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.