God Hates God

I’ve gone off and gotten another dog Tony, seen here menacing Igor, who was sadly given subnormal legs by God.

Also, I have been informed that Larry the Plastic Potato, seen here destroying London’s finest landmarks with help from his friends, has been bequeathed to Sarah, seen here looking on in embarrassment as I ass tag Jess who, in turn, can be seen here dressed as a disco smackwhore.

Meanwhile, at work, Ed and I have been devising a replica of Edsperm, seen here with tentacles and a snackbucket.

And that is all, for I have a doctor’s appointment to find out why my guts remain in state of terminal melancholy.

These superfancy new ‘boxes’ of gum have come onto the market, apparently for those people who really really really like their gum. These are the people I tend to avoid on public transportation or, if that is impossible, try to kill with my eyes. However, this ‘box of gum’ combines two things I quite like – not having smelly breath and buying in bulk. So I own one. It lives in my handbag with a whole lot of other shit.

Extra Peppermint box-o-gum seems to pride itself on its owner being able to ‘Take it anywhere!!’ WOW! Apparently I can use this gum in the car!!! On the train!! And best yet – god, this truly is a revolution in gum packaging – I CAN USE THIS GUM AT HOME. I kid you not, this gum is actually suitable for home as well as car use. Honestly, this opens up so many avenues of gum chewing opportunities. I’ve been running around the house chewing in every corner I can find. I even chewed gum while sitting on my sofa watching a spot of television. My jaws ache, but it is like the best Christmas I’ve ever had.

There was actually a ‘Benefits of Chewing Gum’ report released, I am told, by world renowned experts in the field of gum chewing. Chewing gum, it says, reduces stress, increases concentration** and eases acid reflux. What it neglects to mention is that all of these benefits are negated when I start karate chopping people in the genitals for making too many fucking annoying noises with their gum. “Snap snap snap,” they say with their stupid gum chewing maws. And then I injure them greatly with my fists for being such selfish and annoying cunts.

**However, it was found that the writers of this wholly scientific and not at all biased report had not chewed enough gum. Sadly, I must report, they lost concentration, resulting in a spelling error. The stupid twats.

Whenever I go to a foreign country, I always learn how to say, “I am a stupid American and I never learned how to speak your language.” The recipients of this vast wit – even if French – always respond with a hearty laugh and lots of lovely English I can understand. I respond by pretending to be sheepish, kind and appreciative. It isn’t as if I can’t be arsed to learn a phrase or two in foreign languages, it’s just that I am so bad at ‘accents’ that it is really quite humiliating and people commonly take the piss out of me. That is, of course, if they can understand me.

My Michigan accent has slowly morphed into that accent which has caused Madonna – a fellow Michigander – much derision. ‘AmerEnglish’, the rednecks call it, like the accent is faked and has fuck-all to do with the fact that we’ve lived in the country for the better part of a decade. Fact of the matter is, I now round my vowels and generally sound like a big fucking ponce. I am ashamed to admit, I sound like Lloyd Grossman, and that man is a bit of a dick. I’ve adopted the ‘correct’ pronunciation of such words as ‘aluminium’ and ‘zebra’. I can pronounce place names like ‘Leicester’ and ‘Bicester’ they way the Saxons meant for them to be pronounced; with the wholesale removal of the middle syllable. However, I shall never reach pronunciation utopia, for I am extraordinarily flawed. A single word remains my bugbear, as a beacon of how I will never truly be ‘English’. That word? Yogurt.

Granted, whenever I say it, I think I sound fucking brilliant. Yet every time, others laugh. They mock. They call me names like, um, ‘Cheryl’ and ‘American’ (although I did have a friend who was convinced my name was Jamie, the bloody idiot.) And you know what? It hurts, it does, it hurts me right here in my heart. It has come to the point where I have stopped eating yogurt and yogurt-based products entirely for fear of being shown to be the Midwesterner I am. It isn’t though I am ashamed of where I’m from, it’s that I’m ashamed that my birth accent makes me sound like a chickenfucker

My mum’s currently staying with me in the UK. She is the living and breathing reminder of how I used to force all my vowels through my nose. I sounded like an oboe while speaking, and that’s pretty fucking annoying. I think you’ll all agree – except, of course, those of you from Michigan who are furiously mumbling to themselves, “I haven’t got an accent.” Suuuuure you fucking don’t.

I’ve got a Modern Toss ‘Mr Tourette’ print adorning my bedroom wall. Suffice to say, it contains the words ‘spunk’ and ‘cunt’. My mother looked upon the print and told me the story of a ‘little old lady’ who writes stories where the hero, a cat, likes to drink spunkwater. Spunk water. SPUNK WATER. The combination of spunk and water. Sperm and H20. “Mum,” I said, “Do you know what spunk is!?” I then had to explain to my 60 year old mother that spunk is, in fact, jism. And this ‘spunk drinking festival’ that Mr Tourette was on about had nothing to do with little old ladies, their hero felines and spunk water, but rather, cum guzzling in a church. I then walked out of the bedroom and saw my dad in his underpants. It was an awful, terrible day.

