God Hates God

Dear Valentines Day,

Oh, for cunt’s sake. I wish all the bloody singletons forced into a state of Hallmark melancholy would perambulate backwards into a giant pit of the copulating undead, and then have some acid bulldozed over their mawkish little bodies. I’m a bit fucking tired of all the fucking moaning, so take this token of my undying love and shove it up your brown one.

If only Cupid’s arrow had shot you in the fucking eye,

Munky

Dear Dogs,

I came home from lunch to find that my dachshund, Igor, had shit in his bed.

”Igor! Darling! Why did you shit in your bed?”

Caught between me and the offending shit, he did whatever any creature with the wit of a stick would do; he ate the evidence.

Several theories came to mind; perhaps the dog was lonely and squeezed out a nice little warm friend to keep him company in bed while I was at work earning the income which keeps him in a fine collection of things he can annihilate. Perhaps, also, as with human beings, some dogs are naturally prone to dark and disturbing sexual fetishes, like having sex with dead things (check!), eating poo (check!) and sticking their willies in plushies (check!). My dog is that bloke on the internet who wants you to shit in a gimp mask so he can wear it. When I’m asleep, he probably updates his dirty fetish website with pictures of his ‘well-spooged’ plushie, Colonel Giraffi.

Conversely, dog behaviorists believe that shit-eating is the result of stress or really yummy poo, whereas I stick to the theory that my dog is a sick fuck with a shit fetish. I even found a site which claims to cure dogs of their shit eating through the application of Reiki Healing, but I’d rather have Igor munch his own turds that be touched by a hippie.

Perhaps the dog behaviorists are correct, perhaps little Igor does have a lot of stress in his life. Perhaps, then, I need to change my behavior in order to become a better dog owner. Maybe I should stop mocking him for having ginger pubes. Perhaps I shouldn’t laugh at him when he attempts to climb stairs with his stumpy dachshund legs. Maybe his self-esteem has suffered because I call him ‘Fucker’ and constantly express amusement at his lack of balls (“Ahhh hahahahha! It is a lady dog, Igor, and you’ll never get to have sex with her because your willy doesn’t work!”) Worst of all, I should probably no longer stick cheese in his ears.

Or maybe his shit is divine; tastier than any Heston Blumenthal creation and tenderer than a fresh lamb shank. Perhaps in some culinary circles, Igor’s poo is more expensive than truffles and more coveted than caviar. Or maybe the fuck not; for fuck’s sake, it’s shit! It passed through his dirty dog anus; the only conceivable reason why he would eat it relies not on ‘taste’, but rather the fact that my dog is a dirty motherfucker who, if he had fists, would totally be into going elbow deep in whores.

Shit-eating, I’ve found, is not a topic of conversation found within polite society. They like to refer to it as ‘coprophagy’, whereas I like to refer to these people as ‘cunts’. What do civil people do when they find their Springer Spaniel masticating a bumhole boulder? “Oh, dear me, stop coprophaging your mooker stinks, you silly monkey face, or I shall not be allowed your cashmere blanket.” Whereas I shout, “Fucking hell, you shitting pissflaps cunt! What the fuck are you doing eating your own mothercunting shit, you sick fucking cock?”

If I don’t update over the next several weeks, the dog has ripped open my chest and coiled a large one where my heart used to live,

Munky

Dear Scowling,

When I woke up this morning, I didn’t want to murder. Now I have resigned myself to the fact that I must spend the rest of my days in prison. I contemplated options outside of extreme and messy violence and have finally settled on ‘Murder Lite!’ whereby I merely stare at my foes until they feel a bit uncomfortable and squirm.

So I find myself in a near-constant state of intense scowl. My father taught me how to frown when I was young, he being a pre-eminent kung-fu scowling master and me being but a simple glowering plebian, a mere phantom of his dagger-eyed greatness. While other’s parents schooled them in the rules of baseball and making friends with one’s peers, together we exercised our faces to outwardly reflect our contempt of mankind. “It takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile!” do-gooders say. “Well, I guess I’m getting more exercise than you, you lazy fucking cow,” I retort as I crumple my brow to near-breaking point, attempting to touch the crest of my head to my top lip in a celebrated feat of scowling greatness.

My father’s evil-eye rests atop his great physical enormity; mine? Ginger hair, freckles and cockeyed kneecaps. The harnessed power of his ocular-initiated disdain is enough to fell great nations. Mine? I can’t even get my dog to stop shitting on the floor. Although I practice my scowling with the resolve of a monk, I fear it will be many years yet before I can wound someone’s well-being with my eyes.

Until then, I’ll just stick with physical aggression,

Munky