The Human Zoo - Mr Dunsborough

Every summer, Dunsborough is flooded with people that mistake not having a Cottesloe Golf Club membership with hardcore poverty and renting is for riff raff that rely on the quality of their dropped knee’d suction for their next can of Chum. 

Simon is a self professed “beast” in the boardroom. A Dickensian dogcunt who recently made some “hard choices” to guarantee executive bonuses. Hard choices that make recently unemployed scum like you shop at Red Dot this X-mas. 

When it comes to family holidays, Simon’s wife Maree has a fever, and the only prescription is every thing in the medicine cabinet. Accordingly, by the time they depart at 9 am, she is lit up like a Xanax & Vodka decorated X-mas tree. 

Cruising down Forrest Highway, Simon decides to pull off an aggressive merger & acquisition into the right lane. A Getz full of #blessed babes is forced to brake rapidly as Simon smugly grins to the beat of his own ego, “for I am Simon, get out of my wayyyy”.

While in Dunsborough, Simon’s philosophy is simple: dine at the places people in board shorts cannot afford. While peasants glug pints at the Dunsborough pub, Simon is draped in Hugo Boss and dining in total silence with his family at Must. 

After dinner, Simon informs his wife of his other X-mas bonus. He holds onto the wheel tight as Maree bobs up and down like the Dow Jones Index at an insider trading festival. “Thank you darling, you hit most of your KPIs there, but maybe more balls next year”. 

The next day Simon pulls up at Willespie Wines and briefly admires the dust that has accumulated on his car. His weekend warrior stiffy soon fades as he realises he is about to mingle with the common public.

He grimaces in horror as he sees a herd of heifer-esque working class people taking up the entire tastings area. 

After 2 minutes he begins eye-plebbing the group like Billy Zane would look at the child he just elbowed to get into a lifeboat off the Titanic, “is this how you treat a customer who actually intends to purchase some wine?” 

A man in a Bintang singlet looks him right in the eye, “look pal, me and me family are first orright? Yous can just hop in ya poofters car and fark off”. 

How ghastly, this is more terrifying than the time he couldn’t get his window up in time at the Canning Highway window washer intersection. 

To hide the stench of cacked dacks, he storms out in a fit of importance, “we’re GOING!”

Finally back in Perth, Simon reflects on his dusty 4WD. Will he clean it? Nay. Let Claremont see what a wild man of the South West he is.

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The Human Zoo - The Dunsborough Toolie

Damo graduated from Lynwood High in 2003 and had the time of his life on his Leavers break down in Dunsborough. He sets out to recreate the magic of Leavers ‘03 every year. He can basically smell the Leavers period in the air each year and is ensures his Holden Sandman is backed to the brim with Fruity Lexia cask wine, UDLs and a surfboard that can be classed as “ornamental” at best. Damo has always believed in the Scarborough philosophy, that surfing is 90% appearance and 10% participation. If anyone doubts Damo’s surfing ability they can take it up with his Koi fish tattoo.

Although Leavers officially starts on Saturday, Damo is already down in Dunsborough on Thursday night. He is staying with a couple of other bleached-hair desperados in the Dunsborough Caravan Park. They are all aged 29+ and have never missed a Leavers. They sit around sipping on warm UDLs while they brag about the future sex they are going to be having with 18 year olds in their respective tents. “They will be gagging for an experienced man who can hold his piss”. A bold statement, given that it has proved incorrect for the last 11 years. Damo’s extensive history of epic-droughts can be pinpointed to one key personality trait: he is creepier than Kevin Spacey handing out Zooper Doopers at a kid's party.

The group grow tired of each others sexual bravado and bullshit future-sex stories. They decide to go and make pests of themselves down at the Three Bears in the township. Damo rocks up in his official kit: blue wife-beater, Volcom boardies, Reef sandals and his dreadlocks flowing freely. Several groups of Leavers have come down early and are sitting around drinking and planning their holiday of a lifetime. Damo handles the situation like he was in prison: take out the strongest male in a show of unbridled alphaness.

He challenges two good looking ex-Wesley kids to a game of pool. “Sorry mate, we don’t want a copy of the Big Issue”, one of the Wesley kids says to the chorus of roaring laughter from a group of Leaver-girls. Damo takes a breath, “you won't be laughing when I’m sexing your ladies”. Sexing? Gross Damo.

