Tuesday, 3 December 2013

Dear Jetstar...

Dear Jetstar,

Do you like riddles? I do, that's why I'm starting this letter with one. What weighs more than a Suzuki Swift, less than a Hummer and smells like the decaying anus of a deceased homeless man? No idea? How about, what measures food portions in kilograms and has the personal hygiene of a French prostitute? Still nothing? Right, one more try. What's fat as fuck, stinks like shit and should be forced to purchase two seats on a Jetstar flight? That's right, it's the man I sat next to under on my flight from Perth to Sydney yesterday.

As I boarded the plane, I mentally high-fived myself for paying the additional $25 for an emergency seat. I was imagining all that extra room, when I was suddenly distracted by what appeared to be an infant hippopotamus located halfway down the aisle. As I got closer, I was relieved to see that it wasn't a dangerous semi-aquatic African mammal, but a morbidly obese human being. However, this relief was short-lived when I realised that my seat was located somewhere underneath him.

Soon after I managed to burrow into my seat, I caught what was to be the first of numerous fetid whiffs of body odour. His scent possessed hints of blue cheese and Mumbai slum, with nuances of sweaty flesh and human faeces sprayed with cologne - Eau No. Considering I was visibly under duress, I found it strange that none of the cabin crew offered me another seat. To be fair, it's entirely possible that none of them actually saw me. Perhaps this photo will jog their memories. 

Pinned to my seat by a fleshy boulder, I started preparing for a 127 Hours-like escape. Thankfully though, the beast moved slightly to his left, which allowed me to stand up, walk to the back of the plane and politely ask the cabin crew to be seated elsewhere. I didn't catch the names of the three flight attendants, but for the purpose of this letter, I'll call them: Chatty 1, Chatty 2 and Giggly (I've given them all the same surname - Couldnotgiveashit). After my request, Chatty 1 and Chatty 2 continued their conversation, presumably about how shit they are at their jobs, and Giggly, well, she just giggled. I then asked if I could sit in one of the six vacant seats at the back of the aircraft, to which Giggly responded, "hehehe, they're for crew only, hehehe". I think Giggly may be suffering from some form of mental impairment.

I tried to relocate myself without the assistance of the Couldnotgiveashit triplets, but unfortunately everyone with a row to themselves was now lying down. It was then I realised that my fate was sealed. I made my way back to Jabba the Hutt and spent the remainder of the flight smothered in side-boob and cellulite, taking shallow breaths to avoid noxious gas poisoning. Just before landing, I revisited the back of the plane to use the toilet. You could imagine my surprise when I saw both "crew only" rows occupied by non-crew members. I can only assume Giggly let them sit there after she forgot who she was and why she's flying on a big, shiny metal thing in the sky.

Imagine going out for dinner and a movie, only to have your night ruined by a fat mess who eats half your meal then blocks 50% of the screen. Isn't that exactly the same as having someone who can't control their calorie intake occupying half your seat on a flight? Of course it is, so that's why I'm demanding a full refund of my ticket, including the $25 for an emergency row seat. 

I'm also looking to be compensated for the physical pain and mental suffering caused by being enveloped in human blubber for four hours. My lower back is in agony and I had to type this letter one-handed as I'm yet to regain full use of my left side. If I don't recover completely, I'll have to say goodbye to my lifelong dream of becoming Air Guitar World Champion. If that occurs, you will pay.

To discuss my generous compensation package, email me at: richwisken@hotmail.com, or tweet me at: @RichWisken

No regards,

Rich Wisken.


Two days after my Fatstar experience, I was due to fly from Sydney to Melbourne. However, my flight was cancelled due to "engineering requirements". I was scheduled to fly the next day, but that flight was also cancelled. On the third day, my flight was delayed by two hours. I received this email from Jetstar and wrote my reply on their Facebook wall. Unfortunately they deleted it after it garnered 200 likes in a couple of hours.

Awesome work, Jetstar!

