God Hates God

Dear Relationships,

Apparently, very expensive classes are offered on how to get a husband. Women pay potential good shoe money so some shrew can tell them how to change everything about their personality/dress sense/aroma in order to bag a man. This is cruel to men, as it seems that as soon as the lady has her giant rock (remember ladies; the bigger the diamond, the more he loves you!) and wedding planner, she can revert back to the type of woman that no man wanted in the first place. This should be some shite Hallmark movie or Danni Minogue song lesson in how women should be ‘true’ to themselves, but really, these women should just shut the hell up and realize that nobody likes them. They should just get some fucking cats and hope their feline friends don’t eat their faces when they die.

I’m often asked relationship advice, like I’m the great beacon of stable relationships. “You’re 26 and you’ve been married twice! You’re an expert, an old pro!” “All right then. Never date a bloke who plays the didgeridoo, chew with your fucking mouth closed (you fucking cow), people named Simon are cunts and any man who wants you to be clean shaven is a pedophile.” It’s sound advice, but they never fucking listen to me, and therefore continue the circle of relationship life, shagging further and further down the food chain until they grow tired and die.

These mini-skirted maniacs, the human equivalent of a mating baboon’s red ass, are never going to bloody realize that acting like a decent human being will get them what they want. Instead they embark on mating rituals by diminishment – diminish their thigh size, diminish their IQs, diminish their sense of self-worth, then finally, diminish their clothing. As if removing every last bit of everything interesting there ever was about them, by turning themselves into a vagina with an overly made-up face will make them worthy to be somebody’s long-term fuck partner.

Then, say, they actually find a partner they want to fuck for life. They’ve spent every waking moment of their lives dreaming of finding a boy who sticks his penis in her vagina with flair. The entire relationship is from there forward entirely based around sexual chemistry, and they neglect things like, oh, speaking to each other. And they fall so in love with the pleasure experienced by their bits that they marry the source of this orgasmic gratification, and lo, they live happily and merrily, rutting as often as a clock chimes. That is, of course, until one of them tires, waking up only to realize that the best years of their lives have been wasted on cum.

Girls, I recommend this: if a boy desires you for your invented lack of personality, then he’s a cunt. If your entire relationship is based around fucking, a new word should be used entirely for this purpose. ‘Fuckfriend’ and ‘Fuckband’ work, and darling, if the your only happy times are spent with a penis up your fanny, you’re both going to wind up exhausted and lonely.

I find it odd that many people won’t marry their friends, as if the initial awkwardness of boning their best mate is their vision of hell, yet they’re more than happy to make a pledge for ‘forever after’ with a bloke whose pubic hair is more intimate than his eyes.

Love, my friends, is total happiness, not just the occasional arousal of a clitoris,
Munky