It’s getting old.

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Ahhh, August 31st. The end of yet another profanity-laden month of bankingcommish and the start of a weekend! Double bonus! And I just moved into a room with an en suite. Triple motherfucking bonus! That’s 2 months down, about 4 to go. Time truly is flying, although I must admit there have been some close calls over the last 31 days, including when, after a few impromptu froffies several weeks back, I had to run home from the tram stop at 11.30pm to hastily punch out 400 words half-cut and soaking wet from a torrential downpour.

Good times, good times.

I was walking past a couple of elderly people sitting together at a coffee table in Rathdowne Street the other day, minding their own business and having a quiet coffee together when I overheard two 20-something hipster girls dressed in almost matching faux (presumably) fur vests directly behind me say (quite loudly), “Oh, look at those two little oldies, still in love with each other, awwww that’s so cute, look at them with their little coffees and their matching outfits. I hope me and Beau (of course her fucking boyfriends’ name was Beau) are like that in 50 years…”

They made the comment so loudly that the couple sitting down clearly heard it, so much so that they actually looked up and stared at the girls as they walked past, probably on their way to a fair-trade coffee shop or something equally as ‘scene’ (one of the worst adjectives kicking around, I fucking hate it). You could see the body language of the couple change as they comprehended what the girls had said. It was as if they were balloons at a county fair that had just been unexpectedly popped.

I felt like dousing the two girls in buckets of warm cows’ blood while shouting, “Fur is murder! Fur is murder!” in a really high-pitched camp voice and dragging them by their off-kilter ponytails down Rathdowne Street and into oncoming traffic like a belligerent caveman. What absolute cunts. The level of condescension and patronisation in their voices was unfathomable, as if the targets of their comment were a couple of 10 week-old puppy dogs instead of human beings.

“We just buried a rude young girl alive in the woods back there. Now we’re going birdwatching! I love retirement…”

I’m going to be the most miserable retiree; I’ll already be super pissed off about my failing body and having to subject myself to the odd finger up the arse for prostate exams. Having some poorly made-up (sit in front of the mirror if you want to add blush, you look like Noddy) young hipster twat ruin my day is liable to make me want to slap a bitch…

Just because someone is older and perhaps a little slower of body it doesn’t mean they aren’t an intelligent, articulate human being and in any way less deserving of at least a base level of respect, even from the most vacuous of souls. It’s not as if they aren’t resilient motherfuckers either; they’ve lived through wars, market crashes, recessions and hyper-inflation, among other perils.

We’ve lived through Dinosaurs

/end communication


Tweet sacrifice.

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I’m so fucking sick of Twitter’s invasion of legacy news services and the increasing onus that news outlets are placing on social media. I don’t want to open up The Age or The Australian and read an article about what someone said on Twitter and the resultant reaction from their tweet, regardless of how revelatory in may seem. I do, however, expect it from The Herald Sun, which is one of the biggest shit-rags I’ve ever read, not even worthy of wrapping an oily bit of 2 day-old cod in. I remember someone referring to The Herald Sun deprecatingly one day as, “The mum and dad paper”, inferring that idiotic white-bread eating suburban fuckheads derive their news solely from it. The inference couldn’t be any more spot on. It’s basically just a conduit for fucking imbeciles to be spoon-fed the selective dot points on current affairs that (clearly) bear no significance on their lives (like the European debt crisis & the Chinese economic situation), whilst ensuring that they are kept up to date with the important aspects of Melbourne life, such as latest social movements of the cast of Home & Away and AFL players.

Twitter isn’t important. It didn’t exist a few years ago and we got by. If it were to cease to exist today the world would continue to turn. Anything you can say in 140 characters or less really isn’t worth saying in the first place, unless it’s something like, “There’s a half-burnt dead clown with a bloody arse in the fireplace, don’t ask.”

Oh and do people take comments written on Twitter to heart or what? I’ve already spoken about our Olympic athletes and their almost symbiotic relationships with their mobile phones during the London games, as they constantly Twittered (which incidentally is recognised on Word 2010 as a word, kill me now, ‘Twittered’ is not a FUCKING verb) their every thought to a willing media and public.

They had a good old sook when they copped a bit of flak the other way though, didn’t they?