Damo doesn’t even sink one ball. However, this was all part of his master plan. “Guess i’ll be having to drop me dacks ay”. Damo does just that. His sight and smell of his uncircumcised wanger burns a dick-cheese shaped hole in the retinas of all the Leavers standing around the pool table. A couple of bouncers are quick to escort Damo out.

“That's what a real man's dick looks like girls!” In reality, it looks like Clive Waterhouse sitting on the Docker’s bench: dormant with an intense look of longing for even the slightest moist dip of respect.

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The Human Zoo - Ms Perth Boat Hoe

In the Perth summer, children of boat owners rule like majestic kings over their aquatically challenged peasantry.

One such peasant is Cherie, an aspiring social influencer who needs a few luxury bikini shots to get one step closer to the sweet embrace of skinny tea ambassadorship.

Desperate to get on a boat this weekend she FB messages the unfriendly neighbourhood millionaire’s son. A kid who poltergeist-crawled out of his mother’s gin infused womb only to be mistaken for the placenta.

She knows that to access this reptiles floating terrarium she must sink as low as her current Instagram follower count. “OMG that video of you throwing a Macca’s coke on that hobo was so funny  x”

He replies with a shirtless gym selfie and the sunnies emoji aka the official emoji of the guy who sprays cologne on his cock and is always a few years deep into your photo gallery. “Keen for a little water party this w/e babe?”
As dozens of boat hoes roll in, the East Freo Yacht club starts resembling a stripper-ridden Barrack St Jetty before a yew-tacular buck’s cruise. Cherie ignores the other wannabes as she fixes her makeup and protects the $400 haircut she copped just for the occasion.

As they set sail for Rotto, she begins her photoshoot. To be original, she does what every other girl on the boat is doing and poses with a Champagne bottle and a captain’s hat. Nailed it.

Alas, her Titanic-ambitions hit a massive cunt-berg when the millionaire's son decides to bond with Cherie over the very anecdote that brought them together. As she carefully positions her selfie stick, he unloads a mighty bucket of water all over her. “Pranked ya bro!”

Her makeup and hair are fucked as she drowns in a puddle of her own vanity. Of the 430 photos she took already, not one is good enough. Her entire day has been ruined.

Needless to say, she gives the millionaire's son the angriest wristy of his life. Afterall, it’s a long summer, and she has a hole in her ego that only his big, throbbing boat can fill.

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The Human Zoo - Mr South Fremantle

Kyle used to Vespa around Mount Lawley putting more pingas on the shelf than Shane Warne working Coles’ nightfill.

That was until he picked up a copy of Men’s Health before a flight to Melbourne to take a barista course. What he read shocked him. Apparently, gluten is a shitcunt.

He stared at his ham & cheese sanga and the plane filled with the tension of an Indian taxi driver asking a shirtless patriot to pay up front on ‘Straya Day. He could no longer tolerate it. In fact his whole life had to change.

He grew his hair out, discontinued beard maintenance and dressed like an eat, love, pray-cunt that had a spiritual awakening after a 3 day Ubud yoga retreat. Most importantly, he took up residence in South Fremantle.

Gluten intolerance was merely a gateway drug to harder dietary addictions. Lactose was next on his list and much like an internet atheist with a Lynx addiction, he will only add the “milk” of things that have never been near an actual titty.

He hops on his fixie and rides down to the South Freo Sunset markets to mingle with the barefooted flock of organic trending sheep.

While harvesting some kale, he overhears an argument about the controversial Roe 8 project being lead by an impassioned hippie that would rather be bound to an old growth tree than the horrors of an employment contract.

Well, so it happens, Kyle has read a few paragraphs of a Newscorp article himself. Like a true poser, he enters the argument with the intensity of blue balled Shannon Noll refusing to pay for his lap dance because Guy Sebastian’s “Angels Brought Me Here” started playing just before he had a chance to turn his jeans into a milk spill at the local corner shop.

Not posing you say? Well, not only did he kinda read that Newscorp article but he also hashtagged the shit out of the issue on a Freo Facebook group. Who needs political movers & shakers when you have advocates like Kyle ay?

Next stop, Percy Flint to sit out the front with his Macbook and work on his organic food blog. While typing about various grains he notices how trendalicious the #vegetarian hashtag is. Clearly he isn’t going hard enough. Is he even South Freo at all?

