Sure Anthony worked, but when it came to blessings, life always had its legs open, and he always seemed to be washing his dick in the VIP sink.
That hand-me-down Beamer, that second-hand Rolex and that passport with more stamps than the combined lower backs of the Mandurah Forum clientele. Something was up.
You always suspected, Anthony’s parents kept him more secure than the bolts on Fritzl’s dungeon door. A labour of love, because they weren’t hit-n-run hush money rich, they merely feasted on the nutrient-rich after-birth of their baby boomer’s easy run.
How disrespectful, at least the boomers fought wars. Wars just like the one his FB contacts waged in their head while deciding whether to invade their screens with their fists after his latest post.
He is standing in front of a duplex and beside a SOLD sign in the leafy ‘burb of Wembley:
“Just bought a house! Hard work and sacrifice has finally paid off, and I’m a homeowner. Watch this space it’s only going up babaaaaayyyyy, enjoy renting suckers :P”
While he is peacocking around on social media his parents are praying desperately he doesn’t fuckup. Unlike Anthony’s delusions of self-made manhood, his parent’s deposit and signatures on those guarantor papers are seriously real.
His social media gloating is bad, but his overnight belief that he is the Kochie of mid-range property investment is worse. He waltzes into the Claremont and orders like a man not restrained by the ropes of a hefty mortgage.
The Sultan of Cuntnei didn’t even look at the specials menu. He didn’t even inquire as to the pint of the month. He stuffs ribeye down his privilege-hole as he gives unsolicited investment advice, “you guys should really think of buying, renting is just throwing your money away”.
His mates roll their eyes as he continues, “I’m already looking at a place in Nedlands, it’s important not to let your portfolio stagnate, I’ve got the collateral so probably sign away my life next year some time *laughs fuckheadedly*”.
The problem with acting like this is even though his mates want to call him out, they also want to use his folk’s boat in the summer. It’s the paradox of befriending anyone who was raised in the western suburbs.
For most, buying a house in Perth is like getting robbed: it’ll happen at the end of a train line, and you’ll be left broke.