The Human Zoo - Mrs Don't Assume My Kid’s Gender

At 8:15am a beautiful baby is born into the world. The doctor smiles at Helen, “congratulations, it's a girl!” Helen’s icy stare penetrates the doctor like an Eskimo's tampon, “how DARE you assume my child’s gender!”

Helen demands to speak to the head of the department and lodges a formal complaint against the genderist doctor. All the while, her husband stands meekly in the corner proving that perhaps a dickless entity can indeed be male.

Being a proud Claremont family, it is important that the young’n be enrolled in a same-sex private school. Now, she could enroll her child in a co-ed public school but there isn’t enough Napisan in the world to clean that skidmark off their family name. No. It is the private schools that must accommodate her self indulgent fuckery.

She is advised by a leading all girls private school that they accept gender neutral children. Fucking hell, she is triggered like an IS bomber with Parkinsons. Did this shirt & tie shit-dick just assume her child was gender neutral?

She is livid. Perhaps even more pissed off than when the head of the montessori told her that her child would need to be vaccinated to attend. It’s her choice on what gender her kids are, and it's her choice not to bow down to the evil whims of big pharma and save her children from fucking autism!

She begins drafting a complaint to the Department of Education when she receives a call from her husband. He is down at Claremont Quarter with their other child, a genetic male that Helen has decided needs a good dose of femininity to raised well adjusted. Accordingly, today, the child is leaning towards being a girl.

“Hi hun, I know you said Alex will be using the female toilets from now on, but I really don’t feel comfortable taking him, shit I mean it…I mean fuck they in”

Helen makes it clear that if he ever wants to play hide the slippery sausage again, he get the pronouns right and will march into that female toilet and assist their child. Oh boy, his middle-aged masculine presence is not warmly received and a security guard escorts them out.

Great, now everyone thinks Helen’s husband is some kind of sicko pervert. The kind of cis-man that would put lipstick on and yell angry-nothings at a prostitute that was dressed like his dad. This will not stand. A letter of complaint will not suffice. Helen decides to go nuclear: petition time.

Typically, her petition gains traction amongst Sav Blanc day-drinkers and boatshed cougars who have adopted a new age style of parenting. A sort of, “I’ll do what I fucking want” mentality and if you don’t like it, you can suck on my throbbing petition.  

2 months later security spots Helen taking young Alex into the male toilets. After they exit he asks, “aren’t you that lady that almost got me fired for stopping your husband taking this kid into the female shitters?”

Helen stares right into his working class soul, “my child is identifying with being a male today, got a problem with that buddy?”

You have no idea lady.

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The Human Zoo - Ms Perth Juvie


Brittany’s Facebook looks like an attention-seeking bomb went off in the middle of a failed Supre model’s party. Naturally, she is “married” to her bff Carla and all her profile photos look like they were taken in the Fremantle Timezone’s photo booth. 

Every one of her status updates uses more emoticons than Rolf Harris’ e-invite to his lollybag-tacular pool party at the Neverland Ranch. When she’s not posting vague updates about other juvie skanks talking shit, she is pulling out the big guns, “lyke for an inbox tongue emoticon xx”. Simply put, it is a grammatically abhorrent ride down the river juvi-Nile that will leave you feeling sicker than Kerser at the front of the Centrelink line. 

It’s Friday so Brittany decides to be a mad-cunt and wag school. Diligently pursuing an education is “gay” and pales in comparison to the dizzying highs of smoking some loser 19 year old’s darts outside of Carousel shopping centre. She is dressed like her father’s heart attack: buttocks-revealing denim shorts, a muffin-top exposing Valley Girl singlet and an Obey hat. She smells strongly of impulse body spray and has turned her face into an off-putting collage of shoplifted make-up and misguided youth.

While waiting for the bus she regales the other commuters with an obnoxious conversation about how she plans to sneak into Gilkinsons on the weekend and go mad skitz on bickies. She loves the fact that upstanding citizens are giving her funny looks and she storms her way down to the back seat of the bus to be reunited with her fuckwit brigade. 

