Some of you may remember how I auctioned a personalised blog post in order to raise money for the Queensland floods.


Not only is Monty a charity dynamo, selflessly haemorrhaging funds like a Russian prince wearing his razor-blade jacket, but he’s also my hero. Recently Monty applied for a job, and when they asked for his resume,  a Spanish galleon thrust itself through the window, killing everybody in the vicinity. Except Monty. And he still got the job. And declined it, electing to fly to the moon on his enormous penis.

Monty’s best friends are a Tyrannosaurus Rex named Cretaceous Brown and a fridge that spontaneously gained sentience because it was so impressed at Monty’s choice of boutique beers and wide array of cured meats.

Tally ho, chaps, we’ve got some crimes to solve and orphans to feed.

Monty used to be married to Elton John, but they split after Sir Elton John began to feel threatened by Monty’s depthless charisma and easy way with woodland animals.


Much like the great chicken/egg paradox, it is unclear whether a paragon of a man like Monty exists BECAUSE of the disasters sweeping the globe, or if they are occurring in some vain attempt by the universe to balance out the sheer awesomeness that is Monty.

This obviously creates a moral dilemma for Monty, because if that theorem is true, then by killing himself, he would stop an enormous amount of human suffering. And of course, he can only be killed by his own hand. But as the Pope reminded him, Monty is TOO GRAND FOR NOTIONS OF GOOD AND EVIL.

Jesus got nothing on Monty.

Also, once he killed a hooker. Sliced her up a treat.


5/5 stars. Thanks for donating that $20 bucks, you’re a champ.


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