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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Ms Selfie Stick

Yolanda sits around her parents living room playing with her most treasured Christmas gift: the GoPole selfie stick. Finally, she has an apparatus that will negate the literal limitations of her own arm in the pursuit of taking endless selfies of her totes YOLO life.

She now laughs at the pathetic single-shot selfies of the arm-extending uninitiated: she uses a GoPro to get hours of footage of her walking around so that she can screen-grab the finest shots of her perky little face. Ask anyone on her Instagram account: her selfies are always on point. She would win a Nobel prize in the field, if they awarded one for being a self-absorbed photo-cunt.

As luck would have it, Yolanda has been invited to the T20 game at the Furnace. First of all, she gets her outfit sorted: a Perth Scorchers t-shirt tied up to reveal her belly-button pierced midriff and then slaps on a sombrero: the official hat of the half-hearted cricket fan. She squeezes into her denim short-shorts that don’t leave much to the imagination. Well, thats not true, her father imagines a parallel universe where he didn’t have to stare down every seedy bloke that wants to get an early harvest peek of his daughters ripe peachy offerings.

Yolanda jumps around the house and records some GoPro selfie-stick footage of her getting ready for the game. She uploads a video to Instagram, #GetScorched #CricketBish #HotInTheFurnance #Sombrero.

At the game, "I Dont Care I Love It" plays for the eight time and Yolanda successfully pisses everyone in her immediate vicinity off. Her total lack of attention to the actual game can be attributed to her infuriating need to position her selfie stick to take footage of everything from her Chicken Treat microwaved slop-roll (#FatPig #ChickenTreat) to her glass of cheap white wine (#Memories #Vino #DrunkAgain).

Yolanda’s obliviousness almost comes to a surreal end when a 6 comes her way. “HEADS”, the ball lands within metres of Yolanda. She quickly swivels her stick to capture the ball and her best “shocked face”. She uploads the selfie immediately, “Almost hit by a Six! #GetScorched #iDontLikeCricket #OhNo #iLoveit”. Ahhhhh fuck off Yolanda.

Yolanda jumps in a taxi after the game and spends the entire 15 minute journey refreshing her Instagram account. A physical embodiment of an Aqua di Gio bottle comments on her cricket selfie, “love chicks that love cricket babe”. She replies with the official response of the YOLO Bish, “:P xxx”.

She spends the remainder of her night ignoring SnapChats from the greaseball and trawling through the 4 hours of footage she took from the night. She creates a shortlist of selfies for her Album, “I Love Cricket”. She has 345 screen snaps in the shortlist but is having a literally hard time deciding which ones should make the cut. Poor Yolanda: it’s really hard to live up to her Carpe Diem ankle tat when she is clocking her 3rd hour in front of her MacBook trying to decide which selfies to upload.

She has no choice but to upload them all. The human Aqua di Gio bottle licks his lips with anticipation. He thanks the gods of the selfie stick for inventing a device to significantly aid his revered hobby of beating his dick to selfies of babes.

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The Human Zoo - Mr Dexies

Charlie doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. It was the summer of ‘01 that he was described the holiest of holy prescriptions: 100 D5’s per month, but Charlie was always prescribed 3 bottles at a time. The doctors figured it’d save him multiple trips to the practice, and it wasn’t like dexies had any recreational value right? Fucking idiots.

Fast forward a few years and Charlie is your classic adult-ADD sufferer. Kind of bloke that can never chill. Has no concept of sitting still and watching the cricket. Oh no, as soon as the Test Match starts, Charlie needs to be zooming around the room like a dexamphetamine’d fueled blow fly, “nah, come on, lets go down to the nets to bowl a few overs”. For the rest of his mates that have sucked back a few brews and cones, the idea is outright ghastly. Nevertheless, Charlie was the gatekeeper of all things energy and confidence: the bottle of D5’s. Want one? Then get your stoned hole down to those nets to face steamers from a ever-charging Charlie.

You bring out a sick antipasto platter. You purchased every individual ingredient from Woolies and you are feeling like Heston at this BBQ. You offer Charlie a crack at the sun dried tomatoes and those mini toast biscuits that taste oh-so-divine with a bit of Tzatski, “no thanks mate”. As per usual, Charlie has rejected the prospect of putting anything solid down his gullet. You notice his jaw gnaw ever so discreetly. Cunt’s been dipping into that bottle of fuck yeh. So you ask, “mate, can i grab a couple of D-Bangers”. Charlie’s demeanour suddenly resembles Golemn from Lord of the Rings. you have just asked for a couple of his precioussssssssss. Trying not to feel like a total fuckng fiend, he chucks you 2. “$8 mate”. When the fuck did they climb to $4 a pop?

You pay. You always pay. They may as well be $10. You’ll pay. There is no better tether back to sobriety, no better magic pill for a night of guaranteed sobriety, and after those 5 cones, you were going to be useless as Clive Waterhouse at a motivational speaking course. You only bomb dexies on the weekend so you down them in the usual way: with a big sip of VB. Not Charlie though, the wired cunt needs to rack lines on one of your dinner plates and snort them up with a fucking $5 note. You can’t help to think that old mate Charlie ain’t exactly living the rockstar life. Nevertheless, you snort up a line. You are from Western Australia ain’t ya?