Two of my flights in the past two days have been cancelled. You're so lucky that my favourite pastime is wasting both time and money getting to and from airports. Imagine how annoyed someone who doesn't LOVE wasting time and money would feel about this situation. Man, I'd hate to be that guy...

Whilst I appreciate your email and the $100 Jetstar voucher you gave me as a, "gesture of good will", I can’t help but wonder who “good will” is. Are you talking about the two-time Oscar winning film, Good Will Hunting? That’s a great movie, but I don’t understand what it has to do with my flight cancellations and subsequent voucher. Perhaps you meant “goodwill”, that’d make more sense. Maybe you should spend my $100 voucher on employing a competent copywriter with an elementary grasp of the English language.

Have you seen Good Will Hunting? Robin Williams was great, but Matt Damon really stole the show. My favourite scene takes place in a bar. I don’t want to ruin it for you in case you haven’t seen it, but basically, some preppy douchebag gets schooled by Matt Damon for embarrassing his lover, Ben Affleck.

If you have seen it, then you’ll understand this reference.

Me: “Do you like apples”?

You: “Yes”.

Me: “Well, I’m never flying with Jetstar again... HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES?!”

No regards,

Rich Wisken.

P.S. If you're wondering what Matt Damon is calculating on the blackboard, it’s how much Jetstar sucks.



Jetstar refunded the $25 emergency seat fee, and said:

"Jetstar does not have a specific policy in place for customers who may be considered a person of size, however all customers must be able to safely take their seat to travel with us. Customers do have the option of choosing to purchase an additional seat for their comfort. We also publish seat specifications on our website for reference."

* Click HERE for more Jetstar fun *

Thursday, 28 November 2013

Château de Ménai

A friend of mine has asked me to review the wine he made in his dad's garage in Menai, NSW. Apart from watching an instructional Youtube video, he has no winemaking experience whatsoever. My sample arrived in the mail today, so here goes...


- Crimson Seedless (hand-harvested from the discount bin at Menai IGA Supermarket)

Technical Information: 

- Crushed by hand

- Inoculated with baker's yeast
- "Shitloads" of sodium metabisulphite added
- Sugar added
- Lime leaves added (yes, lime leaves)
- No fining or filtration
- Bottled in James Squire stubbies

Tasting Note:

The wine's colour resembles Charlie Sheen's urine on a Monday morning, or perhaps the discharge from a leaky anus on Embarrassing Bodies. Not only is the colour somewhat off-putting, but the haze makes me think that Stifler was the assistant winemaker.

The aroma? A heady mix of sulphur dioxide and the pungent scalp cheese found under Whoopi Goldberg's dreadlocks... probably. It's taken me approximately three hours and five rum and Cokes to summon the courage to taste this formidable fluid. The only way I could be more afraid of a liquid, was if I was diving after Greg Louganis at the 1988 Seoul Olympics.

It tastes very much like a refreshing glass of Ribena, which is great, because the extreme SO2 level is causing severe respiratory irritation, swelling around my eyes and hive-like rashes to break out on my face. The blackcurrant flavour takes me back to my childhood, which helps ease the thought of my impending death by pulmonary edema.

Thankfully I survived this experience, and as they say, "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger". I wonder if that saying also applies to my friend, after I bludgeon him to within an inch of his life with an empty James Squire stubbie for making me drink this offensive vin ordinaire

Tuesday, 5 November 2013

Fleetwood Flaps

Kylie Lang

Editor: QWeekend 
The Courier-Mail, Brisbane

Dear Kylie,

On the morning of Saturday 2nd November, I was standing in line at a Brisbane newsagency to purchase The Courier-Mail. Being from Sydney, I don't often get a chance to read this newspaper, that's okay though, because I get my fair and balanced news from another News Corp publication - The Daily Telegraph.

Eventually, I made it to the front of the line, where I saw a copy of the QWeekend magazine weighed down by some coins on the shop counter. To say I was disgusted is an understatement. I quickly took a photo of the front cover, dropped my Courier-Mail on the floor, and swiftly exited the newsagency.

