God Hates God

Dear Information Technology,

“Why the fuck do you work in IT?” many people never ask. Well, it is because I hate computers, and if I fix what I hate, maybe they won’t piss me off so fucking much. I call it computing misanthropy, I want computers to work just a bit better so I can lead a life free of the shackles of error codes and stupid bloody computer users.

I’m the socialist of the IT world, fixing what I can by way of throwing money and stern looks at the computer in the hope that it will stop punching old ladies and fathering crackbabies while I lead my champagne lifestyle of 4Gb of memory and a bitchass hard drive. “Any computer can be a nice computer, if given enough attention,” I think to myself as I ponder social programs which would allow the processor-deficient of the office hardware to gain self-esteem. If that fails, I kick the fucking gigashit out of it, because it doesn’t fucking deserve to live.

IT does have its advantages, though. It is a surefire way to stop idle chit-chat with lecherous strangers in its tracks. The mere mention of being a computer programmer springs visions aplenty of giant dirty underpants and pubic hair to my knees. I once wound up drunk in one of London’s more posh nightclubs, when some man who probably had more 50 pound notes in his back pocket than functioning sperm pulled up next to me in order to ascertain whether or not he could put his penis inside of me. Inevitably, the conversation turned to careers:

“I exploit small children for a large pay package and a cocaine habit,” he said.
“I am a computer programmer,” I retorted.

And he turned his back on me, refusing to speak to me again. Perhaps he wanted me to tell him that I was a shit-eating hooker with a double-jointed spine, not a computer nerd who specialized in VBScript and statistical reporting (although, to be fair, my hourly rate far exceeds even the best of whores. Only my vagina hurts less and isn’t covered in sores.)

I.T. – it’s where the cool kids aren’t,

Munky

Dear Shopping,

While partaking in these adventures in narcissism, I realized something: I fucking hate shopping. It isn’t because I’m some hippie anti-consumerist bag of slogans, lentils and facial hair (and why is it that these anti-consumerists always have expensive, branded turntables and DJ bags made by nutritionally-stunted blistered-fingered toddlers in China who get paid in decimals rather than whole numbers? At least my shit is made by nice ladies in Italy. And who’s to say their organic vegetables are grown by nice farmers? For all the fuck they know, they’re picked by a chain gang of illegal immigrants who get paid in llama hair and the promise not to call the Home Office.) because, fuck me, I sure like buying shit. It certainly isn’t because I haven’t got enough money to buy the things I want, as I suffer from the common affliction of finance autism, whereby I don’t know what’s what the fuck’s going on in my bank account until the landlord rings to say I’m getting booted out on my well-frocked arse for non-payment. No, it is because I fucking hate my fellow shoppers, the bunch of bland mindless cunts they are.

Looking over the expanse of Bicester Shopping Village (like your average English village, only completely lacking in alcohol drinking facilities, to its absolute shame), I saw wave after wave of young women dressed like they rubbed themselves against the latest copy of Felch! Magazine, daydreaming of the day that they, too, could have their weight-loss secrets (low self-esteem and laxatives, natch) printed in paragraphs constructed out of the lowest-common-denominator language of ‘celebrity’ magazines. The men, testosterone leaking out of their scalps and binding with their hair gel to form helmets of pure fucking ugly, wandered in packs, forming grunts from the lips that were last used to sup the juice from a smackwhore’s vag.

Few of these people dared deviate from the uniform of the purely fucking average, they were the bog-standard of the useless, all hair by ‘blond’, waistbands by ‘McDonald’s’, sex by ‘dead mackerel’ and weekends by ‘Bacardi’. The ones who did manage to escape this trap were so laden with branding, their outfits appeared like ‘Magnetic Poetry’ on a University student’s refrigerator. These are people who have personalities purely based on vocal volume and hair colour, for absolute terror that they might be - shock! horror! - different than their peers.

This isn’t to say there’s something wrong with being exactly like everybody else; no deviation, no bother, right? Hey, we don’t notice them, as they melt into the surroundings of their peers with such chameleon-like talent. It is merely that they are so fucking proud of their similarity, their averageness, their likeness to one another that they set out on the attack of those of us who have never dressed like a slut or lathered ourselves in fake tan, who wear lemon yellow patent leather shoes and a scowl. Bitches - fucking bring it on with your fake Gucci handbags and real saddlebags, standing in a beige pool of your peers laughing at ‘the rest of us’. Even the devil can’t fucking tell you apart, so we’ve got evil on our side.

It isn’t that we’ve got the finger on the pulse, it’s just that we’ve got a fucking pulse,
Munky

Dear Hermits,

Aside from the stink, the poor teeth and the tendency to build mailbombs; hermits really do have something going for them. Like the fact that they don’t have to communicate with the world and don’t worry themselves with things like, “Does X like me enough?” because, hey, they ain’t got no fucking friends. The common cold has ravaged every last bit of my grounded sensibilities, so I’m burrowing away into sweaty, runny-nosed hermit-like existence, with only my trusty puppy and an imaginary hermit beard to keep me company.

Unlike Buddha, I won’t emerge to establish a world religion; or, like Anthony the Great, find myself the patron saint of swineheards. Or, for that matter, like Lady Hockaday, my hometown nutjob who once tried to construct a cow in her hermit bowers by squashing together a load of minced beef. I’m merely ill and misanthropic, and shall emerge healthy and, well, still misanthropic, but more apt to bitch loudly about it.

If you need to contact me, try smoke signals (preferably created from the burning remains of my enemies), ‘cause the MSN ain’t listentin’,

Munky

Dear Vanity,

Having recently coloured my hair a shade of baby shit, the resulting emotional melee and cries of, “Oh my god! My head looks like an unwiped anus!” led me to realize that I am, indeed, vain.

Vanity, up to this critical point in my life, was a form of aesthetic damage control. My eyebrows were tidied often, for without the kindhearted humanitarian aid of Tweezerman brand tweezers, my eyebrows would have reverted back to the simian redneck variety with which I was born. I made sure that my pubic hair never poked out of my trousers and, if were ever to be viewed, it didn’t crawl down the insides of my thighs like fungus up a pub toilet wall. I bathed on a regular basis, paying extra special soap attention to the parts that could get smelly. The gingerness was duly removed from my head through the employment of lesbian short haircuts and hair dye, but that was more for the compassion to those who have to look at my scalp than myself. Whatever I looked like when I left the house remained ‘good enough’ for the rest of the day, no matter the deluge of muck, tramp spit and spilled vodka drinks which flew into my oncoming path. I couldn’t fucking abide the constant re-application of lip gloss, French fucking manicures, only wearing trousers once before washing them or bathing on a Sunday. Any deviation from this firm stance would make me a big fucking girlie-girl, and certainly the lovely lovely silk frocks which I wore purposefully demonstrated my vaguely female attributes.

Now it’s all gone topsy-turvy, with a lifetime of, “Meh, that’ll do for clean/attractive/not smelly,” twisted asunder with this recent excavation of vanity from underneath my somewhat clean topsoil. Today I find myself wearing lip gloss, which merely serves to beguile biscuit crumbs into its sticky film of femininity. I even styled my hair beyond its natural follicle layout. What’s next? Crying like a girl over a broken fingernail? Watching – and enjoying – Richard Curtis films? Chardonnaaaaaaaaaaay? SPARKLES!?

Get me on a solid diet of beer and belching before this all becomes wretchedly irreversible,

Munky