Mr #InvasionDay

Every Australia Day, Timmy shit-weasels himself out of the primordial goo of bogan Australia and flings judgey fuckery from atop his cuntory tower. Now, don't you fucking dare accuse him of doing dick all for Indigenous rights for the other 364 days of the year.  He has been busy waging tireless one day campaigns against the Melbourne Cup, the Bali death penalties and a monstrous two days of hashtaggery convincing Australians that #notallmuslimsareterrorists. Get this lad a god damn #medal.

Timmy awakens on the 26th and checks in on his lord & saviour Scott Ludlam. He notices that Jesus Scott Christ has posted a Change the Date article and his social justice glands start salivating. Now because Timmy isn’t a racist, drunk piece of shit like you, he decides to educate himself further. He jumps on the first google search result, an #invasionday article written by the internet's digital toilet paper manufacturer, Buzzfeed.

Half way through the article, Timmy decides that he has adequately  buzz-fed his appetite for knowledge and is somewhat of an authority on the subject. Alas, he is merely an attention-tourist taking a vanity vacation in another man’s struggle. Accordingly, he takes it upon himself to educate his followers:

“I’ve got to say, being an “Australian” makes me feel pretty sick today. I refuse to celebrate this day by drinking and covering myself in the colonial colours of a murdering regime. To all my friends “celebrating”, I’d ask you have a long look in the bloody mirror #invasionday”.

Phwoar. Timmy went harder than Peter Garrett on an ecstasy fueled dance-off. One of Timmy’s followers likes the status and comments, “well said my man, I take it you’re joining us at the invasion day rally?” Timmy is taken aback. Surely he has done enough already? His act of slacktavism has garnered 20 likes and a share. An act of actual activism would surely pale in comparison to the social media bombshells he’s dropping.

As the day rolls on, Timmy continues to post memes and articles. However, something doesn’t feel right. He decides he must roll out the big guns. He applies an Aboriginal flag filter to his profile photo. Hundreds of years of generational discrimination just took a major blow. The 26th January 2016 will forever be known as the day Timmy healed a nation by applying a fucking Facebook filter. Hold the phone, no, he also digi-signed a petition. Hallelujah.

Predictably, a flag-waving funnel-cock decides to spill a verbal  beer over Timmy’s page. “Love it or leave it dickhead”. The pair engage in a fierce keyboard battle. Timmy copy & pastes Indigenous facts while the other man patriotically declares Timmy unAustralian. The exchange is useless and the pair look like a couple of spoons at a spaghetti party. 

When you apply a hashtag shaped bandage, the pus of complacency will always ooze onto the wound that real activists are trying to heal.

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Adventure Yewwww's Adults Only Pool Party

Brendo has a dream. A dream that finger blasting single mothers can coincide with the freedom to piss anywhere he likes. A dream that he won't be judged on the faded colouring of his Jet Pilot boardies, but on the inking on his neck tattoo. A dream that can only be awoken by a light dose of CPR by a security guard who saw his hectic back flip into the spa. That dream is today.

Brendo rummages through a shit-heap on his floor for a nice outfit to wear. He finds his favourite Bintang singlet that he wore on Australia Day. Now, being 8th February, he hasn't had time to get rid of the blood stains that resulted from being bottled while in the chaos of an ethnic chipping expedition on the foreshore. Also, 4 bucket bongs deep, there is slim chance that he is going to Napisan it either. Fuck it, ay.

The gates open at 7,  but Brendo has been sinking Beams in the carpark since 5 with the boys. They all suck from the shardy nipple of yewww while blabbering on about their anticipated sexual conquests. “Oi cunts, check it out”, Brendo squawks while executing a flawless “barracuda” finger gesture. The lads laugh harder than the Perth Storm hits unsuspecting pot plants.

Brendo has always been known to clumsily walk the line between partying and attempted suicide. Tonight is no exception, he tripple drops Green Mitsis and heads straight for Tunnel of Terror. The pingas kick in before he reaches the front of the line and he stares down the slide like a disoriented newborn staring back towards his mother’s birthing canal. This certainly isn’t  time to play it safe, “YEOWWWWWWWWWW”, he launches himself down the slide.

He stumbles out of the pool like a gaked baby giraffe and makes cookie monstered eye contact with a Foxy shorted sluzza. It’s love at thirst-sight, and the pair slam back Smirnoff Double blacks in a spa. To seal the deal, he demonstrates some classic North of the River nonchalance and hocks a big slag into a neighbouring spa. She’s now wetter than Lleyton Hewitt’s sweatband.

Suddenly, Brendo has a moment of clarity through the gurny haze of MDMA. He still has that baggie full of washing detergent that he intended to drop into a spa. He does just that and his spa bubbles over in eye-stinging stupidity. Dozens of revelers are led to the first aid area to treat their eyes while Brendo desperately zig zags between security guards.

He is eventually caught while trying to commandeer a go kart. He is led out and advised of his annual ban from the venue. Minutes later, the crowd cheer wildly  as their poorcunted prince scales the fence and is seen plummeting towards the grass.

Another year, another Ambo bill.

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