husbank or husburden?

Husbank: Has a CA.
Husburden: Has a BA.

Husbank: Will marry a trophy wife, beset with big tits and a fertile uterus to create millions of little heirs.
Husburden: Is the endless bachelor, fancies himself a bit of a Hef, probably dates five women at once, only married you because he was drunk and you were both in Vegas.

Husbank: Hangs out in the Upper Class Lounge at airports, the Saxon, the Westcliff Polo Lounge, the office.
Husburden: Hangs out at places where he can smoke a bifta without being arrested. Husburden: ridiculously good looking. Women crawl all over him like a bad rash.
Husbank: ridiculously rich. Women crawl all over him like a bad rash after they see his platinum card.

Husbank: Will turn his [trophy] spouse into a human incubating baby-making machine.
Husburden: Kids? Excuse me while my balls retract back into my urethra.

Husbank: Entitles the wife to a monthly salary that allows her to shop at Jimmy Choo, get a regular facelift, botox, a personal trainer.
Husburden: You're the breadwinner, so you'll entitle him to a salary that funds his pot habit.

Husbank: Wears suits all day long, and when trying to seduce you, will be naked barring his socks.
Husburden: Knows an awful lot of tai-chi. And administers a pounding in the sack so tactile, you can't walk for days. Husbank: Breadwinner.
Husburden: Breadloser. (No really. He leaves the bread on the bus, along with the rest of the groceries.)

Husbank: Old money.
Husburden: New money.

Husbank: Holidays in Baja. On his own yacht.
Husburden: Hitch hikes through the Transkei. When he's 63.

Husbank: Catches you fucking the pool boy and takes you to the cleaners. Thereafter changes the plates on his 5-series BMW to 'ALIMONY GP'.
Husburden: So you fucked the pool boy. Whatever.

Dear Go TV Slot Specialists

Hi. Me again.
Aren't you a bunch of lucky bastards, all this attention. I've tried to keep quiet and not bother you for at least six months, but I fear I will darn right explode if I do not say anything.

It's about Home & Away. Xobviously.

Remember when it used to show between 7:00pm and 7:30pm – the prime time slot – just as I was sitting down to a marvellously soggy, microwave meal for one, feet up on the chair, a glass of wine? You'll know the time, when I was actually home from work?

You know what's coming, don't you?

If I was a stay-at-home wife that assembled the ironing board in front of the tube, so that I could catch the afternoon's throng of cliffhangers, while my husbank went off to work, then hark, I wouldn't be writing this letter, would I?

I get that it's not the most sought-after television series on the planet. But let me tell you something for nothing: every single person that has spent an ample amount of time in my humble apartment, has become addicted to it almost immediately.

That's a pretty powerful concept. Think about it. Stupid Australian crap is, actually, that wonderful.

So before I completely lose my rag in the latter of this letter, let me commend you on your fabulous and impeccable taste. Choosing to air the Australian soapie at all, yes, I am eternally grateful, yadda yadda yadda.

Let's look at the statistics here for a second. After two episodes, I was glued. It's just the sort of superfluous bullshit that I find therapeutic after a day of being Femi-Hitler in my working environment. It's hard being the Office Nazi, ok.
The characters are hot, the plot is simple, and as Martha Stewart my newly-addicted flatmate so correctly points out, “The plot flows quickly. It's not like The Bold & The Beautiful where three years later Brooke and Taylor are still fighting over Ridge.” Quite right.

She's on the fucking button, isn't she?

Shit happens quickly in Summer Bay. It ebbs and flows – affairs are quick and scandalous, murder mysteries are solved within a week, and we love the fact that a cult is bought in every once in a while to shake things up. We all liked that little touch.

I am not the only addict. When Ex S lived with me, like clockwork, he'd watch it. Oh yes. Third Roommate got angry when we didn't speak during the commercials. Third World Ant sat glued to it, and Martha Stewart has swiftly jumped on the Summer Bay bandwagon too.

It sounds idyllic doesn't it? With one mighty flaw. And this is where you foolhardy chumps, beg pardon, people, come in.

You changed the time slot from 7:00pm to 4:30pm. That's quite a jump there.
I've beared this for 6 months. Because I snuck out of work early back in the good old days when I wasn't a slave. But since work has become of an absolute obliteration of time and energy, (shit is hectic; I'm not just saying that) – this is no longer feasible. So, essentially, I am now missing my favourite time of the day.

A chunk is missing. It's fucking gone.

My appeal. Right, so I know only 7 people watch it in this country. Shame for the rest of the population. They have no idea what they're missing out on, and ignorance may be bliss, but for 7 people, we fucking know what's cooking on the Australian coastline. When we're actually privvy to watching it, as some of us have jobs not husbanks, see.

I'm willing to do any appropriate marketing pulpit-and grandstand-style, if you would just change the time slot. I mean, do yourselves a favour and take off that stupid Go Chat shit I have been so unfortunate to switch to at 5:00pm and stick it in there. Seriously. Go Chat is really, really dumb guys. Really dumb. And so are the “Chat DJs” too.

Don't answer this until you've really thought it through and then answer “YES. YES. YES.”
I need my fix. As heroin addicts need Pete Doherty and his dealers, I need this. Are we understanding each other?

Yours in 4:30pm is a shit time for a daily soap,

Peas On Toast

PS: Grey's Anatomy has come to an abrupt end. I'm therefore doubly irate. Please, seriously, HELP ME THE FUCK OUT HERE.

PPS:
I added some pretty pictures entirely for your benefit. Look how happy these people are. Look at them. Look at them long and hard.