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ASPIRING COMEDIAN AND West Pymble sociopath, Amanda Greenbolt, says she enjoys nothing more than prowling the streets of an evening to look for soft-roaders with ‘My Family’ stickers on the back window.

When she finds one, she slinks under the cover of darkness into the driveway and uses her gaudy nylon nails to peel the bloke off – just to freak him out when he returns home after a long day of working in the CBD.

“I have this image in my head of this bloke in a mid-level woollen suit coming home at night and seeing him peeled off the back of his Toyota Kluger and think, ‘Fuck! She knows!’ and then he goes inside acting all sheepish,” said the 28-year-old convicted credit card fraud.

“Then when the woman’s like, ‘I dunno what you’re talking about mate, but please go on explaining why you’re acting all mundry and all,’ and I just double-over laughing.” she said.

However, not everybody in Sydney’s Andrew Bolt corridor is happy with Ms Greenbolt.

One local homemaker alleges that her life was completely derailed by Greenbolt after she peeled her husband off their Mercedes-Benz ML 320 earlier this year.

After seeing his character removed while arriving home after a very, very long lunch with some clients, he freaked out when he saw he was no longer on the back of this Stuttgart yuppie bus.

“Larry, my ex-husband, burst through the door after seeing that slut’s handwork and confessed that he’d had a bastard with his secretary in 2006 and paid her off. The betray, the lies, all of it. I was sick to my stomach, but I’d have rather kept my head in the sand. I want my old life back.” she said.

More to come.


  1. Dear Sirs,

    As a Western Australian and someone who the police refer to as a ‘person of interest’ in a long-forgotten late-1940s missing person case, I am deeply dismayed at the low levels of manliness displayed by the Easterners mentioned in the above account.

    I once peeled-off a chap from the bullock bar of the Bedford truck I was driving to Kalannie with a load of fence posts and twenty crates of contraband grog, and rather than whingeing about it and making a fuss about his innards poking out and running down his trouser legs and into his boots he simply said “Is that the best you’ve got, you fucking cock-sucker?” before he slowly slipped out of consciousness and died.

    It was a good dozen miles out of town and well after dark, and from what I could gather between expletives he was a drifter and had become somewhat badly disoriented attempting to find his way back to his humpy down by the river after two days non-stop on the piss. It was an almighty pain in the arse having to take time out from my schedule to bury him about 50 yards in from the road let me tell you, and his 9 carat pocket watch and the three pounds, fifteen shillings and eight pence he had in his money belt barely covered a re-spray and the new headlight, but he at least knew how to cause inconvenience with that certain knockabout charm blended with old-time Western stoicism – from which I took some modicum of satisfaction. These modern so-called “men” are a disgrace and a shambles, and further proof – if any were needed – that my GST receipts are wasted on sooks and cry-babies.

    Peeling a chap away from a bullock bar and burying him tells you a lot philosophically about both him and yourself – I can’t remember what exactly, but I do definitely recall having that thought, or one something like it, at the time. The idea that there should be any sort of wailing or carry-on happening whilst you’re doing it is what separates a man from an Easterner. One man’s travail is another man’s “What in God’s name are you babbling about?” moment you know.


    Ron Muppet


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