Firstly, can you please explain why you chose to publish a photo of Stevie Nicks' 65 year old vagina on the cover of your magazine? Secondly, don't you think that naming the piece, The 40 Year Itch, is equally as crude? Of course I didn't read the salacious article, but I'm assuming it's about Fleetwood Mac cancelling their upcoming tour due to Stevie's vaginal discomfort. 

As this was my first experience with QWeekend, I decided to visit your website to see if this kind of filth is common. The excerpt below is taken directly from the site:

Well you've certainly taken a "different look" at Stevie Nicks and her "issues". Her snatch sure is a "surprising place", and yes, it definitely took me "out of my comfort zone".

I'm writing this letter because I was traumatised by your vulgarity. I'm not married, so this is the first time I've ever seen a vagina. I guess it's not as bad as I imagined, but it's not good either. To be honest, I thought Stevie's would look more like the aftermath of a grenade explosion in a butcher's shop.

I hate to think what your overlord Rupert would think of this smut being published in one of his reputable newspapers. Anyway, all I'm after is a simple apology. I understand that itchy vaginas are a part of a woman's life, but surely it's not suitable to print images of them on the cover of a statewide publication.


Rich Wisken

P.S. Is she wrapped in a dead ostrich?

Kylie's reply:

Friday, 18 October 2013

A Letter to the CEO of Winnebago Motorhomes

18 October 2013
Randy J. Potts, CEO
Winnebago Industries
605 West Crystal Lake Road
Forest City, IA 50436

Dear Randy,

My associate and I have recently become interested in spending more time in the great outdoors. It's common knowledge that Winnebago Industries manufacture the finest motorhomes on the market, so naturally we're contacting you first. I read somewhere that you customise interiors to suit the individual needs of your clientele. With that in mind, we'd like to make a few alterations to the Adventurer model.

We don't have a need for any of the luxuries included in this particular recreational vehicle, but we do require the space. Approximately how long would it take to completely strip the interior and install the items on the list below?

Please be assured that money is NOT an issue. An expeditious response is greatly appreciated, as my colleague and I are very keen to engage in typical outdoor pursuits as soon as possible. I'll be in touch if I think of any other necessary camping equipment to add to the list. I hope my instructions are crystal clear.


P.S. Do you happen to know where I can get my hands on approximately 1000 boxes of Sudafed? My sinuses are shocking this time of year, and the last thing I need is to be stranded in the wilderness without any relief.

Sunday, 22 September 2013

Inside Out Magazine - Rich Wisken Edition

Hi there,

Congrats on being shortlisted in the Blogster awards in the Lifestyle category. At Inside Out Magazine, we'd like to support this with some online coverage.

If you're happy to take part, could you please email through 3 lines describing your blog, plus 3 images to share with our readers on social mediaOur readers have a massive soft spot for interiors, decorating and homewares, so if you have pictures that tick those boxes, that would be great. Please send these details through in an email with "Blogster Awards" in the subject header. 

All the best,

Lee Tran

Hello Lee,

Naturally I'm over the moon to be a finalist in the Blogster Awards. However, I'm not convinced that my blog belongs in the "Lifestyle" category. The word "Lifestyle" reminds me of when my religious education teacher told our class that homosexuality was a sin, and a "Lifestyle" choice. He would say that though, seeing as he worships an invisible, homo-hating sky fairy. Come to think of it, Inside Out would be an excellent name for a gay porn magazine...

Unfortunately I don't know much about interiors, decoration, or homewares. In all honesty, I'd rather teabag an active volcano than watch ONE episode of The Block. That being said, I know what I like. The three images I've chosen really depict my sense of style, I hope they strike a chord with your readership.


This is my ensuite bathroom (mid-renovation). I suppose I'm aiming to create a minimal/industrial atmosphere. The fluorescent tube lights and white tiles really open up the room, while the factory fittings and copper pipes add to the overall industrial vibe.


