Mr Bush Doof

Simon is a rudderless psy-trance hippie that believes the path to spiritual enlightenment is paved with psychedelic drug binges in an open field. His new found lust for shoeless forrest stomping is at odds with his luxurious Nedlands upbringing and his attempts to reach zen have consistently been thwarted by uncontrollable acid-induced bowel movements. He is the spiritual Kelvin Krump and society is the ruthless Hermes Endakis, forever trying to pull his free spirited ship to the shores of corporate conformity.

When Simon isn’t being unbearably smug about his recent attendance at a Bush Doof, he is smoking bongs and reassuring his father that he will in fact finish his agriculture degree. If his father was to discover that Simon actually  tells people he wants to be a DMT smoking shaman, he would probably kick him out of their South Perth rental property and force him to pay for his own Sea Shepherd membership and monthly sessions to keep his grotty white-boy dreads looking sufficiently poserific.

It’s Doof Day and the first rule of Bush Doof club, is talk ambiguously but endlessly about bush doofing, so he logs onto his facebook profile, “Psymon Moondog” and updates his status, “going to break through, peace my brothers and sisters xxx”. Simon is dressed like a total John Butler Trio cunt. His pants are made from Nepalese hemp and the strings around his ankles were purchased from a French surfer selling shit on a rug in Fremantle. He decides against shoes or a t-shirt in favour of body paint and a rasta beanie made out of mung beans or some shit.

At the Doof, Simon spends the next 3 hours smoking DMT with a bloke called Earth Unit, who figured out the system was keeping him down and hasn’t worked a day since ‘96. They experience ethereal beings while discussing the last time they smoked DMT.  While these two Bill & Ted cunts are having their excellent adventure, the Doof is in full swing. It is a vibrant sea of jobless trust fund babies with looks of bewildered euphoria that can be attributed to an overindulgence of shrooms .

As history repeats itself, Simon lets a slurry of enlightenment flow freely down the leg of his hemp pants. He madly rushes to a nearby river to try and clean some of the spirituality off his legs but concedes that his grundies are looking chunkier than a Yogo Dirt Dessert. Luckily, given the incredible collection of B.O and ganky feet, no one seems to notice nor care that Psymon Moondog has taken on the aura of a steaming pile of shit.

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#FML stands for ‘fuck my life’ however in reality it means ‘shower me with the pitiful rain of attention’. Her trials and tribulations are transmitted across social media like a herpes outbreak in a Mandurah caravan park gangbang. Applying the Zovirax of sympathy only inflames the situation and leads to a lengthy and vague period of self-indulgent inflammation of her needy desires.

Cheyenne awakens on a Thursday morning with a ferocious appetite for passive aggressiveness, she grabs her phone and posts a status, “so sick of this…#FML” A true masterpiece that is limitless in the ways it could be misinterpreted by her Facebook community. 

One of her sad-sack drama sisters puts the first runs on the board, “u ok babe? x” Like a truly great attention-batsman, Cheyenne lets the first query go through to the keeper. Next up to the crease, is the mayor of friendzone who still violently wanks to the memory of her hugging him at Amplifier, “i’m here if u need to talk babe xx”.

A hour later, Cheyenne adds some fire to her narcissistic wildfire by posting a meme, “It’s always darkest before dawn, I will fight, I will win, I am Woman”. Christ almighty, now it sounds like Cheyenne is preparing to go Rambo like Cuntvester Stallone. The meme is immediately preceded by another whopper of an update, “not gonna be someones plan b :@ feeling angry”. Finally, some clarity and the usual suspects spring into action. 24 concerned comments and no replies.

A young buck named Alex decides to break formation and fire a reality missile right at Cheyenne’s fort of pity, “crying on FB isn’t gonna help, ffs”. The atmosphere is now tense, kind of like the moment in class when you talked back to a newly divorced substitute teacher who has been forced to sleep in his car. Mental breakdown pending.

Cheyenne finally remembers how to reply to a comment, “how dare you!!! if yous know what I bin through, fuck you hey”. How can anyone know what “yous bin through” if post like the clues in a cryptic cunt-word in the fuckwit newspaper. 

By the end of Cheyenne and Alex’s brutal exchange, the Facebook community is still no closer to understanding Cheyenne’s clearly pressing life-tragedy. A few hours later, Cheyenne gets the niggling feeling that her sympathy-squad are doubting her sincerity. Time to go nuclear, she changes her relationship status from “single” to “its complicated”.

What the fuck, honestly, fuck all our lives if we need to read this oozing pus on the daily.

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The Human Zoo - Mr Bali

Bali: making yewww’ing poorcunts feel like kings since forever. Aussies with more tattoos than tolerance flock to the island to escape the shackles of law enforced acceptable behaviour that Australia so overbearingly demands of it’s citizens. They seek to purchase freedom for a discounted rate, yet it’s Australia’s reputation that always picks up the bill.

Johnno rocks up to the airport 4 hours early. The savings made on his budget ticket & accommodation will be used to sink as much piss as possible while bogan-frothing about “cheap ciggies and slarrrrts”. His banter is a lot like his encroaching shoulder-hair: thick and utterly stomach-turning.

He is no greenhorn when it comes to Bali, and his airport outfit conveys that message strongly: white Bintang singlet, Jet Pilot boardies, flogged out double pluggers and pair of white Arnettes with accompanying head strap. Mr Yewwwww on tour.

Johnno arrives in Kuta and checks into The Bounty. He wastes no time running down to the main drag and hires a scooter: the chariot of the drunk knucklehead. He drink drives directly to the closest pharmacy to stock up on enough ephedrine and Valium to simultaneously excite and calm down Russell O'Callaghan. 

While flicking through his wad of rupiah he regales the pharmacist with one of his opinions, “those Bali 9 pricks are fucked ay, dead shit druggos”. His errands are done, now it’s time to get trollied and urinate in the Bounty’s pool bar.
In between random outbursts of “Aussie Aussie Aussie” and “tits out for the boys”, Johnno manages to fine tune his pulling technique on a couple of Pilbara princesses with full braids and skin so red they look like a sunscreen-less Julia Gillard at La Tomatina.

He points at his Southern Cross chest tattoo, “see, it’s the Bali-mans tiny little hands, makes all the difference, best tatt I have ay”. He swims up to the bar like a Centrelink Dugong and orders another Bintang, “no worries boss”. Calling Johnno “boss” gets him a little hard and causes his face to resemble a dogs after it’s owner scratches the sweet spot behind it’s ear. “Respect I’m farking due ay”.

In preparation for Skygarden, Johnno bangs 3 Valiums up his arse and changes into his formal attire: black Bintang singlet and a pair of Rusty jeans that he’s had for 12 years. His sunglasses tan is as impressive as his fashion sense and he tears through Kuta on his way to Poppies Lane 2 for his customary mushie shakes.

 He smashes three and has the best night of his life at Skygarden: vomiting on the dancefloor, telling Balinese girls they should try a “real sized cock” and most importantly, fingering an Essex skank who neglected to tell him she was on her monthlies. “Can yous just take it up the kwon tonight, luv?”

In the morning, Johnno realises that he has pissed himself and his backdoor lover is not impressed. He flees into the morning and picks up some more Bintang to deal with his hangover. Back at his hotel room, Johnno decides to order in Maccas, he justifies his decision to his mate, “Bali food makes me shit ay”. He gorges on Maccas like a baby-bonus anaconda and urges his mate to “smell me finger”.
Absolute cretin.

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