Wow.

Well it would appear that the readership of bankingcommish hates Anthony Mundine just as much as I do. I’ve been inundated with messages from quite a number of you, acknowledging just how much of a stupid fucking twat Mundine actually is. Last night’s post brought with it another contributor to the blog, elevating the total amount pledged to $1450. His comment was as follows;

I’d thought ‘oh yeah I’ll through some cash his way sometime” but you’ve forced me into action with your latest piece on Mundine. Bottom line, I fucking hate hate HATE that cunt and I’m so glad you’ve put the torch to him; cunt.”

I especially like his gratuitous use of my favourite naughty word, ‘cunt’. If I achieve nothing else out of this endeavour, I hope to de-sensitise this word to the point that readers feel comfortable dropping it more regularly in conversation with friends & loved ones. There’s something about the word itself which makes it so much more offensive to say out loud. I think it’s the mono-syllabic nature of the word – it’s one big, long, drawn out expletive, emphasising the guttural nature of the word and its intended meaning.

Perfect.

Anyway, for those of you out there covertly checking in on the ‘commish on a regular basis without tipping funds into my burgeoning digital hat, I ask you, “What is entertainment worth in 2012?” Surely 6 months’ worth of my vitriolic tripe is at least worthy of one of your pineapples, you greedy fucks! There have been nearly 10,000 views since the blog started, so there are bound to be some Matt Damon-like ‘sleepers’ out there, just gagging to give me money like a 60-year old man sweating profusely in a Phuket whore-house as he proclaims his love for yet another ‘working girl’ in spite of the obviously artificial situation he finds himself in…

My intention is to fund a large portion of my summer ‘piss-shack’ drinking activities with your donations. I’ll be getting as full as a boot on the house (all of you) for several weeks in January thanks to your unbridled generosity! Woo!

I made myself run around Princes Park tonight when I got home from work, despite my still troublesome, incredibly sore back hurting me more deeply than the lingering comments about the authenticity of Nicolas Cage’s hair. I must admit, the prospect of sitting in my backyard, (which would make any of the efforts documented on Jamie Durie’s old show, ‘The Backyard Room’ look like a bunch of meth addicts desecrating the walls of their living rooms with their own faecal matter, might I add) drinking copious amounts of froffies as multi-coloured fairy-lights do their best to elicit an epileptic response out of me was a fairly large drawcard.

There’s always tomorrow.

/end communication

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