I fancy myself as a bit of an amateur cake decorator. As you can see, the icing isn't as smooth as it should be, nor my penmanship as fluid. I hope your readers appreciate my hilarious play on the word happiness. Remember Lee, you can't spell happiness without penis.


I picked up this stunning vase in Amsterdam. Have you ever visited the Dutch capital, Lee? The place is full of vase enthusiasts. The man who sold me this one smelled funny and ate lots of cookies. His was the first homewares store I've been to that also sells mushrooms. I know, weird... 

Anyway, I hope your readers can relate to my style, because I'd very much appreciate their vote. Oh yeah, I forgot the three lines describing my blog. I'm guessing you mean lines from songs or movies, right? 

My blog is:

1) "Fun, fun, fun, fun" - Rebecca Black (Friday)

2) "Too sexy for my cat" - Right Said Fred (I'm Too Sexy)


Designer regards,

Rich Wisken.

Thursday, 19 September 2013

FOR SALE: 2005 Peugeot 206 CC

A friend of mine from high school has asked if I could write an ad to sell her car. Since my Brumby ad, I've had over 400 requests from people asking me to do the same for them. I tell all of these people exactly the same thing, "Fuck off and leave me alone". However, this particular young lady is a great person and a lifelong friend, so it was a no-brainer for me to help her out. I've been given total creative control. Hopefully she isn't disappointed...

2005 Peugeot 206 CC
(1 Female Owner)

Are you having trouble finding someone to satisfy your depraved sexual desires? Don't worry, so was I. That was until I purchased this 2005 Peugeot 206 CC. I can't be 100% certain, but I'm fairly sure that CC stands for Cock Collector. Why? Because ever since I bought this baby, I’ve been under more sheets than the Ku Klux Klan. In fact, by the end of the first week, I was walking like a newborn giraffe with polio.

Being a French company, Peugeot ensure that filthiness is a stock standard feature in all of their vehicles. If you're the lucky new owner of this cock-rocket, thousands of men with big helmets will try to invade you, and just like the French - you'll surrender. That's right, in no time at all you'll have more humps than Gérard Depardieu's nose. Vive La France!

So why am I selling such a valuable asset? Well, I knew it was time to reassess my priorities after my vajayjay won a Grand Canyon lookalike competition. I’ve decided to start a new life at the Vatican, spending the next few decades under a vow a celibacy. Hopefully after this period of rehabilitation, my lady bits will no longer look like two elephant seals in a passionate embrace.

Not only is this weiner-wagon registered until October 2013, it also holds a valid NSW brothel licence (a government requirement due to the amount of sexy times that's taken place inside her). As the new owner, I'd recommend giving the seats a good high-pressure hosing, as the upholstery currently resembles Jackson Pollock's, Blue Poles. One thing I wouldn't recommend, is shining a UV light over the interior, unless of course you want to recreate a scene from CSI.


Automatic air con/climate control (coz' it's hotter than a one of Nelly's house parties)

Extra powerful windscreen wipers (for more viscous fluids)

Manual transmission (grip that shaft, girlfriend)

Leather steering wheel (just like my gimp suit)

Dual airbags (yes, the car too)

Price: $9,750

*Free Vengaboys Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom CD single*

If you think you're woman (or gay male) enough to handle this one-eyed monster magnet, email me at cockcollector@hotmail.com. No time-wasters! Only serious phallus fiends need apply.

Monday, 16 September 2013

KFC Zinger Pie Review: Part II

Hello KFC,

My first Zinger Pie review may have seemed somewhat harsh, but please don't take it the wrong way. I think you've been doing a stellar job assisting Australia's Type 2 diabetes epidemic. However, smothering shredded factory-farmed chicken in fatty afterbirth, then baking it into an insipid pastry sarcophagus just seems a little careless. Frankly, I think we deserve better. Did you know that Australia is ONLY the fifth fattest nation on Earth? I know, really embarrassing. While I truly appreciate your efforts to get us to the top of the list, I just don't think the Zinger Pie has what it takes to get us there...