It’s 3:30am that night and you are still awake thanks to Charlie’s magic bottle of euphoria. You look at your beloved antipasto platter and realise why Charlie rejected it so many hours before. The thought of food literally disgusts you. You take solace in the fact you are shredding… as you take  a sip of your 15th beer and a draw of our 23rd dart. Yeh mate healthy as. It’s not a total pig-fest though, you manage to send off an overly emotional text to your newly ex-girlfriend. Fuck it though right, she needed to be told she was an angel that made you hard, especially at 3:45am right?

You sleep like a Priest before a Royal Commission. Probably clocking up a total of 3 hours of real sleep. You swear off the D-Bangers as you witness Charlie up at 5am cleaning the house and sucking back darts. He gets right into your shattered soul, “mate, got any Xanax?”

What a fiend.

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Ms Gluten Intolerance

In 2009 Celeste moved to the bohemian backstreets of South Fremantle. Her fiendish penchant for pingers and darts was replaced by Bikram Yoga and a new set of dietary guidelines.

It’s a sad story, she grew up with gluten, went to school with gluten, but now she lives in the wrong neighbourhood and can't even been seen associating with gluten. Her stomach has no intolerance for gluten and proudly waves the flag of the new age dietary trend while saying , “fuck off i’m full”.

It’s Celeste’s 24th Birthday and in the world of mid-sized accounting firms that means she is expected to bring in some morning tea for her desperate cohorts.

The fat directors resemble vultures as they circle the kitchen at 8am waiting for Celeste’s offerings. Celeste bounces in like a human pogo-stick with the self satisfied smile of the culinary terrorist . “Raw gluten free brownies!!!” The bulbous bellied men look shocked and betrayed. Does this bitch think this is a game? Morning tea is the only ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak world of Nescafe instant coffee and Croissant Express BLTs.

As is customary at Celeste’s workplace, the team goes out for a feed at lunch for a coworkers birthday. Celeste sends the group email out at 1030, “Raw Kitchen at 1 guys!”. She hits enter and within 10 seconds she hears a man punch a hole through his own keyboard.

Celeste has deprived him of a sugary morning tea and now she has robbed him of his chance to get a parmy and chips for lunch. The aggrieved fat-o-saurus flails his disproportionately short arms around in a fit of prehistoric rage, “bloody moon unit ruining my bloody day”.

Celeste perkily guides her team through the Raw Kitchen's menu. Her enthusiasm is contagious in the same way Ebola is: you are most likely to contract it from the shit spewing out of her mouth.

Not content with ruining her coworker's day, Celeste sets out to bust the balls of a dude she met the other weekend. Ignorant to her gluten free-chic fashion, he makes a reservation at the Mexican Kitchen. Oh you fucking arsehole, you should be hauled in front of the Hague and charged with crimes against Glutmanity.

He looks on in disbelief as Celeste asks approximately 155 questions of the waitress about the exact genetic makeup of the menu items and proposing advanced alterations that even Heston would consider to be a sick joke. “Maybe I should’ve let you pick the restaurant”, he says. Yeh dickhead, this ain't some bread scoffing slurry, she is precious.

He was foolish to think he was going to land his baguette in her bread bin with amatuer plays like that. They part way and Celeste heads home to post circle jerk comments on Gluten Free Facebook websites while snacking on something that looks like a potato chip but is actual fact is made out of kale: kind of like cabbage, if cabbage tasted like a recycling bin.

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The Human Zoo - Mr Perth X-mas 2016

The ghost of yew-mas past visits Kody and whisks him away to the charred remains of his neighbour’s house. Three days before X-mas Kody had decided to do a little improvised electrical work on the property to ensure he had enough juice to power his hydro set up.

The ghost shows Kody that he caused the blaze and points out the total destruction of all his neighbour’s shit. “Nah git fucked, probably those Western Power drongos ay, I didn’t do nuffin”.

The ghost of yew-mas past looks Kody in the eyes, “see what a shitcunt you are?”

Next, Kody is visited by the ghost of yew-mas present and is taken back to Woolworths where he had done some “shopping” on Xmas eve. He is forced to relive the encounter with his neighbour Bobbo Cratchit:

“Times are tough mate, lil Timmy is devo all his presents got burned but at least we got the last chrissy ham! Lil Timmy’s favourite mate”

Kody waits for Bobbo to turn his back before grabbing the ham out of the trolley and stuffing it down his trackie and bolting through the self checkout.

The ghost of yew-mas present shakes his head, “mate, if this was the shit-cuntolympics you would be Cuntstain-Bolt.

Next the ghost of yew-mas yet to come visits Kody and fast forwards him through time to his Bali wedding. None of his best men have rocked up because Kody had honked a entire 8-ball he’d organised for his bucks and dished out Mandurah handshakes when asked for reimbursement.

To make matters worse, his brother took a pass because he wasn’t too keen on seeing his brother marry the mother of his own 3 illegitimate kids.

Kody pleads with the ghost of yew-mas yet to come, “please, does anyone rate me?” The ghost takes a breath, “people would rather play fetch with their pet at the Yulin dog eating festival than be your mate”.

Kody awakens on X-mas day in a shardish sweat and swears to change his ways. Accordingly, he drops off a 200g packet of Dorsogna tracksuit ham and a little bud in a pill baggie to the Cratchits.

