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Irate Australian

JoKeR

JoKeR

Well-Known Member
Australian letter of the year

This is an actual letter sent to the DFAT Minster and the
Immigration Minister. The Government tried in desperation to censure the author, but got nowhere because every legal person who read it nearly wet themselves laughing!

Please excuse the language contained within, but I suspect the
author was somewhat upset? I'll let you decide!

A fabulous characteristic of Australians is that we are far more direct and outspoken than others when dealing with the sort of elected wanker who wouldn't otherwise get the full drift of what they were trying to communicate.

Below is one such wonderful communication...

Dear Mr. Minister,

I'm in the process of renewing my passport, and still cannot believe this.

How is it that K-Mart has my address and telephone number, and
knows that I bought a Television Set and Golf Clubs from them back
in 1997, and yet, the Federal Government is still asking me where
I was born and on what date.

For Christ sakes, do you guys do this by hand?

My birth date you have in my Medicare information, and it is on
all the income tax forms I've filed for the past 40 years. It is on
my driver's licence, on the last eight passports I've ever had, on
all those stupid customs declaration forms I've had to fill out
before being allowed off the planes over the last 30 years, and
all those insufferable census forms that I've filled out every 5 years since 1966.

Also..would somebody please take note, once and for all, that my
mother's name is Audrey, my Father's name is Jack, and I'd be
absolutely fucking astounded if that ever changed between now and
when I drop dead!!!....

SHIT!

I apologize, Mr.. Minister. But I'm really pissed off this morning.
Between you an' me, I've had enough of all this bullshit! You send
the application to my house, then you ask me for my fucking
address!! What the hell is going on with your mob? Have you got a
gang of mindless Neanderthal arseholes workin' there!

And another thing, look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin
Laden? I can't even grow a beard for God's sakes. I just want to go
to New Zealand and see my new granddaughter. (Yes, my son interbred

with a Kiwi girl).

And would someone please tell me, why would you give a shit whether I plan on visiting a farm in the next 15 days? If I ever got the urge to do something weird to a sheep or a horse, believe you me, I'd sure as hell not want to tell anyone!

Well, I have to go now, 'cause I have to go to the other end of
the city, and get another fucking copy of my birth certificate, and
to part with another $80 for the privilege of accessing MY OWN INFORMATION!

Would it be so complicated to have all the services in the same
spot, to assist in the issuance of a new passport on the same day??
Nooooo... that'd be too fucking easy and makes far too much sense.
You would much prefer to have us running all over the place like
chickens with our fucking heads cut off, and then having to find
some high society wanker to confirm that it's really me in the
goddamn photo! You know the photo..the one where we're not allowed
to smile?! ....you fucking morons

Signed - An Irate Australian Citizen.

P.S Remember what I said above about the picture, and getting
someone in high-society to confirm that it's me? Well, my family has been in this country since before 1850!
In 1856, one of my forefathers took up arms with Peter Lalor. (You
do remember the Eureka Stockade!!)
I have also served in both the CMF and regular Army something over
30 years (I went to Vietnam in 1967), and still have high security clearances.
I'm also a personal friend of the president of the RSL.. and Lt
General Peter Cosgrove sends me a Christmas card each year.
However, your rules require that I have to get someone 'important'
to verify who I am; You know.. someone like my doctor; WHO WAS BORN AND RAISED IN FUCKING PAKISTAN !!!......a country where they either assassinate or hang their ex-Prime Ministers, and are
suspended from the Commonwealth for not having the 'right sort of government.'

You are all Fucking idiots
 
T

the whole cake

Well-Known Member
wow cake so agree with this. cake went all the way to govt support place to ask for help. they tell cake to use their internet page otherwise it take a long time!
well nz govt websites are a nightmare to navigate around!! cake do their websitey thing. then cake been waiting for support for like 2 weeks only to find out they required further information: A letter had only just now been sent to cake asking for confirmation that he really owns his bank account. the letter hadn't gone to cake. they already know it anyway cos they been paying moneys before hand!!

so cake go in and turns out they dont accept IDs or such. so cake finally go running all over town (cake DOES NOT RUN. it hurt my boobs) to get bank to give super details and only to go back to them for them 2 say it take ANOTHER 2 weeks to process. what takes 2 weeks exactly???

now cake not have enough money to see family for christmas or his mummys birthday. they not even give cake a food stamp thing so he can eat foods. cake have present for his mummy too but now christmas is dumb.
---
there must be a way :/ mebbe cake set up relief fund. only need enough for one way plane ticket to see family
 
V

Viper

Well-Known Member
Here's another good one, i lost my shit reading it. Looks like the pictures didnt add so here's the link if u wanna see them! http://www.zentertainment.com.au/funnie ... tter-ever/



Dearr Mr Branson

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008

I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.

Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.

Look at this Richard. Just look at it:





I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?

You don't get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it's next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That's got to be the clue hasn't it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in:






I know it looks like a baaji but it's in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you'll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It's only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.

Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what's on offer.
I'll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it's Christmas morning and you're sat their with your final present to open. It's a big one, and you know what it is. It's that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.

Only you open the present and it's not in there. It's your hamster Richard. It's your hamster in the box and it's not breathing. That's how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this:





Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking it's more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It's mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.

Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.
By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it's baffling presentation:





It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn't want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.

I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.
Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on:





I apologise for the quality of the photo, it's just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson's face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel:





Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I'd had enough. I was the hungriest I'd been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.

My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations:





Yes! It's another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.
Richard. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I'd done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.

So that was that Richard. I didn't eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can't imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.

As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It's just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it's knees and begging for sustenance.

Yours Sincerely

Oliver Beale

Footnote

The Telegraph reported Mr Branson had rung Mr Beale personally to apologise and invited him to select food and wine for future Virgin flights.

"He was incredibly nice about the whole thing but I haven't received any compensation since talking to him," Mr Beale said.
 
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