Just have a look at it. Personally, I think your food stylist should've gone to Specsavers, unless of course, they were going for the "weeping vagina on a poster in the waiting room of a sexual health clinic" look. Honestly, if someone asked me to draw Paris Hilton's vulva, It'd look eerily similar to this, but with more rust-coloured discharge... and more penises in it.

I'm guessing that the product development team in charge of this monstrosity, consisted of two stoners debating which foodstuff most effectively tames the munchies - pies or KFC. As fast-food pioneers, surely you can come up with better ideas than this. I mean, it's not exactly groundbreaking is it? It's just a pie, that seems to have somehow contracted the Ebola virus. What happened to the innovative concepts, like serving 21 pieces of fried chicken in a bucket, and the Double Down, or as I like the call it, the "FUCK YOU INSULIN!" burger.

Come to think of it, my portrait of Paris' genitals would probably look more like this one. I bet she's had a few "Double Downs", know what I'm saying? Anyway, sorry for jabbering on all this time. What was it that you wanted to chat about?


Rich Wisken.

Thursday, 12 September 2013

KFC Zinger Pie Review: Part I

Dear KFC,

Imagine that I've been stranded on an uninhabited island in the South Pacific for a very long time. Then one day, one of your Zinger pies falls from the sky into my malnourished hands. Do I:

A) Eat it

B) Give it to my best friend, Wilson

C) Stick a coconut up my bum

D) None of the above

If you answered A, you clearly haven't consumed one of your own Zinger pies. If you had, you'd know that it's physically impossible to let that pastry-encased abomination pass your lips a second time, no matter how famished you are. That must mean the answer is B then, right? Wrong. Presenting this inedible atrocity to my best mate, even if he is just a personified volleyball, is a terrible idea. Wilson would probably tell me to go fuck myself, which would cause a friendship-ending argument. So obviously the answer is D, although inserting the seed of the Cocos nucifera palm into my rectum comes a very close second.

The pie's pastry, like Clive Palmer's recent political campaign (and possibly penis) was thick, flaccid and completely unpalatable. However, I was hopeful that the contents of the pie would be, as every idiotic Masterchef contestant would say, "The hero of the dish". Unfortunately the pie's filling was far from heroic. At best, it resembled the scum scraped off a caged-hen farm floor, mixed with a healthy dose of projectile vomit, à la the chick from The Exorcist.

exorcist photo tumblr_mn5se1dVXU1s7t55so1_500_zpsd43205b6.gif

Ironically, today is R U OK? Day. Prior to tasting this nauseating concoction, I was just fine. Now, I'm not so sure. It'll take some time for my tastebuds to forgive me, but at least throwing the rest of the unconsumed pie into Darling Harbour was very therapeutic. In all seriousness though guys, the Colonel must be turning in his grave. Stick to deep-frying factory-farmed chooks, because your Zinger pie is worse than Michael Slater starring in one of your commercials with the Madden twins... and that's fucking terrible. 

Obese regards,

Rich Wisken.

Wednesday, 11 September 2013

Inside My Workspace

I recently found out that I'm a finalist in the 2013 Ultrabook Pedestrian Blogster Awards. The Pedestrian team contacted me find out about my workspace...

Hi there,

Congratulations and thank you for being a finalist in the 2013 Ultrabook Pedestrian Blogster Awards! In the lead up to voting closing, we'll be publishing an article on each category and we'd love for you to supply something to include! Your article's topic is: 'Inside My Workspace'. Send us a photograph of your workspace + a little blurb (50-100 words) about it.

Good luck!

Xoxo Team Pedestrian

Tuesday, 3 September 2013

An Open Letter to Pastor Matt Prater...