Sadly it’s too late, lil Timmy is already feasting on Spam directly from the can.

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Mr Mandurah

Fucking Mandurah. A hard drinking marine environment that offers you a chance to catch crabs in the estuaries or from the slurry you rail at Chicken Treat while waiting for your rock dealer who also happens to be one of your babies mummas. A thriving ecosystem of big eared degenerates who delight in shoeless spitting and believe that when it comes to venereal disease, sharing is indeed caring

Brent is a hairy back, missing link-cunt who occasionally puts in a days work laying bricks. He wears the official uniform of the guy who smokes a crack pipe in public: Fox racing shirt, Unit boardies, no footwear and a Monster snapback. His E-plated VN Commodore is his pride and joy and the local children know to stay well clear as he suburban swerves his way to Halls Head to purchase alcohol from the only bottlo that doesn't display his image on the wall of shame. 6210 is proudly tattooed to his neck.

Having recently mated with the female equivalent of a commemorative ashtray, Brent must make his way to the Mandurah Forum to purchase baby formula. A shopping centre so ghastly it makes an Armadale meth lab feel like a McDonalds' playground. He charges through the car park like he was confronting his cheating ex on an episode of Jerry Springer. He is so busy sizing every bloke up that he forgets to purchase the baby formula. Instead, he scoots around like an irate crab shooting people the “I’ll glass you in the throat” stare. Clearly itching for a fight, he spots a bloke that supports the Freo dockers. That’ll do he reckons.

Brent roars the battle-cry of the Mandurah derro, “meet me at the farking traino, cunt!” The Dockers supporter shows some rare diplomacy, “oi cunt, we’ll grab a few pints at Murphys and then smash on in the car park orrright? Ya bloody pelican”. The men bond over stories of headbutting Maori bouncers and contemplate how a crab shell may be fashioned into a functional yewwwpipe.  Brent barely wants to cave this blokes skull in as they walk out to the car park. That is until he spots the bloke’s car. “Fucking, Rockingham Holden? I’ll fucking kill ya”. They smash on to the delight of a couple of long haired louts enjoying their fish and chips.

Despite severe facial lacerations and a concussion, Brent fancies a quick armed robbery at the local Jesters. He could use the extra spending money on some white Arnettes and has been craving a nutty chook pie since his meth wore off about 15 minutes ago. Crime pays when your expectations are low.

They really should just build a wall around Mandurah.

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The Human Zoo - Mr Perth Heatwave 2016

Daryl is an unflushed toilet bowl of a man: full of shit and stained with the unpalatable skiddies of one upmanship.
The Perth Heatwave has sent his toughen-up-princessery into overdrive and he spends his days atop his air conditioned throne, obnoxiously decreeing anyone other than himself to be a whining Perth pussy.
Like any good shit-stain, Daryl has lasted the test of time. He has retained a senior role with a mining company despite a disconcerting incompetence and penchant for 6 hours of solitaire per day. He begins his morning by maxing out the AC and logging onto the Mecca of morons: Perth Have a Whinge:
“heathwave!? perth office worker can get stufed!! try bein 60ft botom of hole in PILBARA HEAT ! thats 45 ya sooks!! then tell me bout heatwavelol... city of bloody soft girls, pull ya bloody skirts up ha ha ha… lol”
Oooo yeh. The only hole Daryl has been in lately is his depressing rut of a marriage with a wife who has suddenly become allergic to sucking dick. Nevertheless, Daryl’s terry-toughcuntery has him feeling as cool as the thermometer reading in his donga. It isn’t long before another i-Stauncher decides to contribute:
“ken oath!! this lot wuldnt no real heat, hahahHA weak priks ay mate”.
Daryl has no time to gently caress the balls of king dickmanship and decides to go full steam ahead:
“bloody weak mate.. tlkin bout global heating.. lol.. jus somthin office poofs say to justofy their WHINING. yous wanna tell me it getting hotter?!?.. back in 1993 i workd for 3 weeks straight out bush… mercury toppin 55 every day and 43 at night!! non of this “lunch break” shit either… 17 hour days… world not getting hotter, people getting softer lol”.
Ah yes, the blithering rambling of a washed up drunk. Irrefutable proof that global warming is a farce and the key to survival lies in our ability to simply “suck it up” and “have a glass of concrete (lol)”.
After a long day of unabashed fibbing, Daryl walks into the wet mess to see his workmates sweating like George Pell at a Royal Commission. The air conditioner is broken and the temperature is reaching 42 degrees inside the hall.
After 5 beers, Daryl is doing his best impersonation of a recently birthed Hippopotamus. His moist bulk is sweating like a bad cut of cheese and the shameful drippage is pooling on the table in front of him.
Half way through loud-mouthing about what he reckons Western Power should be doing, Daryl feels faint. His eyes begin to flutter and he passes out like he drunk the punch at Rolf Harris' sleep over party.
The mighty heat-warrior is carted off to the first aid room to seek treatment for the grueling 45 minutes he spent sitting on his fuckin arse.
C’arn Daz, toughen up princess.

