Mrs Mummy Blogger

Posting a photo of your kid with shit all over his face is the heroin of the full time mummy world. It’s like the feeling of a million Minion memes rushing through your online veins. Once Susan got a taste she was hooked. 

T’was the summer of ‘15 when Susan felt the baby photo-high fade into a mundane buzz. In a fiendish frenzy she stepped up her oversharing game and wrote a status about her shit-for-brains husband struggling to change a nappy.

The post was met with critical acclaim from masses of Chardonnay-housewives. A star was born, and Susan started up a Wordpress blog, “The Hardest Job in the Mummyverse”. An outlet to describe the difficulty in dodging her kids bodily fluids, and finding time to cop some of her husbands.

Clueless sprog-raisers everywhere flocked to Susan’s blog for mothering advice. In her desperate bid for relevancy, nothing was off limits. Her kid’s piss-panting, the state of her nips and even a horrifically unsexy story about her husband 2-pump-chumpin’ it in the backseat of their Rav 4 after they’d drop the little snot-dicks off at her mums:

“As a mummy, I work a dozen jobs all at once. Unfortunately, my hubby couldn’t even handle the one job I’d allocated him for the night lol. After a minute of grunting it just struggled like a inflatable, crazy, blowy man outside a used car lot”.

The mother goose was loose, and she was laying daily eggs of parenting faux-losophy. The delusion of profoundness led to such dickheaded greats as “Why I’m an Organic Mummy”, “Vaccines are MY Choice” and “Defeating ADHD with Love”.

Doctors, dieticians and child psychologists could all go and suck her husband’s deflated manhood. She knew best because she had 2000 followers and had a shout out on Mamamia.

To save herself from the crippling regret of a 10am glass of vino, Susan takes her laptop and kids down the local park. She types away as her kids play and she notices a couple of male council workers having their smoko on a bench.

She pens five cunt-agraphs of rambling fuckery about how as a mummy she didn’t feel safe letting her children play while bearded men sat 75m away.

Her following couldn’t believe these men had the audacity to enjoy a park bench on a spring day. What fucking arseholes. Didn’t they consider Susan’s prejudices?

In a whirlwind of misandristic rage, the post goes viral. Acrylic nails batter keyboards and the plight of the park mummy becomes known. Susan is as chuffed as Waleed Aly’s left hand at a circle jerk.

Susan is now a household name and she begins eyeing off her next target: the lack of vegetarian options at her local butcher.

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The Perth Traveller

Candice has mastered the art of ruthlessly loathing the inconvenience of culture shock while faux-losophising on Instagram to inspire her followers. 

She makes it very clear that she sees the “real” culture and every photo she posts depicts a profound life-changing event that Contiki Tour peasants have no chance of experiencing from the sheltered confines of their guided fuckery. 

Let Candice treat you to an episode of “Where in the World is Carmen Poorcunt-diego”.

Candice is treated to a holiday to South America in exchange for dumping her Thornlie-bred boyfriend whom her family deemed "unsavoury". Before leaving for the airport she uploads a photo of her passport and boarding pass to Instagram:

“once more, embarking on the road less travelled, who knows what awaits me #followme#lifeisbeautiful #travel #wanderlust #hola#southamerica #realtravel #notours #nocontiki#solotravel”. 

Her father drops her off at Perth International and slips her an extra $500 cash. She completes her airport ritual by checking in on Facebook and purchasing some expensive perfume - a true necessity of enlightened travel.

Many hour later, she arrives exhausted and furious in Rio de Janeiro and gets conned into paying twice as much for a taxi to her hotel room. However, her social media report on the landing was somewhat different, 

“landed in Rio! Just sweet talked the a taxi driver into giving me a cheap fare #travelminded#streetwise #traveltips #neverpayfull #experience”. 

