God Hates God

Dear Pirates,

I did something remarkable today, and it didn’t involve fine port, tax evasion or bumhole sex. I went to the upper echelons of the the Sky package known as ‘Channel 800 and above’.

Obviously, not any fucker can scale such peaks. Sir Edmund Hillary tried in 1953 only to discover that satellite television had yet to be invented, and he was merely prodding his finger against an oblong block of wood while pointing it at a transistor radio. Chris Bonington tried only the other year, but contracted gangrene somewhere around ‘Bid-Up TV’. But today, sheer mind-numbing, Boxing Day boredom (Pubs: shut. Slutty pants shop: shut. Shoe shop: shut. Point of Munky’s existence: zero.) drove me to press my remote control’s ‘program up’ button so many times that, were it a nuclear red button, it would be crying out for the reluctant modesty of George W. Bush.

ZOOM! There I went, racing past S4C ~ Digidol. WHOOSH! That’d be me, storming past OBE TV (they have awards ceremonies just for Nigerians living in Hounslow now??) RANDOM EXCLAMATION OF SPEED! C’est moi, whizzing past XXX Babecast (boobies AND santa hats? How fucking festive!)

And then - cue the rousing Danny Elfman soundtrack - there I was. I had travelled long. I had travelled hard. I had travelled like Christopher Columbus travelled before reaching The New World (only without all the raping.) I had arrived at channel 804: ASIAN STAR TV.

Let’s tackle each of those words individually (although not necessarily in that order), shall we? It’s definitely Asian. It’s definitely TV. Not entirely sure whether it features ‘stars’. But, and here’s the clincher, it does have pirates. Asian pirates. The internet was invented for the moment I could share this hastily photographed screengrab with you, my dear disciples. Enjoy, and in the words of the immortal bard, Shane MacGowan:

Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God
It’s our last

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,

Munky

Dear All,

Fucking hell, it is 1:45pm and I am fucking pissed.

God bless Baby Jesus for giving me an excuse to get fucking wankered at work.

Through wine-stained lips,
Munky

P.S. Oh yes, as I am going to be away (read: asleep / drunk) for much of the Christmas holiday, I have the following proposition:

In order to celebrate the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ in proper Munky style, submit the haiku of your sweary choosing.

Jess has syphilis.
Her bits cause me great disgust.

Rancid cunthole of doom.

Dear Turkeys,

I used to be a do-gooder vegetarian, expounding to all and sundry the benefits of a vegetable-based lifestyle. I was a fucking cunt, I was. If I’d have known me, I would have kicked me in the snatch. Luckily, the sheer natural magnetism of beef jerky became too great, and I popped that great vegetarian cherry with a nice bit of marinated and dried flesh, courtesy of Ted Nugent. Yum.

In youth, my diet consisted of things my dad killed with his great big collection of giant guns. An outdoorsman by nature, he was often found in the woodlands of Michigan and Ontario, killing things. Amongst those things were turkeys, a creature apparently so stupid that all you needed to kill them were a scary face and some unkind words. I ate a lot of turkey when I was young, comforted with every chew by the fact that they were not much more intelligent than a parsnip.

As a teenager, a gaggle of particularly threatening and large turkeys set up camp (like Gypsies, but with more shit) on our front lawn, harassing me with the menace only flightless birds could muster whenever I left the house. At night they’d sit outside my bedroom window, shouting filthies at me and keeping me awake with their turkey orgies. Exhausted after months of non-stop aggravation and feathered persecution, Thanksgiving and Christmas couldn’t come around soon enough – I planned to feed them Christmas turkey in the hope that they would acquire a taste for turkey, then eat themselves very dead. Morbid and messy, yes; but effective. My plans were devastated when, with first snowfall, I began to hear the squeals of tires mounting the sidewalk and the thud of a turkey hitting the bonnet of a pickup truck. I’d wake up in the morning to find one less turkey to fuck me off. Eventually they had all died through tragic hit-and-run accidents, and I could again sleep at night and freely leave the house without a turkey chasing me.

So fuck turkeys.

Eat up,
Munky

Dear Misery,

“Do you miss me, Miss Misery / Like you say you do” once sang Elliot Smith on a soundtrack for a shite Ben Affleck movie. No wonder Elliot eventually stabbed himself in the heart. I’m often despondent, flailing about in a shallow pool of my own anguish, knowing that Ben Affleck exists. Imagine having to hang out with him at The Oscars. It doesn’t even bear considering the awfulness faced by poor Elliot Smith.

Misery has plenty of synonyms. Firing up my trusty thesaurus, I’ve found that ‘grief’, ‘woe’, ‘worry’ and ‘pang’ fill out that list. Misery is by far the most preferred in my vocabulary, as it hides my hideous Midwestern accent; the rest, when pronounced by a fellow Michigander, sound less like a horrid state of emotion and more like something one might call their pet hamster. And, if in an actual state of anguish, wailing ‘misery!!’ while standing on a street corner gives your cause the sympathetic oomph it requires, whereas shouting ‘woe!’ or ‘pang!’ makes you look a bit of a mental or like an action exclamation in a comic book.