So he looks over at an a guy devouring some pork belly and cringes, “you omnivores make me sick, do you think that pig wanted to die mahn?”

If only #dontbeafuckedcunt started trending.

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The Human Zoo - Ms Cottesloe Beach

It's hot out, so Cass heads to Perth’s most iconic amateur modelling competition: Cottesloe Beach.

En route, she stops off at the Boatshed to stock up on the most important supply: a large bottle of Voss water. Her go-to source of hydration ever since her mother stormed out of The Blue Duck for the mere suggestion that tap water was on offer.

Cass and Brit pick a spot and get to work on the most important order of the day. The obligatory #hotdogorlegs beach selfie to not only show off her pre-beach spray tan but also alert the working class bunyips that she had a day off while they slaved for annual leave.

As she finds a good spot she is hit by the unmistakable waft of over-applied cologne and reget. It's a trust funded fuckboy that she'd been ghosting ever since he lost his boat licence. She hits the sand and keeps her head down like it was D-Day on the Normandy shore.

She hears his conversation about cryptocurrency fade into the distance. Finally, the coast is clear, so it’s time to flaunt her banging body like the sand was her personal runway. Her #megsdelish rig has been forged from a simple equation: nutrients out, enhancements in - the Western Suburb’s way.

She begins playfully frolicking, bending over naughtily and flicking her hair back like she was in a Cunt-tene Pro V commercial. Basically doing anything without risking getting her make-up or hair wet. Work it girl.

She returns from her catwalk, and turns to Brit, “Oh EM GEE, did you see all those creepy losers having a look, like um I feel so violated”. She doesn’t. She feels like she's living out her fantasy of signing up to Chadwicks so she only has to spend daddy’s money on European holidays.

Turns out, baking in the sun while refusing to swim can get hotter than the hand friction of a junky's 6 hour meth-wank. It’s time to return to her Mini Cooper and be seen driving up and down Marine Parade.

She looks at her windscreen. There is a ticket. Two hundred fucking dollars. For no standing! She should consider herself lucky, Oscar Pistorius copped 6 years for what he did while not standing.

She is torn. Ring daddy or head to the Cott Hotel for an Aperol Spritz and a quick gold dig. Fuck it, she makes like an Old El Paso commercial and does both.

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The Bell Tower Times Tips on Being Offended This Halloween

1. Outrage Over Costumes

Now, just because you call the police when African youth are waiting “suspiciously” at your local bus stop, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t start an outraged online petition over some flog you don’t know wears blackface to his local footy club party. How will people know you are morally superior?

Don’t stop there though, racial insensitivity is merely an entrée on the buffet of bad taste costumes you will see this weekend - Harvey Weinstein, Oscar “Blade Gunner” Pistorius and IS terrorists will feature prominently, so like Troy Buswell at a La-Z-Boy convention, stick your nose where it doesn’t belong and state how fucking offended you are!

2. Judging Girls Showing Some Skin

The one thing that unites us all, from the creepers to the feminists, is that it is totally fine for girls to dress like the stripper version of just about anything on Halloween. The entire world is on board with a little T&A, except you, of course. Oh no, the stunning lean Phillies remind you of the short-haired Shetland Pony you have become, forever chewing the bitter cud of jealousy.
While your stagnate in your outdated pond of modesty shoot them the ocular spanking their fathers never gave them (before their daddies do for real).

3. Trick or Treat

How will your little baby ever cope with the societal pressures of being offered the phallically masculine Boost Bar, when it may be his choice to enjoy a more feminine Cadbury Dream, and fuck, what if the lollies contain GMOs, gluten or sugar? Not on your watch. Do a round of the neighbourhood and hand out recyclable bags full of mung beans or whatever the fuck it is you eat.

You know all about tricks. Like those so-called “doctors” telling vaccines work or those certain regulatory bodies telling you that your 2-week course in holistic medicine doesn’t authorise you to doll out medical advice on Facebook. Be on high alert, big pharma is trickier than working out a mate’s microwave after a big night out.

4. Cultural Appropriation

Despite Halloween’s origins stemming from Celtic Christianity, you should make it clear that you are no fan of Australia always copying America.

