I’m settling down now with only thoughts of fucking Indonesian whores.
You could say I’m almost cured. I’ve just got my Viagra in the mail, and yes, I still have the right stuff. And I’m waiting for another package. You guessed it. I’ve put on lots of weight over the last five months living out of a car and the uncertainty of it all. I’ve not given up my claims. I’m still contesting the rejections. I’ve had one overturned and expect a little pay out for a stolen car. I’m still dealing with another insurance company. Many heated emails later, they are still stalling me. I’m watching my temper. I’m in the land of Queers now in Pauline Hanson territory, the promised land, I tell the locals, after slagging off the Indian Diaspora. ‘Fucking one billion of the mongrels, soon you won’t be able to swing a cat in the outback.’ And it’s true. Even if it’s not, the Ipswitchians are a tolerant bunch and are proud of their Fourth Amendment, to tell those fucking Muslims to ‘go back where you came from.’
I’ve learnt a lot lately since I was booted out of my last place. The Vietnamese landlord even wanted me to buy her a new air condition unit which she said I could have on all day and night. And rightly so because I bought her the six grand solar system.  Dam, she almost got that too. ‘Who is to blame,' says Tammy who runs the ‘Go Back Where You Aren’t Welcome From’ Op Shop. Yep, I was fooled. She prayed on my good nature. And fucked me royally. 'Don’t despair,’ she says-she’ s a spitting image of Pauline Hanson- and hands me a petition, 'Send those fuckers home, they are stealing our jobs and making our Social Security unsustainable.’ I signed it and headed home to my new suburb down the road, where crack heads let off gun shots in the night, when they aren’t terrorizing Indian landlords. It’s real outlaw country. ‘We don’t like the pigs,’ says one of them. And they don’t like you. But who am I to judge. I’m an outcast just like them.

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