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Mr Mandurah

Here we see the mating ritual of the southern derro.
Mr Mandurah is proposing to Ms Belmont over a crab feed with a ring that he acquired through the act of home invasion. It appears that MrMandurah believed he had successfully mated with the female and has inscribed the child's name on his arm to warn off potential rivals.
As life so commonly goes in the inharmonious south, Mr Rockingham has sprung the pair and has produced a birth certificate to lay claim to the child. He too proudly inscribes the boganling's name on his patriotic arm and storms in to defend his woman's honour while wielding a trolley pole like a poorcunt sword. The pair now lock horns and the winner of the rumble will be crowned Ms Belmont's king and have a hand in neglectfully raising the child with their own brand of ashtray parenting.
Remarkably, the romantic public-smash has been noticed by the Maori bouncer that Mr Mandurah coward punched the weekend before. The bouncer waits like a violent vulture to give Mr Mandurah a taste of his own back-of-the-head punching medicine.
Of course, justice in the southern jungle is never black and white, and MrMandurah adamantly defends the coward's punch as he had caught his princess fellating the bouncer in exchange for a bag of gear that he had stolen off Mr Rockingham who was rendered unconscious in a pool cue fight that was sparked because "some cunt keep looking" at him.
This is truly, the circle of life.
Art by Shakey

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The Human Zoo - Mr Kalamunda

Deklyn is a simple man, he likes dirt bikes, cones and paying his sister’s mates for gobbies down by Lesmurdie Falls. Modern fashion confuses and angers him, so he sticks to the basics: Fox Racing shirt, Metal Mulisha hoodie, Rusty jeans and a pair of Globe moonboots that are holding on for dear life. His underwear game is also pretty fucked, as he never saw a need to evolve past the pre-cummy sheen of a pair of silk boxers. To top it off, he sports the official goatee of the reckless furniture removalist who most definitely look through your shit.

Morning breaks and Deklyn rolls out of his fitted-sheetless bed. He takes a dribbly swig of the remains of last nights Wild Turkey can in a desperate bid to rid his mouth from the taste of the Pickering Brook slurry he rooted last night. In addition to the myriad of STD’s brewing inside of him, he feels rougher than Kim Duthie after a night in Ricky Nixon’s sleaze filled waterbed.

No stranger to life threatening hangovers, Deklyn has the remedy. He shuffles his hobbit-feet towards his laundry that has a permanent bucket bong set up. He sucks down a cone and proceeds to serenade his household with the song of his people: donkey-coughing with elements of spluttering and cursing. Feeling stoned as a woman trying to vote in Saudi Arabia, he goes about the business of cooking up some breakfast: a handful of his youngest brother’s dexies washed down with a fresh can of Beam Devil’s Cut.

He jumps on his 250cc Atomik Fury and catches up with his mates for a session in the back country. The smell of petrol mixes with the thick green haze that the boys spend their life in. Being men of few words, the banter is drier than Dawn Fraser on multicultural day. Nevertheless, Deklyn has something to contribute, “me old boy called, apparently theres some girls willing to put out down at the pub, reckon I’ll check that out ay”.

Deklyn liberally douses himself in Lynx Africa and chooses to be wilfully ignorant of that fact it has not masked his pig-hunter’s body odour. He walks into the High Wycombe Tav while rolling a cigarette and spots his dad slumped at the bar. “Where these sluzzas dad?” His dad mumbles out incoherencies like a piss-stained cobber in the depths of a booze bus. Deklyn’s dad point at the unimpressed bar-chick, “bahh, son, this ones up for it”. Deklyn turns his bloodshot eyes to the young philly behind the bar, “yeh? This true?”

Unwilling to participate in an episode of Family Feud - Sexual Harassment Edition, the young girl politely requests Deklyn remove his inebriated father from the bar. The reasonable request causes the men to share a touching bonding moment, as they chuck pint glasses against walls and bust into enraged outbursts about being the kings of Kalamunda or someshit.

Outside the bar, Deklyn suggests the pair head to his dads place for a few drinks, “aw shit son, the old lady kicked me out, i’m sleeping in a swag in a hole done dug”. Deklyn fails to comprehend the problem, “yeh orright, can we drink in the hole?”. His dad grins, “sure, boy, would love to have ya”.

Whether it’s your sister’s mate, or your dad’s swag, home is where the hole is.

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Mr Polo in the City

Bradford’s (real name Bradley) Chinos are so tight that Brazzers tried to contact them for an exclusive porn shoot. To complete the M.J Bale trust fund look he adorns himself with a blue blazer and brown loafers.

Although he looks like the sort of prick that would hit & run you in the Claremont Quarter car park and then later sue you for the damage, he is in fact of moderate means. The mundane depths to which his bank account dives is grotesque to this polo crowd. His aura of affluence must be protected at all costs.

Bradford jumps into his 2007 Hyundai Getz and drives to the Wilsons’ car park at the Old Swan Brewery. Why does he park 3.7km away from Langley Park? To minimise the chances of a Polo socialite spotting his low socio-economic whip.

Bradford burns straight down to the basement level and activates full Jason Bourne mode. He sinks into his chair and checks all available mirrors to ensure the coast is clear. He crouch-power walks towards the stairs. There is an unacceptable albeit small risk that a fellow Polo socialite will be in the lift. So he legs it up the stairs. He exits the car park without being spotted and flags a taxi. Smooth Bradford, smooth.

He has purchased the Somersby Polo Lounge ticket for $95. He would’ve loved to be in the one of the more exclusive Marquees but he spent a fortune on his get up and had to save some money so he could parade around with a bottle of the second cheapest Champagne.

