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Mondays With Mullane ep19 - TV or Not TV, That is The Question

In my maturity and retirement, I appreciate the simple things in life after a strenuous day with physical activities like making breakfast, sipping coffee, and watching all the foreign news channels on SBS

WARNING: The Following Article is an Opinion Piece written by The Anonymous Author Mullane. This article respresents his views and not that of The Anonymous Publishing House. Free speech as well as freedom of expression and opinion are a fundimental and natural right for all. Censorship will only ever silence the truth and in the persuit of free speech there may be times where you read words objectionable to you and your beliefs. Either contest and debate the opinions expressed, or skip to the next article/video.


We might not agree with the words written below, but we will fight til our last breath for the authors rights to say them.


I turn the TV off, suffering debilitating depression at the state of the world. So I water the garden and lawn, play with my smartphone, and pick up my grandson from school. Home again, I shower and ask my darling, "What's for dinner, love?" Her usual reply is frozen whatever: "I've been playing golf all day, I'm tired." "Ok, that will do me." Now, before the feminists get their knickers or Y Fronts in a knot, I offer to cook, but my wife says I make too much mess. You only have to mess up once.


After dinner with a generous glass of Australia's finest shiraz, I ease into my electric reclining chair with a chilled drink holder, phone charger and massager. The deluxe model featured a wanking device my wife wouldn't let me pay the extra. She said, "You need the exercise." Anticipating being entertained by our 85-inch Samsung's latest, greatest fucking genius TV. Who said size doesn't matter? So the question of what to watch, my wife couldn't give a rat's arse; she talks incessantly on her phone with fellow golfers about who cheated. Her chit-chat often pauses briefly as she demands I turn the volume down; such hypocrisy. This often leads to a verbal argument. My wife hasn't learned the fact this impolite request shouldn't be made after my third glass when I possess the Dutch courage to tell her to fuck off to another room. Invariably, this confrontation negates any chance of marital conjugal rights.


Australian TV channels ABC, SBS, Seven Media, and Nine Entertainment Ten Network. Sky News. 800 free to air. Plus Stan, Netflix, Disney Channel, Google, and Samsung Plus. So I grab the remote, flicking from channel to channel like a randy sheila, flicking the boy in the boat with less satisfying results. The definition of stupidity is to keep doing the same thing, expecting a different result. I repeat myself every night, "There's nothing on TV." The old test pattern was more interesting than the current shows.


I watch Nine ads interrupted by bits of news. Then I watch A Current Affair, mostly promos for Nine reality shows or some shonky tradie. Then I watch The 7.30 Report, usually, some unprepossessing non-binary interviewer beating up on a conservative politician. The ABC is obsessed with Aboriginals, homosexuals, lesbians, and climate change. Their bereft of ratings, Monday night programme Q&A features a new host after the departure of Sun Tan Stan. In keeping with the GAYBC's diversity policy, the new host is an unattractive Mediterranean heritage lipstick lesbian. The GAYBC's Four Corners programme makes an extraordinary effort to see who can next sue them. ABC's so-called comedy is a bunch of egotistical leftist elitist self-indulgent, woke wankers who are about as funny as a kick in the nuts.



Channel Ten, I and millions of others have never tuned in. Channel Seven, I watch the AFL like Nines NRL; they have the compulsory inane, inarticulate, incompetent, unknowledgeable, but good eye candy female reporters. An AFL and NRL female reporter is like employing Billy Boofhead, ex-NRL front-rower, to report on the ballet or opera. The games are scheduled to start at 7.30, but we must endure an hour of pre-match waffle and the now compulsory Welcome To Country Ceremony. A bunch of white guys dressed as American Indians welcoming me to my own country.


Another sport is cricket. How does one describe cricket? I'll try boring, slow, monotonous, mundane, or a cure for insomniacs. The drinks break the most exciting part of the match. I don't know how the Australian Women's Cricket Team win a game, considering most bat for the other side. Tennis petulant players smash expensive rackets and abuse umpires and spectators—female tennis players with unpronounceable names screaming out orgasmic grunts every time they hit the ball. The Australian Women's Soccer team generated substantial TV ratings. The Matildas team can lick any other team; they have plenty of licking practice. Rugby Union attracts an audience of 20 to 25. Man mountain players jump on top of one another like stacks on the mill, constantly interrupted by obscure penalties. Games are won on penalties; 200 points for a penalty, so why bother scoring tries?


I used to watch Seven Media Bathurst car race each year enthusiastically. Bathurst is for Western Suburbs Bogans what Mecca is to Muslims. However, again, politically correct female reporters. The drivers have all had the charisma bypass, and the racing is sanitised. Give me NASCAR argy bargy a bit wheel banging and personable drivers, good ol boys Leroy Two Guns Lee and Leyland McSplandin and Bubba Billy Bob Jr. Any sense of humour or personality of Australian drivers is quashed. David Reynolds once made a humorous, sarcastic, sexist remark regarding female drivers. He said they need more pit stops to change their pads. As a result of his flippant brain fade, he was fined $20,000. FFS. In my days, the podium winners of the feature race received their trophies, prize money cheques, and cartons of ciggies and fucked the bikini-clad Marlboro promo girls in the ambulance room.


So, viewers are offered a vast choice of reality shows. Potential participants must undertake an IQ test. Those scoring above 75 are discarded. The Master Chef judges are relieved they refused the application of Erin Patterson. In her resume, she stated Beef Wellington with mushrooms is her signature dish. Failed restauranteurs judge these shows. The usual diversity is an ethnic couple, a same-sex couple, and siblings.