Dear Pastor Matt Prater,

Every Monday night at 9:30pm, I sit down with my girlfriend (with whom I'm living in sin) and watch my favourite TV show, Q&A. I very much enjoy watching the punters, pollies and pundits debate the relevant issues of the week. I also really like the host, Tony Jones. Don't you think there's something mesmerising about a handsome, educated silver fox? I just love how the studio lights playfully dance on Tony's glossy platinum locks. One night, I must've been a little too mesmerised, because I dreamt that TJ was a Calvin Klein underwear model. I know, pretty gay, right?

The other reason I watch Q&A, is to see if I can get one of my infantile tweets on the screen, so I can impress a bunch of people I don't know on Twitter. This is pretty difficult, considering there's an average of 21,000 tweets per episode. However, last night I was successful.

Don't you think I was Lucky to have my tweet pop-up just as the Prime Minister was demonstrating his 'crane' technique. I do. When I saw my masterpiece appear on national television, I was happier than George Michael jumping into a sea of penises.

Unfortunately, my feeling of joy was short-lived. When you stood up to ask Kevin Rudd your marriage equality question, I thought to myself, "Who is this attractive, well-built man with a powerful jawline, yet strikingly effeminate disposition?" Then you asked your question... 

Initially, I was disappointed that some human beings still believe that homosexuals should be banned from holy matrimony, because they're repulsive sinners. Then I realised that you're just following the word of your loving, benevolent, understanding, considerate and kind-hearted God (who thinks gays are an abomination, even though he created them) 

Seeing as though the Bible is the word of God, can I assume that you follow it word for word? Surely you don't ignore the parts about murder, slavery, genocide, rape, human sacrifice and child abuse; only to focus on the 'love thy neighbour' bit, do you? That'd be exactly like someone visiting a cherry orchard and picking the best cherries off the trees, leaving the ugly, diseased ones behind. 

In your question to Prime Minister Rudd, you ask "If you call yourself a Christian, why don't you believe the words of Jesus in the Bible?" With that in mind, I'd like to play a little game called "Yes or No." It's easy, I'll ask you five questions and you just have to answer yes, or no. Got it?

1) Is it a sin to eat delicious crispy bacon?

(Leviticus 11:7-8) And the pig, though it has a divided hoof, does not chew the cud; it is unclean for you. You must not eat their meat or touch their carcasses; they are unclean for you.

2) Is getting a tattoo a sin? (not including white guys with tribal tatts)

(Leviticus 19:28) Ye shall not make any cuts in your body for the dead nor make any tattoo marks on yourselves: I am the LORD.

3) Will you execute your children if they call you a fuckhead?

(Exodus 21:17) And he that curseth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death.

4) Do you believe that men with mutilated genitals should not enter a house of God?

(Leviticus 19:27) He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the LORD.

5) Is Brokeback Mountain the most FABULOUS movie you've ever seen?

If you answered "No" to ANY of the first four questions, HOW CAN YOU CALL YOURSELF A CHRISTIAN? If you answered "Yes" to question five, would you like to go camping and horse riding with me? If so, I call shotgun on being Heath.

Holy regards,

Rich Wisken

Tuesday, 20 August 2013

Election Campaign Ad #2

Kevin Rudd and Tony Abbott don’t like boats... or basic human rights. They like slogans, and will do whatever it takes to “Stop the Boats.” Kev and Tony are engaging in a game of xenophobic one-upmanship, aimed at stopping asylum seekers reaching our shores. Why? Because fuck refugees, that's why! Rudd is sending them to Papua New Guinea. Abbott wants to tow them back to Indonesia. Who will win? Whose “We grew here, you blew here” policy will reign supreme?

Monday, 19 August 2013

Election Campaign Ad #1

Clive Palmer is a billionaire mining magnate. He is going to build the Titanic II. He is also going to build the world's largest dinosaur park. Clive really likes big ships... and dinosaurs. He may be a little bit mental. He wants to be Prime Minister of Australia. That's definitely a little bit mental.

Wednesday, 7 August 2013

Please Excuse My Parking Fine...