Halloween outfits are the Akubra on the head of the Partaby Joyces and they make you look like just as much of a posing fuckwit. Nevermind that Halloween isn’t American, or that America has seeped into our “culture” like premature ejaculate through a virgin's grundies, you should definitely take a stand against the yankification of our beautiful country.

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THE HUMAN ZOO - Ms Bali 2017

In 2015 Natasha hadn’t yet crossed the enlightened drawbridge to the Kingdom of Eat, Pray Love wanderlusting. She was still fingering around with the Kuta peasants and knew she could do better.

That all changed one day when she was taking a break from washing the dirty barefoot marks from her carpet after last night’s genital coupling with her South Fremantle lothario.

She stumbled upon Instagram’s Bali Bible: the definitive picture guide for wankettes who believe spirituality is a $300 Tiger Air ticket away.

Nathasha sits in the Tiger departure area hoping her oversized floppy hat would shield her from the paracetamol snorters and insta-sluts that believed a modelling career was a Potato head selfie away.

She snaps a photo of her boarding pass, Passport and a copy of Eat, Pray, Love and to prove she is more full of shit than an old boys jocks she drops the smuggest caption of 2017:

“Today I embark not on a holiday, but on a journey, to learn the wisdom of the Indonesians, nurture my body with organic wholeness and show you all there actually is another side to Bali #followme #sheisnotlost #wanderlust#eatpraylove #ubud #uluwatu #organic #vegetarian #yogagirl#fromwhereyoudratherbe #spiritual #travel

She first struts into Seminyak like a bigger Lycra-clad wanker than a cyclist riding in the middle of Stirling Highway. While trying to take a selfie of her vegetable smoothie she is interrupted by a group of unpalatable Bingtangoids, “hows yas going? Where ya heading, mate?”

“I am on my way to Uluwatu and then Ubud, I guess you guys are looking for Kuta?” The braided man wipes beer from his goatee, “Ulu-what? Never heard of it ay”

Ding, ding, ding! It’s like Larry Emdur announced Natasha’s name to have a crack at the showcase on The Cunt is Right, and she fires into full smug-fuckery:

“You don’t know where Uluwatu is? (neither does she) Oh, honey, best stick to Kuta then”. She walks off giggling will madly checking her iPhone for directions to her spiritual homeland.

In total, she spends 1 day in Uluwatu, and 2 nights in Ubud. She did dabble in some yoga but the real downward dog she got was from a white dreadlocked guy who’d introduce his chakra before his “earthling name”.

Natasha leaves Ubud feeling like the spiritual leader of her Insta-followers: a regular Cuntai Lama. In reality, she lost followers as it’s very hard to masturbate to an Acai bowl and photo of some poor Bali kids playing with shit toys.

While waiting to return to Perth from her pilgrimage she hears the bad news: Indonesia has cancelled her flight. Suddenly the Bali goddess joins the slurred chorus of the aggrieved, “Indonesia is so corrupt! Seriously!!! #fml#whyme #corrupt #allaoutofmoney

To the Balinese all Aussie travellers are like participants in a cultural bukake: we all leave the same stain, just in a different area.

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The Human Zoo - Mrs “We’re Pregnant!”

Mel has finally moulded Jason into parental material, and much like the father to be, a spineless organism managed to wiggle its way inside of Mel’s cave of poonery.

All relevant people know but Mel just can't sleep at night knowing that a bunch of Farmvillers she doesn’t speak to are not aware of her awesome fertility.

She makes Jason dress up like he was going to a 2nd cousin’s Christening and gets her brother to take a picture of them kneeling down by the oven with a hot cross bun sitting photogenically in the centre. BUN IN THE OVEN. GET IT!

She is inundated with that like & comment-love that she so sorely needs for this act of natural reproduction. Are you all done watching the Mel & Jason show? Not by a long shot fucko. As you check your mailbox you have been formally invited to a gender reveal party.

Typically it’s during the Eagles game, as Jason’s mates look sadly at the TV that is not allowed to be turned on during dinner parties, normal parties, wine nights or any other occasion where Mel can update social media with a cringey “Im adulting :P” post.

“So boys, just letting you know that since WE are pregnant Jason won’t drinking alcohol either”. Jason stands there more whipped than a Filipino 457 worker in Gina Rinehart’s daydream. “Yeh nah lads, off the sauce for a bit, but you guys have a cold one for me ay”.

