ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
A gibbering old sexagenerian and taken time out of his busy morning of doing fuck all to ring his 26-year-old son to complain about the rapidly-cooling housing market.
Despite owning seven dilapidated French Quarter terrace houses and a palatial, leafy Pioneer homestead in Betoota Grove, Walter B. Cummins said he feels hard-done-by by the world and he needed an ear to complain to.
So he rang the only person he knew would answer at 10 am on a Tuesday morning – his shift-working doctor son, Michael.
“It’s fucked,” he said.
“I’ll do my arse if I’m not careful. You see that new Jaguar out in the driveway last week? I’m drawing that down from number 46 on Rue de Putain and it’s just had 4% of its total value wiped off it since June,”
“Mate. It’s a tough world out there. I might even end up living with you at this rate, I’ll have to cut your mother’s credit cards up.”
Predictably, Walter’s rant was falling on deaf ears and was preaching to the wrong choir entirely.
Staring down a HECS debt of close to two hundred thousand dollars, Michael Cummins said that as a medical doctor, he can’t see himself entering the property market until he’s at least 40 or 50.
He blames a number of Howard-era reforms to the property and asset tax legislation that makes it more tax effective to draw down against appreciating assets, rather than pay the capital gains on it like a moron.
“Honestly, does this gibbering old cunt think I feel sorry for him?” Micheal asked our reporter.
Our reporter shrugged.
“Do you feel sorry for him?”
Our reporter shrugged again.
“Well, you fucking shouldn’t. Fuck him. He’s got six mortgages on the hop now. I hope interest rates go up to 8% by 2020. Wouldn’t that be funny?”
More to come.