Then there’s the case of 46 year-old television host Charlotte Dawson, who was admitted to St. Vincent’s Hospital in Sydney in the early hours of this morning (presumably due to attempted suicide although this hasn’t been specifically reported) after a sustained and vitriolic social-media onslaught from a number of anonymous Twitter users following her appearances on The Project (don’t get me fucking started) and A Current Affair (I’ll save you for later, you bottom-shelf societal shit-bucket) to talk about cyber-bullying (wanna cyber… bully?)

The targeted attack erupted on Dawson in the wake of her tracking down and shaming Tanya Heti, a mentor from Monash University who had sent an abusive message in the days prior who subsequently was suspended from her role. Dawson clearly doesn’t believe in the ‘turn the other cheek’ philosophy and is known for attacking ‘trolls’ (a term for online bully) head-on, often with offensive taunts of her own, a tactic that has clearly backfired (considering she tried to kill herself today…)

Backers of Dawson have come out against some commentators who’ve simply called for celebrities (and others) to ignore derogatory messages on their Twitter feeds. People argue that simply ignoring the problem won’t make it go away. They’re wrong. These attention-whoring fucktards are probably drowning in their own ectoplasm right now over the furore that they’ve created in 140 characters or less on Dawson’s wall. If the media were simply to ignore these stories, these anonymous twats have nothing to gain by tearing down a tall poppy on social media.

I’m not condoning people that target others on Twitter. There’s nothing more gutless than someone who derives gratitude from heaping insults on another person with the shield of anonymity as a crutch. Indeed, it’s a pretty awful situation with Dawson and I’m sure the same (or worse) has occurred countless times since this form of media became so prevalent in our society, albeit not to an attractive older woman (and therefore not as newsworthy).

/end communication

Spate of the union

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It really gets to me when people rave about their jobs and how fulfilling they are. You can’t tell me that, given the choice to work or, conversely, do absolutely whatever you want, you’d pick work. Given that choice, I’d be in Bora Bora, covered in coconut oil in a rank Hawaiian shirt getting fanned by one of the natives with a Pina Colada in my hand. That’d be fucking glorious. Work quickly becomes a grind regardless of how good your job is (and I quite enjoy mine, comparatively). Sometimes, when I’m leaving work, I’ll rub my shoes on the carpet and give myself a little static electric shock on the metal door handle on my way out. It lets me know that I can still feel…

Whilst we’re on the topic of work, let’s talk about fucking unions. Part of Melbourne’s CBD was brought to a standstill on Monday morning as union workers from the CFMEU picketed large Australian construction company Grocon’s development site for the new Myer Emporium (which they’re currently in the process of building). Specifically, the union workers were protesting about Grocon hiring non-union labour for this site and were hurling tirades of abuse at the non-union workers as they tried to enter the work site, yelling union classics such as “scab” and “fucking dog” as they entered.

Grocon has been in and out of court with the CFMEU a number of times this year. They successfully achieved an injunction against a separate CFMEU picket in Footscray several days ago, only to have another union fire catch alight in the CBD. The union has had some truly fucking ridiculous demands, including their request to be able to fly union flags from cranes and access Grocon sites without permission and with less than a days’ notice.

Tense scenes in the foreground of the Pudgy Panda…

Flying flags from cranes, what the fuck is this? Are these fuckwits 10 years old? Who gives a shit?

It’s so fucking classic that this bunch of jokers wants to down tools and disrupt everyone else’s working day while they shirk work and clog up vital city streets on a Monday morning (of all fucking mornings), chanting “The people, united, will never be defeated” like the rest of us actually give a shit about them or their ridiculous fucking plight. I say well done to the non-union workers. They obviously don’t have an issue with the conditions and are more than willing to work while the CFMEU dickheads stand out the front with their dicks in each others’ hands like petulant school children.

I always joke that you can tell a union representative from the way they look; generally they’ll be a little pigeon-chested, hunch-backed, pasty and will avoid eye contact where possible. If you shake their hand (for some strange reason), expect a slimy, tepid hand and a limp-wristed handshake that’d make a stroke victim laugh in return. They never do any work of their own, they’re too busy standing up for the rights of the worker… yeah right.

I remember from when I used to work at the casino in Hobart that there were union representatives from LHMU that were very forceful in how they approached new staff members to try and get them signed up for the union. I was undertaking induction in 2006 when, in the break, a union rep literally told me to join. Point blank. He stood over my shoulder and waited expectedly for me to sign.