As I stated, I've only viewed the promos for this garbage passing as local content and heard the annoying voice of the promo guy. "The programme everyone is talking about. Australia's most anticipated TV event not to be missed." Some of these shows leave me baffled about their contents. The Farmer Wants A Wife. His favourite sheep will be heartbroken—Lego Masters adults playing with children's toys. Love Triangle a menage a trios X rated? Big Brother is uncut. What has non-circumcision got to do with a TV show? The Biggest Loser a day playing the pokies at the local RSL Club. Truckers Down Under, a higher-rating show, would be Fuckers Down Under.


Survivor Series, people shown surviving at the present-day cost of living. Dancing With The Stars is a collection of B-grade ex-celebrities swooshing about being judged by a lisping limp-wristed flamboyant garrulous gay guy. Border Force Australian customs each week catch an Asian traveller smuggling in exotic food. And poorly concealed packages of drugs. Wife swap: There was a wife-swapping club when we lived on The Sovereign Islands. We attended a party. I thought, yes, swap for a car or a boat. No, it was another wife, fuck that better, the devil, you know. Beat The Pros, I assume, is a programme about bashing prostitutes. Blind Date again diversity showcasing blind people can feel in love; excuse the pun—The Masked Singer. COVID-19 is over mask wearing is not compulsory.


Australia's Funniest Home Video showing people, including children, being hurt is not funny. Territory Cops showing cops wrangling Aboriginals and arresting drunk crocodiles, or should that be the other way around? Who cares. In The Road To Miss Universe, the winner was disqualified when the judges found out she was born with a vagina. What Really Happens In Thailand. Anthony Albanese was a consultant for this show; his experience with Thai brothels was invaluable. What happens is bogan Aussies purchase cheap piss and pussy, not realising the cheap pussy is often a manufactured, a neo vagina. They buy cheap drugs and receive lengthy jail sentences when trying to smuggle drugs into Australia. A friend married a girl from Thailand; unfortunately, she died from testicular cancer. SAS, again, is a gaggle of ex-C-grade celebrities trying to prove how tough they aren't. RBT Random Breath Testing pissed perpetual losers being charged. These shows mainly fill in during the non-rating season.


Now, the so-called mega-hits, Real House Wives, Of Sydney, a collection of high-end low IQ trout pout-lipped bubble butt bolt-on boobed bourgeoisie Botoxed bitches bleached blonde bimbos, displaying expressionless faces so stretched from numerous facelifts. Giving their Gantz Pantz a workout trying to contain a voluptuous arse and saggy tummy. These social climbers impatiently wait for their boring husbands to carg it. This middle-aged mutton dressed up as a lamb. Flaunt their wealth with cavalier arrogance. They wear expensive designer gear and ostentatious jewellery, flashing their surgically enhanced tits and veneer teeth. To me, they are in desperate need of a good fuck. However, they most likely own multiple-speed gold and diamond-encrusted Gucci or Armani super-sized dildos.



Married At First Sight. This is the most annoying, degrading, contrived show ever: The promos annoy me. A group of losers meet for the first time and get married. The guys sport funny haircuts, two-day stubble, tatts and an earring. The gals lip fillers and the odd tramp stamp. These brides endeavour to hide their working-class origins, trying to be elegant; this charade fails when they open their mouths. You can take the girl out of Blacktown but not Blacktown out of the girl. They wear dresses by the same designer, Seymore Snatch. They have as much class as a Mt Druitt footpath. Each week, the participants are scrutinised on the ins and outs of their relationships. There are more ins than outs—gratuitous sex, not necessarily with the original spouse. These contestants possess the morals of an Ally Cat on heat.


My Mum Your Dad. Cringworthyness taken to new heights. A bunch of geriatric desperate singles, divorced and widowed, are paired. Their children witness these scripted shenanigans. Ancient, wrinkly females, bald, beer-belly blokes. Romantic settings driving European sports cars professing undying love: not too long to wait. What children would want to watch one of their parents have sex? This show could only attract masochists.


Now, the subscribing channels. Netflix cheaply made movies catering to political correctness, a cast of racially diverse no-name actors, the white guy, always the bad guy, the person of colour, the smart one—ancient documentaries, chick flicks. The Disney Channel and all their classic cartoons are heavily censored, catering to political correctness. Their new feature films are box office bombs, a coloured Snow White, seven diverse people, no dwarfs, and no Prince Charming. You can't make this shit up.


So, each night, I flick on to YouTube. Watch 1980s wrestling. I know, I know, but it was entertaining. Sky News right-wing rants, the odd worthwhile documentary, film noir, old 50s 60s black and white movies. Cooking shows, vintage cars. Trannies explain what happens after their dick is cut off. Old Rock- and- Roll Music YouTube has more exciting programs than the free-to-air or subscriber channels, but unfortunately, it is still saturated with annoying ads. Speaking of ads, one could be forgiven for thinking there are no more Caucasian people in Australia—the new wave of ads practices diversity to the highest degree. Some ads the family featured show five different races; Mum was a busy gal.


After all this rant, I still fall asleep in front of the TV, my wife having abandoned me. I wake up at 1 am and go to bed. She has turned the TV off. There was a reality show I thought I would be a dead-set cert to qualify for. Embarrassing Bodies Down Under.


My apologies for plagiarising another great writer, William Shakespeare.


Danny Mullane


Buy Danny's controversial memoir Car Dealers and Other (Honourable) Professions below.



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1 Comment


Loved it, couldn't have said it better myself. Hahaha hahaha ha

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