My mum, bless her, pronounced the word ‘sandwich’ as ‘samrich’ for some god forsaken reason. We went to a local samrich shop for some samriches, when my mum went to order her samrich with the Polish samrich waitress. The poor waitress, with an already limited grasp of correctly-pronounced English, didn’t have a fucking clue what my mum was on about. I, on the other hand, was utterly mortified and have thus decided to, from now on, only take her to restaurants where she can properly pronounce the cuisine. “STEAK.” You can’t fuck that pronunciation up, right?

I am slowly (well, at the same rate as time usually passes; I have yet to master the power of time-bending) heaving towards 30. In my younger days, I’d smugly exclaim, “I totally, like, can’t wait until I turn 30! I’ll, like, totally know where I am and what I’m going to be and stuff, like and stuff.” Yes, I did speak like that; I was in a sorority. Anyhoolioo, as this age slowly creeps up on me, I’ve come to realise that I’ll be just as fucked then as I am now – unable to buy a house, underpaid and still suffering from the same as-yet undiagnosed bumhole issue which causes bleeding from naughty bad places.

I’ve become a bit too fucking sensible recently. I eat vegetables on a regular basis, for fuck’s sake. I get eight hours of sensible sleep. I drive a sensible car, have sensible thoughts about drinking 8 glasses of water a day and enjoy sensible pursuits like joining The National Trust and walking through the countryside with my sensible dog in tow. I have even considered getting sensible glasses to correct my fuzzy, fuzzy world.

I have the same inner rage, but am more sensible about it. Instead of shredding someone’s sense of well-being if they fuck me off, I pass them by and only whisper ‘cunt’ in their general direction. It has come to that point in my life where I must pass on my nob gags and sweary flair to a new generation, to pass this baton of hate.

But not so fucking fast…

This miracle of driving has given unto me a hate epiphany, a whole new lease on hate. Oh yes, I already knew that I hated pedestrians, cyclists, old people, drivers, BMWs and children. But now I can hate them with smug aplomb, all from the comfort of my car. Why, pray tell, would an old person purchase a 4.0L Supercharged V8 Jaguar, then drive it 25 mph under the speed limit? Gain some fucking pride, you old fucks, and don’t allow a 1.25L NotFuckingCharged Ford to overtake you. And you there, you fucking BMW drivers. Oh, I am so fucking full of remorse that you nearly broadsided me because you were too busy punching your wife in the cunt to pay attention to the traffic. May God himself come down from the heavens to smite me. Luckily, though, you’re there to jump out of your car and smite me for Him! If I had only known that it isn’t you who has a God complex, it is God who has a BMW driver complex. You rancid cunts.

Not at ease with the intricacies and complexities of how cars are much much bigger than you and can cause a big ouch when they run you over? Then you must be a pedestrian, ambling into oncoming traffic, apparently, because looking left AND right before crossing the fucking road overloads your simian brain. And what about my fellow drivers? We’re all in this traffic thing together, guys, so let’s act like a team (go team! etc), not unremitting bloody morons.

There comes a time in every girl’s life where she must alter the outlook of her blog. Gone are the anonymous ramblings of a hate-filled internet nobody. Everybody, let’s welcome to the stage, the hate-filled ramblings of an internet nobody!!

Not that much different, you say?

I’m fobbing you off with a sub-par blog, you say?

Fuck off, you say?

Au contraire, my ickle weblings. Think like a politician and you’ll see there’s a world of difference between these blog themes. For example, I no longer go by a nickname chosen in drunken haste. I’ve adopted a ‘real name’ strategy, you know, so potential employers and stalkers can easily find me, my amazing swears and anti-social points of view. Besides, ‘anonymous’ blogs are for liars desperate to be famous so they can then get all bitchy when people rumble that they’re not some slutty vixen with great tits, but rather some bloke with hairy knees pulling one off whenever his stat count goes up. My posts will no longer be in the form of ‘open letters’; I don’t need a theme in order to hate and complain. From here forward, it’s nothing but the slightly backwards, generally abhorrent and certainly angry tales of life as a Home Counties misanthrope.

Sounds a bit fucking shit, right? It is! And there’s more!

I’ll update this blog on a more regular basis, increasing your work shirk time by at least 1 minute a day, kids! That’s 5 minutes a week! 20 minutes a month! 4 hours a year!! Kids, by the time you die, you could easily spend A WHOLE 120 HOURS avoiding work by reading my blog!

And there’s now a fancypants new Wordpress theme. “Fancy,” you say, “And pants! Fancypants!” WOW!

So fucking get on with it, would you? I’ve got some wankhole of a data analysis task to get up to…IN MY EXCITING HOME COUNTIES AWESOME WORLD! Yeah!

