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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Mr Dreamworld Expert

Sam is like the Mike Nolan of unwanted opinions, ready to slap on the High-Vis shirt of expertise and weigh in on any tragedy at any opportunity.

He used to be an unskilled labourer specialising in half-jobs. However, since he “did his back” he spends his days waiting on Gorilla conservation groups to contact him for further guidance on Ape conflict resolution.

Sam is like an overfilled bag of fertiliser, you’re expecting shit, but are legitimately surprised at just how much comes out. So when news of the Dreamworld tragedy broke, his acquaintances knew Facebook was going to resemble laxative day on a German porn set.

He gets to work early on a Perthnow article about the accident:

“Not farken surprisd ayy,., i worked for Dreemworld in ‘91 doen some maintenance and that, i WARNED EM bout the belt ha ha.. Pretty bludy simple, any one who know continuous motion rides knew it..  Muppets is all i can say”

His online gum-flappery is liked by a series of school of hard knock alumni with out of focus profile pics. Step aside fellow knuckle-draggers, Einstein is in the house with his theory of cunt-ativity.

The 5 likes on his previous lie has made Sam feel alive. Finally, he is getting the kind of attention and love that his mother substituted for alcohol during his fetal and formative years.

He tracks down articles from various news outlets and continues to live out the bob the builder fantasy in his head:

“Wudlnt hav happened on MY WATCH,. Even If proper maintainfence procedure bin followed, cos look at the belt chasie!!! I said it in ‘91 and im saying it NOW”

In a sea of public condolences, Sam feels compelled to cause waves of blame and speculation. A caps locked Vulture that circles the ambiguity and scavenges the limelight. 17 likes total.

The likes flow through his veins like a fiend. He knows to get his next hit he will need to get on his knees in the back alley of public decency and do something that really sucks.

He contacts the usual trash-media outlets in an attempt to be heard. He tells them that not only did he warn about this in ‘91 but he was actually there that day and tried to warn them.

Now, given the media’s attitude is that a retraction is easier than a fact-check, they print the bullshit under an “anonymous source”. Christmas has come early, and Sam is gleefully ho ho ho’ing like a regular Father Fuckmas.

Get back under your bridge Sam.

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Mrs Mummy Blogger

Posting a photo of your kid with shit all over his face is the heroin of the full time mummy world. It’s like the feeling of a million Minion memes rushing through your online veins. Once Susan got a taste she was hooked. 

T’was the summer of ‘15 when Susan felt the baby photo-high fade into a mundane buzz. In a fiendish frenzy she stepped up her oversharing game and wrote a status about her shit-for-brains husband struggling to change a nappy.

The post was met with critical acclaim from masses of Chardonnay-housewives. A star was born, and Susan started up a Wordpress blog, “The Hardest Job in the Mummyverse”. An outlet to describe the difficulty in dodging her kids bodily fluids, and finding time to cop some of her husbands.

Clueless sprog-raisers everywhere flocked to Susan’s blog for mothering advice. In her desperate bid for relevancy, nothing was off limits. Her kid’s piss-panting, the state of her nips and even a horrifically unsexy story about her husband 2-pump-chumpin’ it in the backseat of their Rav 4 after they’d drop the little snot-dicks off at her mums:

“As a mummy, I work a dozen jobs all at once. Unfortunately, my hubby couldn’t even handle the one job I’d allocated him for the night lol. After a minute of grunting it just struggled like a inflatable, crazy, blowy man outside a used car lot”.

The mother goose was loose, and she was laying daily eggs of parenting faux-losophy. The delusion of profoundness led to such dickheaded greats as “Why I’m an Organic Mummy”, “Vaccines are MY Choice” and “Defeating ADHD with Love”.

Doctors, dieticians and child psychologists could all go and suck her husband’s deflated manhood. She knew best because she had 2000 followers and had a shout out on Mamamia.

To save herself from the crippling regret of a 10am glass of vino, Susan takes her laptop and kids down the local park. She types away as her kids play and she notices a couple of male council workers having their smoko on a bench.

She pens five cunt-agraphs of rambling fuckery about how as a mummy she didn’t feel safe letting her children play while bearded men sat 75m away.

Her following couldn’t believe these men had the audacity to enjoy a park bench on a spring day. What fucking arseholes. Didn’t they consider Susan’s prejudices?

In a whirlwind of misandristic rage, the post goes viral. Acrylic nails batter keyboards and the plight of the park mummy becomes known. Susan is as chuffed as Waleed Aly’s left hand at a circle jerk.

Susan is now a household name and she begins eyeing off her next target: the lack of vegetarian options at her local butcher.

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The Perth Traveller

Candice has mastered the art of ruthlessly loathing the inconvenience of culture shock while faux-losophising on Instagram to inspire her followers. 

She makes it very clear that she sees the “real” culture and every photo she posts depicts a profound life-changing event that Contiki Tour peasants have no chance of experiencing from the sheltered confines of their guided fuckery. 

Let Candice treat you to an episode of “Where in the World is Carmen Poorcunt-diego”.