He looks around Langley Park, the event reeks of the always unimpressive pong of “perthonality”. For every Adam Gilchrist there is at least 5 “reality TV stars” who would push their own mother down the stairs for a guest hosting spot on Getaway.

The atmosphere is seemingly pleasant yet has an overwhelming aura of resentment that could only be likened to the Rhinehart family Christmas after the children deny Gina the gravy pot until she signs over the trust fund.

Each well dressed socialite stares into the wallet of the next and wonders to themselves, “am I richer than that pleb?” Unfortunately for Bradford, none of the WAG-wannabe babes feel he is worth an Instagram selfie with.

Events like these are like a giant game of snakes and ladders. For example, a photo with Basil Zempilas is a social ladder which one can ascend status. However Bradford is the snake, and a photo with him will see you slithering around with the other bottom feeders.  

Bradford tries to network and talk turkey with Perth’s elite. He manages to score an invite to the Cottesloe Golf Club the following weekend. He is now riddled by anxiety: he can blow his next pay on the St Andrew’s look, but the 3km walk from his Hyundai Getz to the golf club is going to be nothing short of murder.

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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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The Human Zoo - Mr Work X-mas Party

Keith is a walking sexual harassment complaint. A triple smoked ham of a man that has been cunting down the days until he can get utterly Buswell’d at the Christmas party

Today is the office party and can you sniff that? It’s the chair of opportunity, and Keith will surely wait until a figure huggin’ honey sits on it.

The office closes at 1:00pm and Keith swaps his suit jacket for a leather jacket that has been fashioned from the hide of a mid life crisis. One wet comb through his deforested scalp and he completes the look, “bra-snapper-chic”.

Upon arrival, Keith fist-fucks his goatee-hole full of canapes. He crams, half-chews and duck swallows like a ménage à trois of fat cuntery. Others party to his conversation are treated to not only shit banter, but a little prize, right from his mouth to their face.

Within the first 45 minutes Keith has slurped down his first bottle of win. He approaches a girl young enough to be his daughter and lets the cat out of the cradle, “struth, you brought the twins!” His leering gaze upon her exposed bust remains unbroken as she nervously giggles.

Next stop on the sex pest express is his 45 year old secretary. Cheryl’s cougar instincts have set in as she purrs at each joke hot Ricky from level 4 blurts out. Not on Keith’s watch.

Keith bowls on over and death grips hot Ricky’s hand like a savings-hungry priest on an altar boy’s dick... smith’s 20% off voucher. “I wouldn’t be so cheery if my sales figures were down 1.32% ay Rick?”

Funnily enough, Keith didn’t land the deathblow to Ricky’s puss-game like it had played out in his head. He adjusts his gut and waddles off to moister pastures.

Fuck it, he reckons as he drinks until his teeth are stained like an Orc. He begins to stagger through the dance floor like a semi sedated water buffalo in search of cocktail franks.

It’s now 10pm and Keith is mumbling incoherencies as he tries to speak his mind to a couple of more successful executives. “Maybe you should hit the waters Keith mate”.

Instead of taking it easy and drinking some water, Keith decides to tell Malcolm that his wife tongued hot Ricky’s balls at the office paintball day in February.

The function room staff look on in horror as Malcolm chokes hot Ricky with his bare hands as Malcolm’s wife swats at her husband with a Gucci clutch, “at least his dick works MALCOLM!”

Keith sways drunkenly in the breeze as he admires the trail of destruction he has caused. Triumphant, he turns to the weird IT chick, “me wife will be home, but we can use me daughter's room if you’re keen?”

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The Human Zoo - Mr Whipped

A 7:30am alarm sends couples-shivers down Chantelle’s spine. She looks longingly into William’s eyes while running her hand down his chest, “wouldn't a snuggle and some shopping be better than golf, babe?" He reaches for his phone: "cant make it guys frown emoticon". He knows his mates will be pissed off but he is a Mr Whippy’s soft-serve cunt that cant handle the separation anxiety of being away from his beloved girlfriend for a whopping 4 hours.

William signs onto their joint Facebook page - "William & Chantelle <3". Hands held, they update their status together - "Going shopping :P". The loved up pair walk around Garden City and decide that they would both like a skinny soy latte with half a packet of equal. They sit at the cafe and discuss the joint bucks/hens night they are planning. “This will be so much more meaningful than getting drunk with your yahoo mates and ogling skanks, right babe?” William nods and kisses Chantelle on the forehead, “so lucky to have you babe”.

If being a spineless soft-cock was a crime than William would be up in front of the Hague for crimes against cunt-manity. William spends the remainder of his Sunday morning following his missus around the Subiaco Markets and discussing their “meal plan” for the week. On the car ride home, William nervously musters up the courage to ask Chantelle for permission to attend his mates poker night. “Oh, um OK, I thought we were going to catch up on American Horror Story, but fine, do what you want hey”. Finally, William’s balls come back from their little getaway at Lake jelly-dick and he puts his foot down, “babe, I am going, and thats final!”

William arrives 30 minutes late to the Poker night. His face is frostbitten from the extreme exposure to the icy-shoulder he received from his scorned lover. During the game he seems vexed and disappears into another room to make a phone call. 45 minutes later Chantelle rocks up with a large loaf of bread hollowed out with dip inside. "Surprise guys, Chantelle's here!" His best mate shoots him a stare that can only be likened to Mike Whitney stink-eyeing a loser who didn’t dare to win.

