Ms Pauline Hanson

Like a Jetstar flight full of Bali-bellied bogans, the smell of patriotism has wafted into Western Australia. Pauline Hanson is in town.

Pauline was worried her trip to Sydney had given her ethnic-fooditis, so once in Perth she headed to a fair dinkum Aussie steak night.

At around 7pm Pauline and her entourage arrived at Botanica and are seated. After an hour a bodyguard suggested they move on as the atmosphere seemed a bit off. Pauline stares at him like Nick Kyrgios’ Tinder date after he finished as quick as the Aussie Open. She launches into full denial:

“I don’t like that Steve, there is no evidence to suggest the atmosphere in here has changed at all, and any further discussion into this social climate would be a waste of time, there is just no evidence Steve.”

They continued drinking until Pauline saw something that shocked her. A young perky waitress carrying a burger out to a nearby table. Pauline knows she can make a change, she is angry, excited and wants to get involved,  kind of like Chris Brown watching a woman’s UFC match.

“Missy, missy, no, no, you shouldn’t be forced to serve that burger. In Australia we do steak sangas, I’ve said it for bloody years, the burger is oppressive to one's appetite and it’s not the Aussie way. Ban the bloody burger!”

When Pauline’s own food arrives she brandishes her own bottle of tomato sauce from her bag. She turns to her friend, “I don’t trust most sauces these days sometimes they conveniently forget to put halal on the ingredients list, but you know it’s in there”.

They dine merrily until Rod Culleton stumbles into the venue trying to avoid being served a writ. “Oi cunts, who’s up for more pints, on me!” Pauline looks at her personal Judas and snaps, “no, fuck off, we’re full”.

After their meal, a staffer comes to clear the tables and notices Pauline hasn’t touched her salad. “Was everything ok with your meal Ms Hanson?” Pauline looks her in the eyes, “look luv, I didn’t love the salad, so I left it, love it or leave it, that's what I always say”.

Then Pauline was struck with an epiphany, why is this ethnic-ish waitress clearing her table, when there is an unemployed drunk Aussie bloke at the bar doing nothing? She interrupts the clearing, “now look, you’ve swooped in, without even giving that fair dinkum bloke over there a chance to clear these tables, I don’t like it”.

At the end of the night, Pauline decides to show her true Aussie spirit and get the bill. While waiting to pay she notices a man ignore bar etiquette and jump the queue. She scorns the  manager, “please explain why you don’t have stricter barriers and bollards? That lot will bloody do it every time you know”.

Well, you wouldn’t read about it, the bill comes to $457. The manager cheekily asks if she’d like to leave a tip. Pauline flaps her hands like a China made Aussie flag on a Toyota Camry, “get your till fixed yes, there is something very wrong with your system, very wrong”.

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The Human Zoo - Little Miss Corporate

Jessica’s constant gloating about her grad position is like using the party potato salad to relieve your yeasty itch: it makes her feel good but leaves everyone else feeling a bit sick.

In her mind, being offered a $60k entry level finance position has redefined the notion of human achievement. In one fell swoop, she has Gillard’d herself above her peers and stands as a role model for women, nay, humans everywhere.

Like most Wall Street ballers, Jessica occupies the top 1% of her parent’s dwelling. Without the need to slay the demons of rent and bills, she is free to spend her salary on powersuits, heels and leather document holders.

Basically, she dresses exactly like the sort of shit head who says she will “pencil you in”, despite her entire day consisting of making coffees for man-gunted fat cats who leer-dream about her juicy spreadsheets.

Most of her day consists of sending people Linkedin requests and being Facebook’s biggest shit-eater. How does one achieve this? By “checking in” to work every morning and showboating work she's barely involved in:

“Getting ready to value a client's assets for a float… think i’m going to need a coffee… or three! haha#justfinancethings”.

It's exactly the sort of status that leaves her friends looking at their screens like Elliot Stabler looks at vicious felonies.

It’s now Thursday and Jessica attends a corporate wankfest sundowner. A meet & greet that will allow her to demonstrate her “value” and what a strong female role model she truly is.

That is until she has necked 2 glasses of mid tier wine and sends the 2IC a Linkedin message strongly implying she would like to go at the man’s soggy booze-noodle like an Asian businessman sucks on a ciggy.

Sometimes to stand tall, you have to get on your knees. Lo & behold, she is already winning. She is given permission to use a colleague's office for 2 days while he is on leave.

She snaps more photos than a Belmont janitors toilet cam and relentlessly posts the news of her “office” on social media. Clearly she was born without the segment of her brain that gauges whether people give a shit or not.

A knock on the door disturbs her online gloating. It’s a young sparky who needs to wire some shit. She barely acknowledges his blue collar existence as she grunts and moans every time the pleb asks her to move. She fires off a text to her friend, “omg gross like a tradie is in my office, smells like sweat”.

Nah he smells like someone who earns twice your salary you she-schmuck.

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Mr Mount Lawley

Mount Lawley is the bohemian flame to which the scarfed Perthian is drawn. It is a bustling hub of irritating fashion, latte sipping fixie connoisseurs and crusty locals that have inhabited the leafy ‘burb since time began. Come for the variety of food and drink, and get stuck because some shit-stain on a Vespa is trying to turn right onto Walcott. 

Matt steps out of his small cottage home with his French Bulldog, “lap it up Pierre, this is the best suburb in the fucking world”. His clothes are purchased exclusively from Elroy and his fashion sense can best be described as “bogan kryptonite”: a beige beret, a striped scarf and tight Chinos rolled up to expose his ankles. He insufferably covers his body in arbitrary pop culture tattoos and in an act of despicable unoriginality he flaunts them with nonchalance. Oh, he also rocks a greased cunt-antenna and his dog is dressed like a prick too.

On his Sunday morning walk to Bossman Coffee, Matt pauses at the site of the old Planet Video and pours a splash of his coconut water out on the pavement in respect for the sacred grounds. He spots a couple of nose-ringed girls that he knows and pauses to select a suitably pretentious tune on his iPod: Coltrane? Perfect. He sleaze-strolls up to the dark haired fringe-bishes, “coming to the Scotto for a pizza & pint ladies?”. Of course they are, the high price of rentals in Mount Lawley forces the young hipsters to feed off the fat of the discount.

Before the Scotto, Matt must meet his mother at the Beaufort Street Merchant for their weekly coffee and Matt’s weekly money grab. Living the Mount Lawley lifestyle isn’t cheap, and he will never live his dream of mixing trap-jazz fusion at the Velvet Lounge on a Friday night if he looks like an Inglewood peasant. $50 richer, he heads to the Scotto to get drunk and tell anyone who will listen about his upcoming audio-visual art project: “Like, Start the Boats, Fuck Abbott”. Sounds like an edgy ripper, mate.

His group sit out the front and spend the majority of their drinking session talking about how brilliant Mount Lawley is, “there really isn’t anything like it, it’s the most Melbourne-like ‘burb Perth has”. After numerous pints Matt is sloppier than a 1am Mount Lawley Whopper and becomes very Melbmotional: “so sick of Perth bogans mahn, I am totally moving to Melbourne next year”.

An ambitious plan for a man that lives off canned food and has only traveled as far as Highgate in the last 3 months.

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