Melissa, “oh I’m sorry OUR pregnancy is such a chore”, she storms off to greet some more guests. One of Jason mates lowkey wisecracks, “didn’t know you could knock someone up without a dick”. Jason hears, but Jason doesn’t react, Jason is dead inside.

A few notes on the decoration of the party: it looks like the Riddler took a break from tormenting Batman to throw a surprise consent party for Rolf Harris. Loads of different baby shit stuck to walls with a distinct question mark theme.

Mel gets giddy with excitement as she announces the first clue. Jason is ordered to drag out a large bunch of yellow helium balloons. They float away. Confusion breaks out, wtf gender is yellow?
Next up, a cake is brought out, Mel tells everyone, “so the next clue is IN the cake he he”. She squeals as she orders Jason to cut a big slice, the suspense is killing everyone, the cake is green. Fucking green?

Mel is fucking loving the attention. “OK guys last clue, Jason, do one of those burn car thingys in the Prius”. Jason lightly revs and a flume of orange puffs from the exhaust.
One of his mates is wisecracks again, “is she giving birth to the Teletubbies or someshit?” She gives him an ocular curb stomping.

After the clues Mel gets everyone's attention, “so as you have noticed, we haven’t used pink or blue, because me and Jason (just her) have decided that our little bundle of joy will decide their own gender when the time is right!”


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Bad Girl's Advice Shut Down Over Dog-Fucker Post

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The Human Zoo - The Perth Cougar

Today, Jodi has opted for the “classic MILF” look: tight designer jeans, knee-high brown leather boots, and a white tank top that is doing a superb job of highlighting her enhanced bust. Her pleasant musk and rattling jewelry attract the attention of men like the pied piper of creeping perves.

A young man fixes her a coffee while thinking to himself, “if I make this coffee good enough, will she touch... it?” Probably not mate. Likewise, a well-dressed property developer executes a shameless turn & stare to satisfy himself that Jodi is indeed the complete package.

Let no one say that Jodi isn’t at the cougar ranch for non-essential matters. She is on a mission to buy throw rugs and small ornamental pillows that annoy the living fuck out of her family. She nonchalantly browses the goods at Bed, Bath & Table while periodically checking her cougar-gram.

Out of the corner of her eye she spots an unwelcome stray wearing pink JUICY tracksuit pants and Ugg Boots. Jodie stares at the intruding riff raff like she looks at her empty glass of Vodka & Soda, she texts her friend, “since when did the Quarter become the Motorplex ew”.

Suddenly, a pack of boganlings burst out of the toilet and run to their mother. It is like a mummy blog has come to life. Jodi is traumatised. A Big W kids fashion bomb had gone off and she is disoriented by the internal ringing of poverty. She needs a glass of Veuve Cliquot like Bernard Tomic needs a Red Bull.

Jodi jumps in her Range Rover and meets her friend in Claremont. While checking her make-up she backs into a trolley boy. If only she could hear his minimum waged cries for help over the sound of Adele blaring from her system.

While catching eyes from Polo in the City looking trust funders she remembers a pesky errand she had. Not to worry, she calls her daughter, “have the school order you a taxi darling”. She turns to her friends, “the au pair needed to fly back to the Philippines for a funeral, you just can't find good help these days”.

On her way home, she swings past the Boatshed to buy some affluent-meat. It’s pretty similar to the sort of peasant turd-steaks you buy, except, well, not povo, ya know?

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How To Survive the Great Perth Cold Snap

1. Dress like you are heading to Mount Everest Base Camp

What do Patagonia, Kathmandu and The North Force of anything all have in common? You haven’t been there, pal. Your life may be like a booze, Netflix and Uber eatish Groundhog Day, but you sure as shit look active. Posing next looked so puffy.

2. Get into a Heated Argument about Global Warming

If you’re a Baby Boomer climate change skeptics you know that the fact they had to use a heater this morning as irrefutable proof that climate change science is a load of shit. After all, you’ve been through way more winters, and don’t reckon it’s too bloody hot. Wake the sheeple up.

3. Don’t Wear Shorts

Even though you would push your own mother out of the way to get to a pair of shorts, you must concede that some days require a pair of trackies. Don’t go crazy and wear your good Court trackies, just that flogged out pair you pinched from Big W in 2014. That is the Perth way.