Unions have been known for decades to employ thugs in order to influence decisions and ‘convince’ workers to join their group. People like John Setka, one of Australia’s most powerful unionists and a piece of shit who has been found guilty of 40 separate offences over the years including being found guilty five times of assault by kicking. A bloke who kicks someone once is a cunt. A bloke who kicks someone five times is a union cunt.

/end communication

Your Family

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Every now and again when I’m driving my sorry arse to work, I’ll pull up abruptly behind a poorly-driven car with some of those ‘My Family’ stickers on the back of it. You know, the ones where you can mix and match natty little stick figure stickers depending on the composition of your family? Now, at 7.30 in the morning I’m in a pretty shitty mood to begin with (as I haven’t yet had a coffee and I’m generally tired as fuck from having stayed up until 12 the night before writing this fucking blog) and nothing sets me off more than having to endure some gaily smiling fucking stick figures gawking back at me from the bottom left-hand corner of a fucking 2008 Ford Territory. (It’s always a fucking Ford Territory).

Seriously, what drives people to adorn their cars with these things? I instantly imagine some terminally bored married couple sitting dejectedly at home, both too tired to fuck each other from taking care of their shitty little kids. Together, they log onto the internet on their amazingly bulky Hewlett Packard laptop that they paid far too much for at Harvey Norman. As they jointly browse the ‘My Family’ range, their dull lives are somewhat brightened by the conversation created from doing something other than stare into each other’s weather-beaten, utterly defeated faces.

“Oh, hey, this one looks just like me! This is fun.”

“Yes honey, yes it does! That truly is an accurate likeness of you.”

Despite my utter hatred of their product, I actually had a look at their website tonight to peruse their range and understand how it works (always reporting the facts here at bankingcommish, expect no less!) and noticed that they’ve expanded their range to include new family favourites such as ‘Wheelchair Grandpa’, ‘Bird Facing Right’, ‘Pregnant Mother’ and even ‘Question Mark’ which is (unbelievably) just an adhesive question mark. I think that they should also include ‘Camp Man’ so that you could put ‘Question Mark’ next to him. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t…

The stickers are quite inexpensive; Wheelchair Grandpa is only $4. I’m going to buy 50 of them and stick them on the back windows of random cars. When the owners return to their vehicles the first thing they’ll see is the sobering face of a happy, yet utterly handicapped stick figure staring back at them, causing them to drive far more safely when they get back on the road. Think of it as my own little road safety initiative.


Your family – so zany!

I guess ‘My Family’ stickers do serve a practical purpose. When the dickheads that purchase these stickers inevitably end up in a serious and/or fatal road accident (because they were too busy setting up Justin Bieber DVDs for their kids to watch on their in-seat TVs when they should have been watching the road) the first attending police officers on the scene can simply refer to the stickers on the rear window to ascertain how many decapitated heads/amputated legs to look for and collect (and the relevant sizes and genders of these).

My favourite combination of these stickers is the ‘Grandmother’ and ‘Grandfather’ characters together with a collection of animals but no children or grandchildren. I always like to try and sidle up next to these vehicles, get a peek at the couple and play the ‘1 of 3’ game in my head. I make sure to pay special attention to the ‘Grandfather’ character and his general manner.

The game is simple. There are 3 options:

1)      She’s barren.

2)      He’s sterile.

3)      He’s gay.

Pick one.

/end communication

Is Stretch Next?

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Well, the last couple of days haven’t been too kind to the world’s Armstrong fraternity; 7 time Tour de France winner Lance has declined to enter into arbitration proceedings against USADA, the US Federal Anti-Doping body whom have accused him of being part of a systematic doping program during his tenure as a professional cyclist, who now state that (in their eyes) he forfeits all awards and prizes earned after August 1st, 1998. This means that his 7 Tour titles are no longer his. Also, he can no longer compete in any sport that abides by the World Anti-Doping Code.

The other Armstrong? 82 year old former astronaut, test pilot, college professor and the first man on the moon, Neil, has unfortunately succumbed to complications that occurred after a recent heart operation to unblock several coronary arteries.