Their loud conversation blends perfectly with the Tyler the Creator bullshit blaring from her portable iPod speakers. Half way through a rant about the various boys she is going to hook up with, a suited man turns around, “show some bloody respect and turn that music off”. Brittany doesn’t miss the chance to prove her mum should’ve swallowed her and responds, “fuck off cunt, ya paedddd”.

Brittany and her crew meet up with a group of older boys who have less going for them than a Collingwood fan at a teeth modelling audition. She immediately starts suffering through a Winnie Blue and blames her juvie-coughing on a lingering chest infection. As luck would have it, a couple of Nike Air-clad degenerates have decided to have a public smash to be filmed and uploaded to Perth Fights. Brittany films the sloppy melee and cheers on the neanderthal-ic combatants who are competing for the title of King Oxygen Thief. The only real winner is Darwin’s theory of cunt-olution.

Smoking ciggies, filming smashes and wagging school. Brittany is feeling so fly that she overloaded her carry-on swag, and will have to pay the excess on her sick-cuntery. Of course, the price she pays is a shameful public display of her dad successfully tracking her down and demanding she get in the faded red Camry and return home for some much needed discipline.

Swaggering to the max, Brit.

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Mr Armadale Train line

In the game of scummy train lines, the Armadale line reigns supreme. It flows like a mighty Amazonian river, shifting the bottom feeding reptiles of the South to the fertile feeding grounds of Perth’s inner suburbs.

Commuters must brave the permanent marker wielding streets rats, Red Bull sipping babies and the soul destroying odour of pissed stained Adidas snap-pants on their way to gainful employment.

Ashtyn has just finished his latest stretch in Hotel Hakea, and much as The Eagles predicted, he can check out but he’ll never leave the lifestyle behind. Generations of derelict entitlement flows through his blood like Government assistance flows into his bank account. Money which he essentially holds on trust for the meth dealers, KFC and the occasional tattoo artist to scribe yet another child's name onto his track-marked arms. Unfortunately for Ashtyn, he is currently low on coin, so he heads to his personal ATM: Oats Street traino.

Ashtyn slips on a 2Pac T-shirt, WuTang Jeans, flogged out Air Jordans and a tacky silver bracelet chain. His outfit in admittedly outdated, however he inherited the garbs from his currently incarcerated father, who happens to be only 16 years older than him. “Violent criminal-chic”.  He swiftly avoids paying the fare from Armadale by executing the “hand of death”: a manoeuvre that sees the cretinous fuckstain tailgate a paying commuter and placing his hand on the retractable gate, causing it to remain open. Once on the train, he plays loud aggressive rap music from a Samsung he ganked from some Asian kid at Curtin University. Feet defiantly on the seat.

The train pulls up at Oats Street but Ashtyn sees a couple of Transit Guards pinging cunts for fare evading on the platform. “Farking dogs”, he is forced to put into motion Plan B: Burswood Train station. Truth be told, Burswood is a better station for brandishing his butterfly knife, given the large rapey bushland that surrounds the overpass of certain doom. He alights at Burswood Station and gets straight to work: smoking cigarettes and waiting for easy targets to separate themselves from the herd. To pass the time he throws up a few tags and practices his disgusting, albeit, impressive spitting technique.

Bingo, a lost backpackers gets off by himself and is heavily encumbered by his backpack full of dardy shit. Ashtyn licks his lips and the thoughts of iPads, phones and freshly converted Australian currency fill the space in his brain where an education ought to have gone. He butts out a dart and starts snaking his way to the target. Suddenly, the backpacker is approached by a different rat-tailed oxygen thief. Ashtyn is displeased with the interception, “oi fuck off ya dead dog, I’ll cut ya”. Captain rat-tail is no stranger to danger and the steel-caps on his feet are itching for a booting.

In a scenario that not even Attenborough could’ve predicted, the backpacker escapes while Astyhn and Captain rat-tail staunch off in a scene that is reminiscent of the knife fight in Michael Jackson's “Beat It”. Except the only thing tying these two boys together is the bitter aftertaste of a misguided life.

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