Mr China Drug Cheat


Winfred Yeo awakens with a sense of unease. His chiney-sense is tingling. He can't be sure, but he has an awful suspicion that a nation of second rate convict citizens has disrespected the motherland!
He logs onto the news and his greatest fears are confirmed. Aussie swim-beast Mack Horton, a sort of genetically enhanced I.T guy, had strongly inferred that Sun Yang is a drug cheat.
(He is).
“Mack Horton should apologise! He shames himself and all of China. This coming from an offshore prison of drunk and immoral citizens. You should all die a slow and painful death. You may make arrangements to cease thinking we, China, are friends. May your black souls receive no sunshine”.
It’s a good thing he has a stockpile of Aussie A1 baby formula, because he’ll need substantial nourishment after that intense dummy spittery.
Unaware of what day it is, much less what's going on in the swimming, Dielyn rolls out of bed and trawls Perth: Have a Whinge on Facebook. He spots Winfred’s post that has been shared. “Fark offffff”. Not on Dielyn’s watch. No fucking way.
Dielyn launches into a tirade that would make Jack van Tongeren blush. He was at an all you can racially vilify buffett and his plate of sweet and sour poorcuntery was overflowing.
Worlds collide, and Dielyn and Winfred enter into Mortal Kombat over who can be the bigger fucking arsehole.
Winfred gets off to a great start with a *slightly hypocritical* swipe at Australia’s adherence to human rights. Not to be defeated, Dielyn makes an impressive comeback with a poorly worded tirade about whaling, driving like shitcunts and the poor service he once had at a Vietnamese cafe.
Who won gold in the argument is murkier than the “water” in Sun Yang’s bottle.
Nevertheless, the outraged debate is like a shitty toy under the Christmas tree, it was made in China and snapped up by bogans looking for a cheap thrill.

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Ms “The Bachelor”




Susan’s love life has been marred by the knuckle-dragging greaseballs she meets on Tinder and slick-talking bum-thumbers she meets in inner city bars. Although her Leederville townhouse smells like cats and desperation, she lives in hope that all this is just a painful prelude to her inevitable fairy tale romance. For a few hours a week, she forgets about the critical shortage of shining-armour-cunts and watches the pop-cultural equivalent of a Passion Pop-fueled fingering in the back of a Playboy seated Barina.

Oh how she fawns over the smiley-headed, meal-prepping fuck that they pulled from the bowels of a regrettable gay porn set. A man with all the charms of a fat pinch test and who doesn’t mind pooning his way through some instamodels to land a sweet gig on Getaway or some other irrelevant Australian fuckery. In Susan’s mind, he is eHarmonised-gold: good looks and he believes in romance! She watches Sam's shallow display of emotion, and plunges her yearning fingers deeper into the moist cave of her own fantasy.

Susan is unclear when exactly she crossed the line from “ironic viewer” to “overly invested Bach-addict”. Perhaps it was when she joined the inexplicably angry circle-jerk over Sam’s rejection of crowd favourite Heather. She sobbed mercilessly and spilled her Lean Cuisine as she uploaded a screenshot of the TV moment and proceeded to make a fucking twat of herself, “lost so much respect for Sam!!! Seriously, how SHALLOW, Heather is the goods and any man would be LUCKY to have her#mosthatedmaninaustralia #thebachelor2015#teamheather #dude #man”.

She submerged herself in “articles” written by trash journalists that attacked Sam for being shallow. Susan almost loses her fucking shit during a phone conversation to her bestie, “seriously, the guy is a pig, who cares if she called him dude or man, does he think that this is his romance? Does he think this is about him? I fucking need this Karen, I neeeeeeeed this”. Susan has let the stiffy-driven desires of a random man make her angrier than Rolf Harris outside a cancelled Wiggles concert. This was no longer a garbage reality TV show, it was a the combined longing of a nation of disenfranchised romantics.

It's finale night, so Susan robes up and watches with a sleeve of Tim Tams. She is still livid at Sam for ditching Heather and is getting mighty sick of Andrew G not taking this show as seriously as she is. She types a Facebook update in pure hormonal confusion, “that intruder slut Lana better not win @feeling stressed”. She can barely breath as the winner is announced: Snezana! Forgiveness and joy washes through Susan and her ovaries practically pop from an overload of pre-packaged faux-mance.

She jumps back on Facebook, “faith in men restored, squeeeeeee #romance #realman#samisahunk #lovewins #marriageequality#happytogether #fairytale #princecharming”. The anti-Sam lynch mob changed its tune and they are now carrying the cunt on their figurative shoulders like an undeserving hero that society doesn’t need.

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Mr Clubba


Back in the day when we tuned in to cop a big load of Sandy’s eyebrows on the OC, there was only one place to go for Passion Pop fueled mayhem: Claremont’s infamous Club Bay View.

Did they sell Passion Pop? Probably not, but the venue was in many ways kind of a like a big bottle of the shit: tacky, cheap and brimming the effervescence of drunken mistakes and queasy regrets. Nevertheless, you popped the top off that bitch and drank it down every Thursday night.


Johnny is pre-drinking at a Uni friends granny flat behind their parents sprawling abode. He is kitted out in his Clubba-best: pink Ralph Lauren polo (collar popped), G-Star jeans, white Etnies and generous spray of Aqua di Gio on his neck and balls. 

He perpetually looks like he has just drunk driven into some old boys hedge and his father is on the scene smoothing things out with his cheque book: a smug feeling of invincibility fueled by intoxicated self worth.


They run onto the road, yell and try to pull down streets signs on their journey up Bay View Terrace. Not unlike a pack of silverspoon-baboons rampaging through a South African village in search of the perfect banter. “Ohhh did you see Toby throw that traffic cone onto that guys lawn? Soooooo good  man”.  Oh yeh, thats a story for the ages…


Johnny is pretty drunk while standing in the line. He sways from side to side. The bouncer takes a look at his ID and considers rejecting him. Now, for a venue that could be better described as a human-waste eco-system it is fairly remarkable that a punter is too drunk to enter.

 He gets waved in and makes his way past the vomit-swamp bar floor to the gushing river of piss in the bathroom to empty his Bacardi-bladder all over the urinal wall and surrounding surfaces. One of his Christchurch mates pops out of a cubicle, “Johnnnny boy, check it out, just stuck a pint glass in the shitter and laid a big turd”. Oh how the pair laugh. Classic Clubba.


The rest of the night is characterised by Jagerbombs, sprinkler-related dance moves and aggressive bravado on the smoking terrace. 

A night at Clubba wouldn’t be complete unless you got into a blue with some other cunt and challenged them to a biffo outside of Fresh Provisions. Some Hale rugby players go off to tangle with some Guildford water polo boys. The rivalries remain perfectly intact even 2 years after school has finished. 

By all accounts, there was no winner, just a massive loss for the reputation of the PSA system.


Johnny drunkenly buys a girl a Whopper with cheese, despite her constant protests. She is a vegetarian, but more importantly she finds Johnny to be a repulsive, over-entitled walking trust-fund. Johnny’s years of PSA elitism has failed to arm him with the ability to lose gracefully. He launches the Whopper at a table of Trinity boys, “povo cunts, you could use the free food”. It’s an all out war, but truth be told,  the Trinity boys can’t afford to throw their food, so they resort to fisty-cuffs.

 A couple of Aquinas bogans sitting nearby were itching for a fight all night and a rogue group of Como High kids are totally down for it. Hungry Jacks erupts in a flurry of weak punches and threats of father-initiated court action. Jokes on everyone though, a pack of Santa Maria girls salvage the free food that has hit the floor and tables: “tonight we eat ladies!” 

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