Recently, Leichhardt Council issued me a penalty notice for disobeying a no-stopping sign. I love the municipality of Leichhardt and would never break their rules intentionally. Unfortunately, I was forced to park in a forbidden space, due to a medical emergency. I hope this letter clears up the misunderstanding.

Dear Mayor Byrne, Leichhardt Municipal Council, and the State Debt Recovery Office,

On 30th July 2013, between 11:48am and 11:50am (presumably 11:49am), I was issued with a $236 penalty notice for disobeying a no-stopping sign in the delightful inner-west hamlet of Rozelle. As embarrassing as it is, I'm writing to see if I may be excused from paying the fine, on the grounds that I was suffering from violently explosive diarrhoea at the time.

The evening before the fine was issued, I ordered a beef vindaloo from a local Indian restaurant - a mistake I vehemently regret. Later that night my stomach started ferociously churning, which sounded like Chewbacca being sodomised by a jackhammer. As you can imagine, this was not a pleasant sensation.

Then came the sweating. Like Patrick Ewing in the fourth quarter, a saline waterfall of perspiration cascaded from every pore on my dehydrated body. This was followed by a sudden wave of staggering nausea. In fact, it was the exact same feeling I experienced when someone showed me the 2 Girls 1 Cup video. Have you seen it? If not, I wouldn't Google it unless you're a hardcore scat fetishist. It's really gross.

Before I could make it to the toilet, I projectile vomited a fiery torrent of curried magma across my bedroom. The spicy tsunami destroyed everything in its path, including my Wests Tigers jersey, which I often wear to display how proud I am to live in this superb municipality. Eventually I reached the bathroom, where I spent the remainder of the night rapidly deploying thousands of chocolate skydivers into a porcelain drop-zone, whilst shaking like Muhammad Ali on a roller coaster.

When I woke up the following morning, I felt like the entire volume of the Ganges had passed through my emaciated torso. I needed three things: hydration, Imodium and a butt-plug, so I dragged myself to the car and drove to Rozelle, where I knew I could get at least two of these items.

As I entered Rozelle, the sudden urge to evacuate my bowels overcame me once again. I parked in the first vacant space I saw and swiftly exited my vehicle. Somehow, I remembered that a ticket is required to claim the generous 30-minute free parking that you bestow upon your beloved citizens. I flagged down a passing hipster on a fixed-gear bicycle and asked if he'd collect the ticket for me. I don't normally interact with hipsters, but this was a crisis. Thankfully he stopped riding, put his satchel of organic groceries down, and placed a ticket on my dashboard.

As you can see, the time matches that of the penalty notice. Don't you think it's amazing that I had the presence of mind to remember a ticket in the midst of such a frenzied gastrointestinal emergency? Me too. However, I must say there are a couple of things I don't understand about this particular 'no-parking' space. Firstly, why is a ticket machine located directly next to it? And secondly, why is it identical to all the others in the area? It's very confusing. 

When I arrived back at the car, the parking inspector informed me that the spot is allocated to Australia Post between certain hours. He also said that "Nobody sees the sign" and "It happens all the time." Now, I'm not a smart man by any means, but I think I may have a solution to avoid this scenario reoccurring. How about painting red or yellow lines across the space, or perhaps the words "AUSTRALIA POST, SO DON'T FUCKING PARK HERE!" in big, bold letters? Oh, and relocating the ticket machine next to ANY other space but the prohibited one would also be favourable.

One of my friends told me there's no way you'll do any of those things, because you're a bunch of greedy, revenue-raising wankers. I told him to shut up, as I know there's no way the upstanding Leichhardt Councillors would behave in that manner. By the way, he's no longer my friend. Anyway, thank you so much for your time. Please find it in your benevolent hearts to forgive my minor indiscretion. I promise never to eat beef vindaloo again.

The kindest of regards,

Rich Wisken.

P.S. I hope you like the envelope I sent this letter in. I really, really love the municipality of Leichhardt!


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