By 8:45pm, William can no longer ignore the mega-bitch vibes he is copping from his bored girlfriend. “Alright guys, it’s getting late, and I’m taking the missus down to Mandurah tomorrow”. His mates grunt in acknowledgement. Thommo finally cracks it, and knocks the bread to the ground, “you are so fucking whipped, such a joke, mate”.

William looks over at Chantelle who is scowling like Germaine Greer at a FHM sponsored jelly-wrestling competition. He responds, “sif I am mate, you guys are just jealous because you all drunk and single!” The pair storm out and complain bitterly about his friend’s immaturity on the ride home.

A typical couple of his&her-cunts.

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The Raft-Up DJ

Raft Up: the day parents unwillingly donate their beloved boats for their children’s hedonistic floating Instagram-fest off Rottnest Island. An aquatic wonderland of connected boats, fake tits, arm-sleeve tattoos and most importantly, Perth’s premier amateur DJ’s who are going to whip off their shirts, pose for fish-lens photos and rinse that party like it was an old boys grundies after casserole night at the RSL.

Dimitri’s DJ resume reads like a depressing document of the half-arsed pursuit of a difficult skill. “Self taught” and armed with a shit-ton of pirated tracks he is ready to mix up all his favourite tunes on his CD Jacks. “Vinyls’ dead bruh”, shut up Dimitri - the ghost of Narccisist on Barrack would be rolling in his grave. #RIPNarccisist

Dimitri heads to Freo in a pair of tanning shorts, white singlet, Brazil flag Havaianas and his full DJ kit. His Aquinas mates welcome him, “Raft Up Brah!” Dimitri slaps hands and boards the vessel with a straight back: like an amateur musical God without a flock to bestow any higher props than, “we needed some cunt to do it”. Dimitri is that cunt. Oh yes he is.

The Aquinas lads vessel hooks up with other PSA boats in the designated areas. Everyone is slapping Banana Boat on and cheersing ice cold bevvies while perving on the amazing collection of Creatine-dicks and Chadwick rejects as far as the eye can see. Not Dimitri. He is setting up his sound-station on the cabin of his mates boat. He sweats, cusses and exhales in frustration, but eventually he drops his first tune.

He warms up the crowd with DJ Sammy’s Boys of Summer Remix. He pretends to utilise the fader correctly while the song slams its own weak drops. Those are the moments where he puts both hands in the air, first pumps and then pretends to concentrate on the mixer. They should call him DJ WinAmp.

Dimitri really wants a new beer, but he can't leave his station: a crew of Christ Church rinsers have boarded his vessel. He can't risk a mutiny and have his Jacks commandeered by some Trap Lord. Not on Dimitri’s watch. A large busted girl approaches Dimitri to check he is OK. He puts his finger up to stop her talking, Roni Size’s Brown Paper Bag is playing and he needs to pretend to affect the drop at the right moment.

The entire boat is chomping their faces off on pingas and Dimitri hasn’t so much as cracked a third beer. Who knows, Andy C might be on the next boat and discover him. There is no time to party when you are a shirtless Raft Up DJ.

Eventually, an AFL player boards the vessel and insists he is given a go at the music. Dimitri stews in his own juices while angrily telling a Motorway promo model about his upcoming gig at Shape. The AFL player drops Darude Sandstorm to the overwhelming cheer of the drugged up revelers.

Dimitri is defeated by the Y2K superhit.

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Ms Work Christmas Party

In an act of ill-advised booze-haggery, Jodee necks two bottles of Yellowglen Pink while getting ready for her work Christmas party. She squeezes into a tight dress and combined with her high heels she pulls off the unique look of a half fed Python crossed with a cheap escort you would only consider bringing to a soft opening of a new Sizzlers restaurant.

Within minutes of entering the function room, Jodee has a glass of bubbly in her hand and is making flirtatious chit chat with a couple of managers. The pot bellied leer-lords take a big bite out of the cleavage buffet on offer and whisper inappropriate nothings to her. Each greased up comment sets her off like a Hyena on a helium bender. The sound of her cackling is suddenly silenced by the ominous shattering of her dropped grass. It has begun.

A shitcunt yells “taxi” while a flurry of designated drivers and office matriarchs swarm upon the glassy hazard. Jodee is too drunk to feel shame and decides to make her move on the top-knotted fuck-dick who cycles to work and talks about his abs in public. He is unimpressed with Jodee’s ungracious slurrying and snidely encourages her to “take it easy ay”.

She drowns her sorrows and in a rapid landslide of emotion, her face begins resembling the Joker after a particularly voluminous bukake session. Her work friends console the blubbering mess while she serenades them with a sonnet of self pity. The girls try to feed her coon & cabana to sober her up but Jodee has a better ideas. She t-rex stumbles into the toilet and feasts upon a nice fat line of powdery dexampheta-yum.

Jodee emerges from her toilety shame cocoon as a turbo charged cougar. She hits the d-floor and showcases dance moves that she pioneered while being grinded on at 3am at The Clink. Luckily for all, the music cuts out for the speeches. Red faced directors slur out a few insincere pleasantries and then the bubbly office manager grabs the mic to make an announcement, “congratulations to Kim and Mike on their engagement!”