4. Drive Like a Fuckhead Somehow

You can get it braking, you get it skidding, you can get it ploughing through a house, a cold wet road needs a classic Perth act, and the Perthiest act is shit, shit driving. Fuck knows how this keeps you warm, but with the number of people doing it, it must work?

5. Sacrifice Your Ute to the Sinkhole God of Smoko

“Thou sinkhole, who art in Wanneroo, hallowed be thy name, they tradie come, smokos not done, fuck this shit I’m grabbing a coupla bevans”. This is a bit of a new one for Perth, but hey, it sure beats standing around with a stop sign pretending to work.

6. Magic Mushrooms

Get a handful of Balingup’s finest mushies into your trip-hole and before you know it, you won’t remember how to use your phone let alone have a firm grasp of temperature. Make sure you have friends around, and avoid the temptation to navigate South East Asia and end up on a Thai beach playing bongos.

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What the 2016 Census Revealed about WA

  1. The fastest growing occupation in the Western suburbs was “entrepreneur, influencer, CEO, model, vegan, crossfitter, blessed <3”, which experienced a 155% spike yet had the lowest average recorded income across the board.

  1. There was a 70% increase in the number of people whom, after recording “law”, “engineering”, “aviation” or “medicine” as their field of study, also highlighted, underlined and asterixed the answer.

  1. Perth is officially Australia’s leader of mortgage related stress. A statistic that experts are strongly linking to outbreaks of Bali ash clouds, interest from Cashies loans and of course the state’s millennials crippling addiction to avocado & toast based brunches.  

  1. WA’s religion is officially, “Islam is not a Race”, with a staggering 70% of the outer suburban populace scribbling this new faith next to the “other” option.

  1. Australia’s population’s ancestry is edging closer to being more Asian than European. A state of affairs widely believed to be due to the condomless ejaculate of cashed up miners sowing their wild oats in South East Asia during the peak of the boom.

  1. The percentage of English and New Zealand migrants continue to grow despite whiney claims at bars and sites requiring scaffolding that their homelands are superior to Australia in every way.

  1. There was a sharp 95% spike in “address of employer” being recorded as “HOME” which correlated coincidently with the 95% spike in those pursuing a career in BOSS @ FULL TIME MUMMY.

  1. English remained the most common language spoken at home, although with the rise of text based communication and leftards writing fake news, the second most prolific language understood at home was “Caps lock”.

  1. In a shock to statisticians, male & female still appear to be the two most prominent sex-groups. However a staggering 88% of the arts degree population refused to tick a box and corrected the ABS’ assumption. Accordingly, no two person’s self indulgent description of their biology was the same.

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1. Witnessing more drenched Monster caps and Jet Pilot attire than at a buck’s party with a squirting show. As everyone knows an umbrella is a gateway item to full blown scarfery

2. Losing your fucking mind at the legions of nervous nancys that will be driving further below the speed limit than a stoned sloth trying to find the Hungry Jack’s turn off. 

3. Dodging “overcompensatin’ Owen” who will be leaving more skitz skidz in his Chev-badged Commodore than Trump’s grundies after eating some Taco Bell made extra “special” for him.

4. Sighing at a minion sharing full-time mummy that will be posting storm warnings to secure your backyard from the devastating horror of the inevitable overturned pot plants.

5. Listening to some turmeric-latte sipping shithead who will be banging on about Perth only being good for its weather and he’ll be looking into one way Jetstar tickets to Melbs mahn

6. Noting a social Influencer likes-drought due to being unable conduct their hoe-to shoots on a boat or beach. Not to fear, they will be Introducing, throw back Fridays, as the wankening silence is terrible to their brand.

7. Witnessing multi-car pile ups, as a little drizzle turns our roads into a mechanical rendition of the Human Centipede.

8. Being forced to listen to your FIFO mates tell you how it’s “fuck all” and they worked for 78 hours straight in a Pilbara monsoon in nothing but a Hi-Vis shirt with no break.

9. Noting no change in the work ethic of road-workers.

10. Knowing or being the cunt that still has his sprinklers turned on because how can there be a water crisis when his local servo is offering 2 for 1 on 600ml Mount Franklins ay?

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Ms Mother's Day

For some, Mother’s Day is about celebrating the lady who gave up the prospects of being a vaginal model for you. For others, it’s a day to showcase what a shit-hot daughter you are in an unadulterated display of self-absorpery. 

