Tonight’s episode of bankingcommish comes to you from the road, direct from the couch of a Flemington apartment. I forgot I had to write this fucking this thing today and had a few froffies at a mates’ place this afternoon, rendering my ability to drive back to my place to the comfort of my laptop and my glorious ducted heating null and void. Thus, I rely on the kindnesses of friends to hijack their computers at strange hours of the day to ensure that this ludicrous train keeps a rollin’. Toot toot!

As a side note, I’ve never had the absolute pleasure of living in a house with ducted heating before my current residence. It’s absolutely glorious, like being permanently covered by a sheepskin rug. I walk around my house in a pair of shorts and a singlet in the middle of August like I’m on a beach in Hawaii. Epic. 

My current housemates (a couple) have recently purchased their first home and are settling at the end of this month. As a result of this, they’re moving out and my brother and one of my mates are taking their place. We (my brother, my mate and I) met with the landlord today at the house. (I got the feeling that this meeting was orchestrated by the landlord to make sure we weren’t crystal-meth smoking, devil-worshipping, infant animal slaughtering reptilians… hopefully they bought the façade.)

Anyway, the landlord lives several hours away and he was talking about engaging the services of a real-estate agent, or property manager (as they like to be called) as a conduit or first point of contact as he was worried that he’d be difficult to contact in the event of an emergency (such as the hot water cylinder bursting or a gas leak, etc.) 

I spent the next five minutes talking him out of it.              


I don’t want to have to deal with some self-important, fast-talking, conniving little cunt that serves no purpose whatsoever (other than as a potential human shield in the event of a shooting) that’s why. What do they do anyway? They take their 8% (or whatever the fuck it is) and provide little to nothing in return, other than interrupting your week with inspections and leaving little passive aggressive notes on your bench when they’ve finished like “Oven dirty, marks on windows, weeds in garden – please clean before next inspection.”

You know why there are weeds in my garden, you cunt? It’s because I have a real job. You’re a glorified caretaker. You have no real power. As long as I’m not tearing up the floorboards for firewood or shitting in my living room, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. The weeds can stay; you can get the fuck out.

They always look so greasy too, as if their exteriors are a clear reflection of their vacuous personalities and their utterly empty souls. With awful white-leather shoes and a suit so gaudily pinstriped that you could easily have mistaken them from having come directly from a fancy dress party where they went as Beetlejuice, they are most definitely not ‘getting it done’. Rounding out this ensemble is a ridiculously large pair of designer sunglasses and, if you as the tenant are incredibly lucky (unlucky), you might even be privy to a bit of designer stubble or some sort of meticulously carved goatee.


“…and to your left, a delightful little dining room. Great for entertaining!”


They’re also likely to drive a fancy European sports car (that they don’t own). This completes the ‘look’, which is designed solely to make the punter (you or I) believe that this goon is actually successful and not just some creep in an in-fitting suit.

Regardless of how convincing their act is, remember this; they are cold-blooded, callous pricks and will take any chance they can get to bend you over the barrel and fuck you.

The only way I can fuck them back as a tenant is to convince my landlord to not employ their services, thus depriving them of income and hopefully rendering them unemployed.

I succeeded.

/end communication