Jodee feels the jealous clock on her biological time bomb explode, “HA! I Sucked his dick at the End of Financial Year do! HA”. Sweet Jesus of fuck. The room is tenser than the bicep in a gym selfie. Jodee’s entire cohort is staring at her while she puts the final touch on her disasterpiece: a power-yak all over the pin-striped bum-groper standing uncomfortably close to her.

The next day, Jodee experiences the holy trinity of the loser: hungover, jobless and shamed. Looks like it’ll have to be another Chrisco Christmas hamper this year ay Jodee?

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Ms Anti-Vaccine

This is Linda and she is an anti-vaccine advocate. Priests hate her! As she has proven that you can ruin a generation of children without needing to put something in them! 

5 years ago, Linda transformed herself from bored Xanax munching housewife, to a new age holistic purveyor of well being. Something had to fill that pool-boy-penis shaped hole in her life, so she embraced yoga, clean eating and of course, relentlessly broadcasting anti-vaccine propaganda like it was an urgent storm warning.

Before yoga, Linda decides to wake up some sheeple with an anti-vax meme. The graphic contains uncited statistics and dubious quotes from American TV doctors. Unfortunately, Linda’s head is so far up her own arse that she is unable to smell the pungent stank of bullshit. She worsens the situation:

“I am a pro-choice mummy and will not let the wills of Big Pharma put my children's well being at risk. My kiddies have never had whooping cough or measles and that's because I give them super oils every day. Vaccines do more harm than good, stop putting our children at RISK Australia!”

Oh yeh, Linda just battled logic in a game of Mortal Cuntbat and delivered a 12 hit combo fatality. She floats off to her yoga class without the weighty burden of a fucking brain in her head. After the class, she rounds up a couple of mothers who she suspects are as “enlightened” as her.

“Darlings, my neighbour's kiddy has contracted chicken pox, so I am hosting a chicken pox party, bring your little balls of sunshine over and we can fight disease the natural way, by promoting our baby's immune systems”.

There will be more infecting going on than a hooker with a condom allergy at a Swanbourne public toilet dogging fiesta. After all, what's a horrible virus between friends ay?

It turns out that Linda underestimated the non-fuckwittedness of one of the mothers. She promptly alerts the other mothers at the school that Linda has finally jumped off the deep end of the gene pool and now wades in the window-licking shallows. More than a few concerned parents speak their mind.

It is decided that Linda’s children will not be invited to any of the class parties should Linda go through with her plan. Now, when you poke the bear of delusion you get DiCaprio’d. Linda turns into a mauling mummy and goes on a social media rampage. It’s not long until decorum takes its leave and Linda is in full tinfoil-hat mode.

Unsatisfied with just putting her children’s health in danger, she decides to strike a brutal blow to their social skills as well. Linda’s children will now be home-schooled in the arts of free thought, yoga and the benefits of mineral oil scrubs in the combat against infectious diseases.

Amazing how a chemical and GMO-free lifestyle can still make you sound like you are smoking meth.

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Ms Facebook Complaint

Carol bull-dykes around the Woolies organic section like she’d seen the red flag of a cuntador. Her child screams with all the freedom of progressive parenting and she loudly exhales to notify the world that she is aggrieved. Woolies' crime? Directly causing the starvation of her entitledlings by not stocking organic mushed peas with chia and mungbeans or someshit. 

Like a sexually frustrated deputy headmaster, she clicks her fingers at a 15 year old pleb restocking the shelves. “Do you seriously expect my child to eat Woolworths Select? Is it even organic? Really not good enough!” The pleb stares at her like a deer caught in the headlights of raging dickheadery. “Uh!! Let me speak to the manager, you CLEARLY can't help me”.

Having staunched a mid-pubescent Clearasil-cock, Carol prepares herself to savage the 20 something Woolies supervisor. The supervisor offers her no satisfaction so she storms out as irate as Troy Buswell after losing at musical chairs.

She returns home and immediately gives Woolworths a 1 star review:

“I am appalled that in this day and age, I am unable to shop for the brand MY child likes. EXCUSE ME for not wanting to poison my child with non-organic rubbish! When I asked for help I was met with unhelpful and RUDE staff! If I could give 0 stars I would. Absolutely outrageous”.

Ah the sweet vindication of the unreasonable fuckwit. She proceeds to 1 star Baker’s Delight for not stocking bread with the exact combination of seeds that her child needs and then attacks her local swimming school for removing her child from the pool after losing bowel control like a drunk uncle on a pull-out couch.

“How DARE you create a stigma around number twos. My precious darling was in tears, if I could give you a 0 star review I would! Outrageous. I demand a full apology!”

Carol is high on the thrill of acting like a bottle-less baby-cunt and decides to step up her online fuckery. She stumbles upon a viral video of the Loosest Aussie Bloke being as uncouth as a NRL player at a puppy farm. How dare adult content float around the bubble-wrapped land of Carol’s Facebook.

With no hesitation she resorts to reporting the video like the insecure fuddy duddied sack of human smegma she is. The world must be censored so her soft-cocked view of the world remains unfettered by the barbs of reality.

Facebook advises her that the content does not breach their community standards and the video remains. Not on her watch! She posts the link in a group of like minded captains on the SS Censor-ship. They bombard the risque video with complaints and generally behave like the video is the harbinger of social decay in western society.