Misery comes from a plethora of sources: love, work, other people, menstruation – if you can think of it, chances are it has been, or will be, a source of misery in your life. The other day, I looked at a picture of tiny pink baby pandas and it made me miserable, although, suffice to say, I think the initial source of this misery was the aforementioned ‘menstruation’.

Found amongst my current tornado of misery is this thing called ‘Christmas’. Thousands of miles from home, a raging atheist and completely devoid of Christmas (oh, I’m sorry, as a liberal, I am apparently at war with Christ and the pagan holidays his religion has adopted) cheer, I’ve found myself in a serious state of mope. As the tinsel and decorated trees rise around me, my mood swirls downward until what should be carolers and twinkling lights and giant bows on giant presents have become the twisted silage of shitting shitness.

I can’t even be arsed to finish this bloody missive, this holiday has made me so fucking miserable.

Shitting shit,

Munky

Dear Licorice,

You’re nothing like liquor.

Lying cunt,

Munky

Dear Cleaning,

On occasion, I’ve been known to do a bit of tidying. Don’t tell my mum, dear please no, it would ruin her opinion of me. It would destroy her vision of a daughter with a bedroom like a crackden and an aversion to order, clean surfaces and fresh smelling bath towels.

There’s a reason those balls of hair lingering in the corners of my lounge have been christened ‘dustbunnies’ by popular language - the word conjures up a vision of lovely fluffy things named ‘Poppy’ which should not be destroyed by my hoover, but rather cuddled. If they were called ‘dustrabbits’, I’d consider eating them. ‘Dustdolphins’? I’d fucking annihilate them with fire, acid and ebola. In that same fashion, I must destroy all cobwebs, because secretly I hated Charlotte and her fucking Web of good spider intentions, trying to save Wilbur from becoming bacon and a nice set of BBQ ribs. I fucking love ribs, and a good bacon sarnie never goes amiss.

I’m shit at doing the washing up. Much like dancing and socialising with my peers, I can’t do it properly. If some people are born with a natural gift for music I’ve been born with a natural gift to leave chunks and smears all over plates.

So I’m left in a state of semi-filth, wallowing in a fine film of fag ash and rivers of disease until inspiration strikes and I spend 6 hours cleaning my house into such a state, that I can’t bear to move for fear that I’ll make the place dirty again.

In immobilisation,

Munky

Dear Egos,

The other day, I stated, “My dog would never piss on the sofa. Oh no.” Smug in my righteous control over my puppy’s bladder, I was horrified to find him creating Loch Urine on my settee, a sort-of hot spring for those with a dog wee fetish. It taught me a lesson: never to be smug. Oh, and never to trust that fucking dog, because he’s a bit of a dick.

A few months back, an astute young gentleman requested that he use a portion of my blog for a book. My ego’s tummy was grumbling for an attention morsel, so I obliged. Now The Guardian’s done gone and reviewed the book, setting aside a whole paragraph for me. Me! ME! ME ME ME ME ME!!!

http://books.guardian.co.uk/reviews/computingandthenet/0,6121,1657061,00.html

(You don’t need to read all of it, just do a Ctrl-F and search for ‘Chocolate Covered Bananas’ to find the most important and interesting piece of journalism - nay - writing,, in the history of all language in the world, ever.)

I’m famous! FAAAAAAAAAAAAMOUS! I demand EVIAN and FLUFFY BUNNIES and a STYLIST for EACH OF MY HAIRS! Even the pubic ones.

But wait! What’s this? Didn’t I say that I was taught never to be smug? Silly me, yes I did. Which is why it comes to no surprise that this excerpt is about my bumhole and a medical procedure involving a camera.

My bumhole is famous.! FAAAAAAAAAMOUS! It demands a STYLIST FOR EACH OF ITS HAIRS! It awaits the phone call from Radio 5 Live.

Nicky Campbell: “So , blogging, Chunky Munky’s bumhole. WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY ABOUT IT?”

My bumhole:

And this is where tragedy strikes, when the whole of my ego shatters under the weight of reality, for although my bumhole is famous beyond its wildest sphincter dreams, it can’t speak. And lo, the lesson about being smug has been well and truly schooled upon my arse. Literally.

I’d like to thank the NHS. WIthout you, none of this would have been possible,

Munky

Dear Knowledge,

Cumulative knowledge is recompense for damage inflicted by everyday life. With each passing day, we learn new things as a consequence to the harm done either through mishap or malice, and this gleaned information is the spoils of this great societal war.

Today I learned, through a series of controlled scientific experiments, that fire foam does not burn. Not even if you pour lighter fuel on it, cover it with a paper note from your boss, directly apply a flame and shout, “Burn motherfucker, burn.”

Much of Hertfordshire learned yesterday morning that you shouldn’t allow fanatical Daily Mail readers to give witness statements to the media, as they’ll magically pull tall tales from their sphincters of evil Muslim jihadist planes purposefully crashing into poor innocent God-fearing Christian petrol depots. From there, this grotesque misinformation found its way into the fat Australian fingers of Rupert Murdoch, who then propagated it throughout the media until what was merely an accident turned into yet another reason for backwards racist fuckers the world over to masturbate to the tune of The Iraq War.

Viva la Propaganda!

Munky