Lance Armstrong is a lot of things to a lot of people. I was listening to talkback radio this morning and it’s evident that guilty or not, he is still held in significantly high esteem by those that have followed his progress from cancer survivor to champion of the cycling world. To come back from where he did to dominate the sport for so many years truly is a monumental achievement. That the man has raised $500m for worldwide cancer research and support through his charity, Livestrong, is also noteworthy. So many people have invested their hearts and minds in Lance that if he is guilty of doping, a huge majority of the world have egg on their faces for believing him in the first place. Like a massive American Bank in the throes of the 2008 Global Financial Crisis, the Lance Armstrong show is too big to fail (even if, like the Banks, he put himself in this situation to begin with…)

To be honest, I think he was part of a systematic doping culture and is as guilty as sin. Are his 7 Tour wins less valid because of this? Considering that a number of his fellow competitors have been found guilty of exactly the same thing, perhaps not. After all, a drug-dominated level playing field is still a level playing field. I honestly believe that Armstrong has declined to enter into arbitration because he knows that if USADA are given the forum to air the evidence that they have against him, his well-honed martyr act will no longer hold any weight and the tide of public opinion will quickly turn on him (as we are bound to do with sports people, holding them aloft on our collective shoulders only to strike them down should they displease us in any way).

Neil Armstrong – The baddest motherfucker on (or off) the planet.

That other (far more amazing) Armstrong is the first man to put a foot on the Moon. Yes, that’s right, he walked ON THE FUCKING MOON. Walk out of your house and look up at night… see that grey thing? Yep, he landed a lunar module on that rock and bounced around on its surface for a whole two and a half hours. That’s just totally, utterly mental.

Neil Armstrong obtained his pilots’ licence by the age of 15. He wasn’t even old enough to drive yet. He spent a period of time as a Naval Aviator in the Korean War, flying 78 combat missions including one in which his aircraft was severely damaged by anti-aircraft fire (he successfully nursed it home). He then worked as a test pilot, flying aircraft such as the infamous rocket-powered North American X-15 up to 63.2km above the Earth’s surface, reaching speeds of up to 6,615km/h. This was before he’d even started training as an astronaut…

Armstrong was the epitome of all that Americans could achieve at that time; he’d personally answered JFK’s clarion call in the early 60s for the United States to step foot on the moon before the decade was out and became a national hero and international celebrity in the process. His was a form of celebrity that I believe in. He achieved something that few others have or ever will. The irony? He was a reserved man who didn’t like the limelight and preferred to teach engineering at The University of Cincinnati than be lauded at awards ceremonies or gladhanded by politicians.

Neil Armstrong – a legitimate contender for the ‘Baddest Motherfucker on the Planet’ award. Godspeed, Commander.

/end communication

Retail horror.

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Ahh, the old Sunday evening 11.30pm rush-job when you’re more than a little half-cut from drinking Sapporo stubbies to reward yourself for doing an hour of manual labour in your courtyard earlier in the evening… glorious. (As an aside, I’ve re-read a number of my posts from the last couple of weeks and am starting to believe that I may have a drinking problem.) The ‘commish coffers have now been bolstered to $1300 thanks to my insightful commentary about tweed jackets. This makes me happier than Michael Jackson perusing the autumn/winter Osh Kosh B’Gosh catalogue, his pallid, erect penis in hand as he relaxes in his gigantic spa bath at Neverland (that image is even funnier now that he’s dead).

We have a courtyard area at my place in Carlton that’s been neglected over the winter months (because I see no point in maintaining an area that we will not use for this period purely for the sake of it). It’s a huge space that’s going to get a significant amount of use during the summer months and therefore is worth attending to now that it’s starting to warm up again (slightly). I made the ridiculous comment on Friday afternoon that it’d be a great idea to have a working bee on Sunday (today) to clean up this area to get it ready for a (hopefully) nice and warm Melburnian summer. I’ve got two new housemates moving in around a week from now and I thought it’d be great to have the outdoor area ready to go for their arrival so that we can sink copious amounts of corner-ship piss out there in relative comfort. This involved a significant amount of weeding, some weed-spraying, some heavy lifting and some sweeping, but nothing that I deemed too difficult for a nice lazy Sunday.

Then I went out and got absolutely shit-faced on Saturday night at a pub in Brunswick…

I woke up this at one o’clock this afternoon with the feeling that I may have died and been reanimated in the early hours of the morning by a voodoo priest. I had a thumping headache that felt like a thousand pickaxes wielded by unholy sprites were chipping away at the base of my cerebral cortex and my voice had taken on a deep, almost-sexual baritone from all of the cigarettes that I’d gratuitously inhaled. I felt that if I coughed, ancient dust from a crypt may come out of my mouth.

