Despite the fact that the Tarocash wearing chode holding the gavel is the only one who enjoys them, property auctions have been allowed to continue to exist.

Property auctions combine the thrill of paying too much with the fun of buying a home plus the additional excitement of improv performed by the sort of talentless cum splash that became a real estate agent.

Steeped in tradition, auctions (which are how slaves were sold by the way) continue to get the hopes up of young couples like Ramona and Brian, who just want to live in a place that is their own so they can do reckless things like attach hooks to walls, source their own tradies and paint. 

Aside from registering as a serious buyer, one auction tradition is to clap at the conclusion of the auction as if to reward the winner for being the richest ones there.

Obviously as a young pair of Millennial renters, Ramona and Brian have had about as much success at property auctions as a pokie free venue in NSW as they finish another auction disappointed and forced to clap the successful buyer with their perpetually empty hands.

“Either the winner was the employee of a professional investor or they gave so little of a shit that they were on their phone the whole time,” stated Ramona, resting her red raw palms in yet another ice bath.

“Is this how NSW Blues felt during the decade? Outclassed, frustrated and embarrassed they even showed up?”

“Why is it that drug cheating is illegal in the Olympics, something that affects the quality of life of 0.0001% of people, but a professional investor can outspend me threefold on a property I wasn’t even that keen on but I just wanted somewhere to call my own?”

“You know that guy is never going to spend one night in there. Maybe his offspring will, legitimate or otherwise, but he is going to rent it out and forget it exists until his tenants piss him off by telling him the ceiling has flooded.”

“Fuck this country man, I’m voting for anti-vaxxers next election, it’s what we all fucking deserve.”



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