? Is mankind condemned to suffer from insomnia because he played his music just a bit too loud on the 7th day of Creation?*

Zzzzzzzzz,
Munky

*See, again, I am suffering due to somebody’s need to play their shite taste in music at offensively high volumes. Fuck off stereos, just fuck off.