Anyway, I’d made a pledge to myself on Friday and self-inflicted temporary AIDS or not, I intended on sticking to it. I rolled out of bed and into the shower (after hovering over the toilet bowl dry reaching for a time) and then dressed myself in my Sunday best (worst) and drove out to the Highpoint Shopping Centre (which is somewhere in the Western Suburbs), new housemates in tow to get some gardening supplies. It’s a huge shopping complex, catering for any/every consumer whim/need/desire a Western Suburbs/Westerner could dare ever have.

The fiasco started when I tried to find a park. They have this fucking ridiculous system whereby each car parking spot has a sensor on it and overhead boards advise potential car parkers of the amount of available car parks in any given section. Sounds like a great idea, doesn’t it? Well, it does, except it doesn’t fucking work. Some small cars appear to not set off the sensors, meaning that the overhead boards tell you that a free car park is in an area when, in fact, it isn’t.

I spent fifteen fucking minutes trying to find a fucking park in this hellhole, becoming increasingly more infuriated with every slow-moving vehicle and gleefully ambling pedestrian that I had to wait for along the way. I left after this time without even successfully finding one. It’s safe to say that I was in a murderous mood at this point, and we hadn’t even entered the shopping complex.

Then I got in there…

The never-ending sea of humanity loping through that place is utterly incredible. All those people with absolutely nothing better to do on a Sunday that clog up perfectly good walking space as they excruciatingly slowly wander through the very wide common-areas of the centre, their kids and their entire fucking extended family in tow, browsing. When I go shopping, I have a defined idea of what I want to buy. I go in, I buy it, and then I fucking leave. I don’t ‘make a day of it’ like these cunts, some of whom spend the entire day ‘window shopping’.

The only type of window shopping I deem acceptable is when you’re out shopping FOR FUCKING WINDOWS. What is the fucking point of looking at things that you like but won’t or can’t ever buy? That’s just plain old fucking depressing.

I’d rather chop each of my toes off one by one with a pair of secateurs than spend any more time than necessary in a monument to excess such as Highpoint. Fuck me, what a horror-show.

The stale, re-processed air, the sounds of the top forty sinisterly reverberating through the centre loudspeakers, the vacant, thousand-yard stares of men and women who’ve lost all hope for themselves and decided instead to live their lives through their children…

Get me the fuck out of here.

/end communication

Got a job? Fuck off.

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I played my last game of footy for the year today. My team lost. It kind of sucked.

Whenever I finish playing a game of footy now, I feel like a decrepit octogenarian. Even now, two hours after the game finished I’m in pain. I’m writing this propped up on my bed against the bedroom wall with a pillow under my knee for support. I feel like shit.

Oh well, I guess I’ll just go and get pissed this afternoon and forget about it… Fuck yeah!

I’m sorry to continually focus on Facebook in these rants (I’m actually not sorry at all, fuckers), but it really is a major source of frustration for me on a daily basis. I feel like the unthinkable will eventually happen and we may one day live again in a world without Facebook… One lives in hope.

In the crosshairs this afternoon? Self-congratulatory, insipid wankers that advertise their own career or educational successes (however significant or insignificant) with a vapid, leading status update announcing this to the world, as if any of us give a shit.

An example, you ask? See below.

“xxxxx is now a fully qualified mechanic.”

“Now I’m a builder, I’m on the big bucks. Time to buy some toys!”

“OMG, now a doctor, look out patients I’m coming for ya LOL”

“Now able to call myself a barrister, I guess all those years of study finally paid off, eh?”


(By the way, I would never allow a doctor that provided that status update go anywhere near me.)

Whilst I congratulate you on your successes, there’s no need for you to seek the sort of gratification you so clearly desire by dangling a gigantic carrot in front of your equally banal, cuntish mates, essentially giving them a layup to massage your already inflated ego and further enhance you’re already incredibly lofty opinion of yourself.

See, this is the problem with Facebook, it’s been taken over by self-involved extroverted fuckheads who have hijacked it in order to promote themselves and their lifestyles as if we are all competing in some sort of mass human take on a fairground dog show. Nobody’s life is actually as good as Facebook would suggest it is, it’s just a façade perpetuated by a bunch of no-hoping cunts in order to make the rest of us think that their lives have some meaning.

People who have genuinely exciting lives are out living them, not fumbling for their smart phones so that they can let the rest of us know about it. 

/end communication

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