Dear Driving,

I have a dent in my head, I do, I do! It is more like a dimple in my noggin as opposed to a complete cranial cave-in, but I am proud of this war wound from Battledome: Motorway. I’m not so proud of how it happened – a romantic Valentine’s date of college ice hockey with a young man who looked like a rat ended when, in an attempt to show off and win my undying love (read: some undershirt action and a blow job), he triggered a 30 car pile-up just outside Detroit by smashing my face into the front of a lorry. Speed doesn’t kill, kids, teenage boys trying to get laid kill.

I was super big and brave, in a way, for learning how to drive in the UK, what with me being an American lady attempting to do reversing manoeuvres completely the wrong bastard backwards way ‘round. It goes against everything God and Jeremy Clarkson stand for! In the end, though, it was entirely worth it; I can drive both right-handed and left-handed manual transmissions, which makes me super-fuckable by any petrolhead’s standards. And you know it ain’t about the ‘freedom’ this allows me, it’s about getting all the boys to fancy me.

So now that I’ve joined this super exclusive club of UK drivers, my first stop was Monkeyworld. I didn’t see any vicious monkeywanking, but I did see some oddly pale monkeyshit thrown about. And a baby chimp licked up some of his mate’s monkeyvomit, making my Monkeyworld trifecta of primate glee 2/3 complete. It would have been an entirely joyous experience had it not been for the spoonface Scouser following me about shouting to the fruit of her elephant-flapped loins, “LookCcCc*! LookCcCcC* at the monkCcCcC*ey.”

To a point of near-seriousity (I can make up words, dammit, and I can take them away); this has really revolutionised my life. Whereas previously I existed within a 2 mile radius of my posh Buckinghamshire estate (semi-detached, covered in dachshund dooks), I can now drive to previously inaccessible havens like, uh, High Wycombe (main export: tedium) and Slough. I can go to the fucking huge 18,300 sqm Tesco and buy my fresh food wrapped in plastic instead of from some silly farmer’s market! I can get into a knife fight in a nightclub! The possibilities are endless – just me and my car on the open road, driving that 1/4 a mile to and from work everyday. I am an American, after all.

I keed! I keed!

Munky

*For the Yanks out there, Scousers stumble that fine line between ‘retarded’ and ‘just your average alcoholic idiot’ and thus pronounce the ‘k’ sound with a hard ‘C’. As in, “FuckCccCc off you ScCcCccCouse CccCcCcCunt.”

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

Dear Not Fucking Smoking,

I give unto you, Munky’s 12 steps.

1) Wake up one morning coughing up the 60 fags you had the night before.

2) Exclaim in an expletive-laden rant that you will never smoke again.

3) Repeat 1-2 several times over until the first thing you do after you stop swearing ISN’T to reach for those tasty Marlboro Lights.

4) Spend as much money on fucking nicotine patches as you do on your previous habit – and at least those contained scrumptious bonuses such as formaldehyde, tar and hot hot cancer.

5) Apply patch. Rub for good luck. Smugly note that it will send the signal to passers-by and loved ones alike that you are most certainly not to be fucked with, annoyed or looked at.

6) Sniff an ashtray.

7) Have fucking mad dreams about giant spiders killing the world and being stuck on a boat with some fuckwit frat boys because the spiders are scared of water.

Rock back and forth like a mental patient, fixated – unblinkingly – on having but a single drag of a cigarette.

9) Chew on your hands.

10) Prey on the weak and the small. And the ones with brown hair. And the freckled. And the…oh, fuck it. Be a cunt to everybody.

11) Lick an ashtray.

12) Celebrate two days without a cigarette in typical fashion: with a cigarette. Oh. Fuck.

FUCK,

Munky

Dear The Home Office,

Hey, awesome dudes! Yes, you there in the back with the cheap suit! I have a bright new supercool idea to cut back on the number of illegal immigrants in this country!!!! Stop charging £500 per application; then perhaps those who have come here for a life without the threat of genocide / badly dubbed television / rape / cunty ex-husbands with one foot securely planted in psychosis / starvation will be able to afford a legal status. Free application = fewer Home Office rape and murder fuckups! Whoda thunkit?

I am, for one, pretty fucked off that you’ve cocked me out of a cunting holiday just so some overweight ballsack in a suit taking a break from his usual ‘sex for visas’ scandals can stamp 25 pages of my - admittedly, well-organised with perfect penmanship, sprayed with a bit of perfume and stuffed inside a pair of dirty underpants (aka a ‘fast track application’ for those Home Office perverts) - immigration application in triplicate.

Viva la SET(M)!! You can’t kick me out now, bitches!

Munky

P.S. Next stop on the wondrous ride of this fetid isle? Citizenship! Hurrah!

Dear Kate Thornton,

Every night, before I go to sleep, I thank my lucky stars that I am not a bloke and, therefore, there is a 0.00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 % chance that I will ever put my cock inside you. I am well and truly blessed.

Thank you,

Munky