She arrives at her 5 star hotel and immediately uploads the obligatory bathrobe/champagne selfie to Instagram. Like all great explorers before her, she gets a solid 9 hours sleep on 2000 thread count Egyptian cotton, a real Christopher Cuntlumbus

She spends the next daily bitterly complaining about the sticky heat and bothersome beggars that inhabit the streets of Rio. Her resting bitch face is at an all time high after being asked if she could spare any change for the 2nd time, after all, it’s not her fault that people decide to become poor drug addicts. 

She cracks a few smiles for selfies in front of famous landmarks and decides to catch up with a friend who is staying at a local hostel. To her friend's disgust, she carries on like an over-cultured tub of yoghurt and alienates herself with dickheaded comments, “I usually hate running into other Aussies while travelling, like I totally travel to get away from them, hey”.

Her friend begrudgingly invites her along to an organised tour they are doing of a local Favela. During the 20 minute van ride to their destination she causes everyone to wak in their headphones as she wanks on about how she never does organised tours and “there is a first for everything hehe”.

 In reality, Candice is one of 200 tourists that got to walk through the Favela that day, but she barely noticed any of the sight and sounds as she was mentally creaming her jeans over the glory of her next travel update. She poses for a photo with armed gang members and becomes fixated on what profound bullshit she is going to spin to her legion of followers.

The group are sincerely relieved when she turns down their offer to attend an asado restaurant with them afterwards. How can these guided tour fuckwits eat at a time like this? Candice has a photo of her in an actual ghetto with actual thugs. This is the holy fuckin’ grail. She orders room service and begins scribing her narcissistic bullshit,

 “today I ventured into a real Brazilian Favela, it was so inspiring to see how the less fortunate live, and I even made friends with the local gangsters, it’s amazing how we connected over the universal language of respect #donttellmymother #favela#realtravel #wanderlust #roadlesstraveled #danger#pro”.


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Ms Oktoberfest

At Oktoberfest Ciara’s dignity plunges lower than her neck line while she battles through beers she can't pronounce. A sloshy sea of busty females and lederhosen clad lads who adopt and treat Bavarian culture like a red haired orphan.

Ciara hosts the befores at her parent’s East Perth abode. She and her five besties pace around her bedroom making sure their immodest outfits are looking guten. Of course, the befores are less about bonding and more about the mandatory pre skank-mode selfie for her Instagram. The girlies form a human centipede chain in front of the bathroom mirror and Ciara uploads the photo, 

“Do you even Oktoberfest?   #german #oktoberfestau#langleypark #stein #beerwenches #lol#shouldbestudying #dasbabes”.

To get into the spirit Ciara purchaes a 6 pack of
 Oettinger: a beer usually reserved for 10am drunks who casually piss-slime into Liquorland the minute the doors open. Nevertheless, she forces the drink down like an Insta-hoe slurping on a balding photographer’s chode in the hope of making it bigger than her impending hangover.

They arrive at Langley Park and sprawl out into a muddy area that resembles an extras casting call for a particularly grim German porn movie. 

By 4pm, Ciara is feeling the ill-effects of liquid gluten abuse. She has randomly started a blue with her best friend over some irrelevant bullshit that can only be resolved after she has shed enough attention-seeking tears from her fucked-eyed face. Accordingly, Ciara is unsteady on her feet and her drunken drama-queening has made her unappealing to all but the seediest faux-German vultures circling.

Luckily for Ciara, a shithead marches past in a lagered-haze and spots his damsel in distress. He is dressed like a UWA banterlord: female clothing, padding under a bra and a wig that has all the appeal of a shower drain clogged with HIV-soaked pubes. He stumbles over and begins the dance of the drunkard, “ayyyyyyyyyyy what's wrong angelface?” He can barely finish his verbal-leering without belching and dribbling in a grubby and involuntary manner.

Ciara sways around while he peppers her with slop-nothings. His cheeseballing makes her sick and she lurches over and sprays his shoes with a chunky spray of overindulgence. At that moment, he stops thinking with his bratwurst and decides to get away from her faster than a police chase on das Autobahn.

Eventually, Ciara hails a taxi with all the composed coordination of a newly birthed baby giraffe. She will wake up with a sore head and niggling feeling that she has set back German-Australian relations by about 10 years.

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