Ms Rockingham

Rockingham is the suburban equivalent of getting glassed because you spat on a prostitute’s tramp stamp after she sprayed you with breast milk. Southern Crossed locals wake up to the soothing sounds of screeching tyres and police sirens as they add a cheeky splash of Jack Daniels to their morning soft drinks. You know what they say, you don’t have to be an aggressive wall-punching pisshead to live in Rocko, but it helps!

The way that Kaylah dresses would make an African priest want to wear a condom: pink Unit shorts, a Malibu stained singlet, faux-fur Bad Girl hoodie and a pair of Ugg boots. She only ever deviates from this “Chlamydia-chic” ensemble when she goes to Liquids (Liqos). She applies a healthy smear of tanning bronzer to her face and slaps a Roxy cap over her peroxided locks. She loads her children into her currently incarcerated husband’s VL Commodore and drops them off at school. In the school car park, a tear rolls down the eye of a dreadlocked deadshit as he salutes her “Up the Bum No Babies” bumper sticker, “fuck oath”.

She catches up with her girlfriends at the Rockingham Shops to pick out a new Supre dress for the evening. Her friend cautions her, “don't get black this time you slurry, remember that jizz stain last week?” In Kaylah’s defence, her little bathroom suckfest was a small price to pay for a bar card and a verbal guarantee they could skip the line next week. Nevertheless, as a Rocko fashionista she decides on a little understated number: bright pink and thigh tatt exposing. Yum.

She hasn’t been this excited about a night out since her current boyfriend took them on a holiday to Crown Casino last May. She looks up a cheap baby sitter on the Rockingham Buy & Sell FB page and checks her funds: “farken dogs at Centrelink haven’t paid me”. Not to worry, she jumps on Tinder and within 25 minutes she is having a drink with a Gardnen Island Navy man at the Swinging Pig. 7 free Jack & Cokes later, she ditches her dashing date and meets up with her girlfriends at the foreshore. They are doing damage to a cask of Fruity Lexia and hurling abuse at some Mandurah skrag that used to date Kaylah’s incarcerated hubbie. Kaylah barely spills her plastic cup of goon as she hair-slams the 6210 slut into the turf, “roc city bitch”.

Kaylah hails down a “towel headed pooftah” and instructs him to drive towards Liquids. The girls already have their heels off when the cab stops and execute a runner with precision. Not that they care too much, a man of ethnic descent wouldn’t be game to chase Rocko girls through the racist UFC cage-match they call a township. By this point, Kaylah is so sloshed that she manages to get half her Nick’s kebab on her new dress. “Fuck it”, she reckons, “the boys like a bitta meat anyway”. She straightens up a bit by munching a handful of her kid’s dexies. Sorted.

Inside Liquids, Kaylah grinds on men who steal sneakers and are probably living it up YOLO style because their impending court appearances could prove inconvenient for their future plans. A muscular shaved head guy gets Kaylah’s attention by holding up a Smirnoff Black and then spitting on his fingers: the mating call of the Rocko wildlife.

From that point the only thing stickier than the floor is the lad’s fingers: it’s love, 6168 style

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