Candice is treated to a holiday to South America in exchange for dumping her Thornlie-bred boyfriend whom her family deemed "unsavoury". Before leaving for the airport she uploads a photo of her passport and boarding pass to Instagram:

“once more, embarking on the road less travelled, who knows what awaits me #followme#lifeisbeautiful #travel #wanderlust #hola#southamerica #realtravel #notours #nocontiki#solotravel”. 

Her father drops her off at Perth International and slips her an extra $500 cash. She completes her airport ritual by checking in on Facebook and purchasing some expensive perfume - a true necessity of enlightened travel.

Many hour later, she arrives exhausted and furious in Rio de Janeiro and gets conned into paying twice as much for a taxi to her hotel room. However, her social media report on the landing was somewhat different, 

“landed in Rio! Just sweet talked the a taxi driver into giving me a cheap fare #travelminded#streetwise #traveltips #neverpayfull #experience”. 

She arrives at her 5 star hotel and immediately uploads the obligatory bathrobe/champagne selfie to Instagram. Like all great explorers before her, she gets a solid 9 hours sleep on 2000 thread count Egyptian cotton, a real Christopher Cuntlumbus

She spends the next daily bitterly complaining about the sticky heat and bothersome beggars that inhabit the streets of Rio. Her resting bitch face is at an all time high after being asked if she could spare any change for the 2nd time, after all, it’s not her fault that people decide to become poor drug addicts. 

She cracks a few smiles for selfies in front of famous landmarks and decides to catch up with a friend who is staying at a local hostel. To her friend's disgust, she carries on like an over-cultured tub of yoghurt and alienates herself with dickheaded comments, “I usually hate running into other Aussies while travelling, like I totally travel to get away from them, hey”.

Her friend begrudgingly invites her along to an organised tour they are doing of a local Favela. During the 20 minute van ride to their destination she causes everyone to wak in their headphones as she wanks on about how she never does organised tours and “there is a first for everything hehe”.

 In reality, Candice is one of 200 tourists that got to walk through the Favela that day, but she barely noticed any of the sight and sounds as she was mentally creaming her jeans over the glory of her next travel update. She poses for a photo with armed gang members and becomes fixated on what profound bullshit she is going to spin to her legion of followers.

The group are sincerely relieved when she turns down their offer to attend an asado restaurant with them afterwards. How can these guided tour fuckwits eat at a time like this? Candice has a photo of her in an actual ghetto with actual thugs. This is the holy fuckin’ grail. She orders room service and begins scribing her narcissistic bullshit,

 “today I ventured into a real Brazilian Favela, it was so inspiring to see how the less fortunate live, and I even made friends with the local gangsters, it’s amazing how we connected over the universal language of respect #donttellmymother #favela#realtravel #wanderlust #roadlesstraveled #danger#pro”.


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Ms Oktoberfest

Each year thousands of Aussies celebrate Oktoberfest by acting like a Volkswagen and spewing unpleasant emissions into the environment. Ciara is one of those Aussies and history has taught her that the only thing that will sink lower than her dignity today is her cleavalicious neckline. 

Ciara hosts the befores at her parent’s East Perth abode. She and her five besties form a human centipede chain and get her little sister to take a photo of them. She then proceeds to go full Blitzkrieg with her guten-hashtags:

“Do you even Oktoberfest?   #german #oktoberfestau #langleypark #stein #beerwenches #lol #shouldbestudying #dasbabes #youwillnaziuscoming #sausage #boobs #lederhoes #yehthegirls #saturdaysareforthegirls”.

To get into the spirit Ciara purchases a 6 pack of
 Oettinger: a beer usually reserved for drunks who casually piss-slime into Liquorland the minute the doors open. Nevertheless, she forces the drink down like an Insta-hoe slurping on a balding photographer’s chode in the hope of making it bigger than her impending hangover.

By 4 pm, Ciara is feeling the ill-effects of liquid gluten abuse. She has randomly started a blue with her best friend over some shit that will miraculously be resolved after some teary faced attention seeking in a portable toilet. Accordingly, Ciara is unsteady on her feet and her drunken drama-queening has made her unappealing to all but the seediest faux-German vultures circling.

Luckily for Ciara, a walking beer can marches past in a lagered-haze and spots his damsel in distress. He is dressed like a UWA banter-lord: female clothing, padding under a bra and a wig that has all the appeal of a shower drain clogged with HIV-soaked pubes. 

He stumbles over and seduces her with the articulacy of a building site cat-caller, “ayyyyyyyyyyy what's wrong angel face?” He can barely finish his verbal-leering without spittle spraying from his mouth like an enraged substitute teacher. 

Ciara sways around while he peppers her with slop-nothings and the crumbs from his bacon & cheeseball personality make her sick as she spray his shoes with a chunky mist of overindulgence. At that moment, he stops thinking with his bratwurst and decides to disappear like a Nazi war criminal into the Argentinian farmland.

Eventually, Ciara hails a taxi with all the composure of a newly birthed baby giraffe. She will wake up with a sore head and niggling feeling that she herself should be hauled in front of the Hague for crimes against basic-bitchmanity

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