She is unsuccessful on this attempt, but armed with 1 star reviews and a report-hungry finger, Carol will continue to mope like an armless masturbation addict.

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Ms Halloween


Alison has been giggling and OMG’ing about Friday’s Halloween bash for the past 3 weeks. She has visited 6 different costume stores in an effort to find the perfect slutty-devil outfit that both favours her hips and accentuates her carefully tanned bust. 

She eventually settles on a costume that screams: naughty, sexy and anally-keen. Oh her “rents” would be so proud. Nevertheless, it’s the 31’st of October and despite being a totally redundant Australian event, Alison will apply the KY Jelly of immodesty and slip her way into her male friend’s wank-banks.

Alison powers down Yellowglen Pink with strawberries while power-yapping at the gaggle of fellow hens about her ambitions for the evening, “um, like, once Evan sees me, he is totally going to regret hooking up with that slut Beth hey”.

 Alison spends 45 minutes in front of the mirror practicing her sexy pout face and taking selfies. She waks in a couple of chicken fillets and ditches her pink lace g-string. She has a niggling feeling that she still isn’t “saucy” enough, so she deploys her emergency plan: a pair of thick brimmed hipster glasses: oh yeh, the slutty nerd devil. Ticked every box. Watch out Evan.

Alison spends most of the party posing for group photos with her girls. She is very careful not to involve herself with any photos involving that hot asian chick dressed like a tasteful angel. Her tanned skin is perfectly contrasted against the white angel costume, “um, guys only like her because they think she will give them a rub and tug and like totally suck them off for citizenship”, Alison racistly slurs from her red lipstick smeared mouth.

She receives a text from Evan, “can't make it, have fun x”. Woah nelly, the news sends Alison into a tail-spin and she starts slamming back Bacardi Breezers and asking for drags of random bloke’s darts. By 11pm she has already cried three times and is sitting on an outside couch. Her three closest friends try to console her while she hysterically expresses her drunkenness is a loud and unreasonable fashion. Her mascara is running, her heels are off and she hasn’t taken a selfie in 35 minutes: this shit is a fucking emergency yo!

Alison rejects advances from dudes dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow and Zombies. That is until she gets the ingenious idea to make Evan jealous by posing seductively with as many boys as possibly and immediately posting the photos to social media. Alison makes a complete drunk hoe of herself while seedy party-goers circle her like sexually frustrated vultures.

Alison eventually passes out in the corner of the backyard and is escorted to a bed by her irritated friends. If only Evan knew what he was missing…

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Ms Boycott Melbourne Cup

Ah Melbourne Cup, the race that hashtags the nation. A day when woodwork-dwelling slacktivists emerge to rekindle their passionate war against horseracing. An issue so dear to Felicia’s heart, she requires an entire year to drop some knowledge on the Volcom-belted beastmasters and fascinator-clad savages that revel in the blood of the Spring Carnival.

Felicia awakens on race day, reborn as a “.org-Veterinarian”. She has read un-extensively about the physical presentations of distressed equines and turns the whip on her followers. Her first order of business is to post to some uncited facts printed across a ghastly image that is about as pleasant as a donkey punch during a prostate exam:

“Horseracing is a death sentence for horses. Boycott the Melbourne Cup and make sure there is no blood on your hands! #fuckhorseracing #horseracingkills #nuptothecup #animalcruelty #nobloodonmyhands #voiceforthevoiceless #boycottmelbournecup”.

God, she has just given herself a leg shaking-ly intense care-gasm. Next, She finds a photo of a bloodied-nosed horse that looks strikingly similar to Sarah Jessica Parker on a savage coke-bender:

“Each whip causes a horse's arterial influx to capacitate at 145% above normal flux!!! 145%!!! The capillaries literally explode and millions of mycobia are released into the stallion’s phemal gland causing catastrophic motor neuron deficiency, but all we see is a bloody nose #science #notjustaboutgettingdrunk #haveapuntonhumanity #barbarians #trainersarescum #fucktomwaterhouse”.

If each click ‘n’ share skidmark that gets smeared across social media, kills a serious activist-fairy, then Felicia’s last post caused a fucking genocide. Not that Felicia gives a shit, she believes that truth can yield to shock value when one raises awareness about a righteous cause.

In fact, the task of raising awareness is so massive she doesn’t have a single minute to dedicate to the industry’s point of view. She simply dismisses their arguments as being motivated by the race day glory of a squeaky voiced man joyfully crying into a cup full of money.

At her work luncheon, Felicia turns down a serving of strawberries and cream and stares at people like a horse may stare at a hungry Frenchman. She stands next to the sweepstakes sheet and berates her co-workers for gambling on the inevitable bloodbath that follows.

To be fair, she starts making some decent points about the role gambling has played in the seedy underbelly of inhumanity in the industry. The air is thick with reasoned argument, until she gunt-fucks the conversation with some PETA-esque cuntery, “trainers just see slow horses as ‘wasteage’, they are just itching to kill them to save their investments”. Oh.

Anyway you look at it, Melbourne Cup is about fashion, whether that be a fancy dress or the hottest hashtag of the day. Tomorrow, Felicia’s faux-campaign will lay discarded like the champagne-soaked frocks that did little to hide the shame of a public fingering in a tacky marquee.

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