Sara awaken in some modest Bunbury accommodation and races to her Getz to return to Perth. The ill-effects of over-refreshment and party drugs at Groovin' the Moo have her looking like Gollum after an 12 orc gangbang.

She pulls over on the side of the road to chunder up a ripe mix of stomach lining and Bile-cardi Breezers. To prove the vom-slurry isn't the worst thing to come out of her she starts hammering out a Facebook status to honour her Facebook-less mother:

“Happy Mothers Day to the best mummy in the world! You are my best friend, my world and I appreciate everything you have done for me. You deserve the best xxx #bff #bestmum #humbledaughter”.

Clearly “the best” refers to a $20 Dusk Candle and the second cheapest bouquet of flowers from the roadside van guy. Sara is running late and most of the flowers have been snapped up. Alas, she is forced to choose from the sloppy seconds, the Dockers' Interchange bench of the floral world.

Upon arrival, Sara presents her mother with her gifts and asks her mum to also pose with a bottle of Moet that her brother bought. She posts the photo “#luckymum #gooddaughter #gifts”. She is inundated with kudos for her cunt-erosity.

Her likes-fiesta is interrupted by her father announcing that brunch is ready. While mum attempts a little toast, Sara is zooming around the table like a hashtagging blowfly trying to get the perfect angle for her brunch photo. She barely listens to her mother’s pleasantries as she hammers out another FB post:

“Made mum brunch! Oh, and a couple of champagnes? Why not, you deserve it mum ;) This daughter cleans up alright ay haha lol xxx#igotitfrommymamma #happymothersday#luckymum”.

She attempts to enjoy a glass of bubbly but the alcohol makes her feel sicker than Kerser on results day at the sexual health clinic.

After waging an unwinnable battle against half a croissant she lazes on the couch and basks in the baking sun of faux-daughtery.

Daughter of the year.

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The Real Housewives of Perth - Part 1

Now we ain’t saying she’s a gold miner, but she ain’t fucking with no broke digger.

In fact, Lily married a man that dug so well that the value of his mines exploded like they were in a Vietnamese jungle.

Sadly, she had to let the private dog chef go the other day. He had the audacity of bringing home Woolworth’s rump steak for her needy, yapping dogs that you wouldn’t hesitate to send on a one way trip to the Yulin Food Festival.

Seeing the peasant beg for his job was more satisfying than the Django Unchained role-play sex she has with her ‘coloured’ driver. Speaking of which, she needs to be driven to the boatshed immediately.

She swans in with a do-you-know-who-i-am swag and pushes straight to the front of queue at the butchers. Sure she knows it’s a cunt move but It’s about principle. Lining up is for poor people. If she lets this slide, then tomorrow she may as well be sleeping in the bowels of the Titanic, dancing a jig for her dinner. Or worse, shop at an IGA.

She demands $120 of eye fillet cut up into little chunks for her fur babies. Of course, she doesn’t buy any food for herself, as she likely feasts upon jerkied skin of former Au Pairs to her children that no longer talk to her. Probably.

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The Human Zoo - The P Plater

To Tyler, his newly acquired Nissan Skyline is the hottest car on the road and he’s going to light that bitch up like a Tibetan monk protesting high fuel prices.

To live out his fast and the furious fantasy he had to cop a hefty loan. The onerous repayments clashed against his McWage and insurance was a luxury he had to skip. What would possibly go wrong ay?

Well, loads of shit because when it comes to driving Tyler is about as experienced as a Freo Docker at a cup polishing competition. He forgets blind spots, brakes rapidly and most importantly he doesn’t double clutch like he should.

Now is not the time to think about theoretical disaster, because as soon as he pulls out of the dealership he almost caused a very real disaster. He failed to see one of those pesky, inconspicuous busses that the driving schools warn you about. “Fucking watch it!” He arrogantly squeaks.

For the next half hour, he rides so far up peoples arses that you’d think he was on a first date with a Mandurah girl. The only thing that stinks worse than his bravado is the burnt rubber every time he has to slam on the brakes to avoid making his bonnet look like a pug's face.

At the 45 minute mark, he has hit the main road and decides to start swerving in and out of lanes like a drunk backstroker. To a shit driver, there really is no better feeling than erratically changing lanes every 5 seconds to end up at the same set of lights as everyone else in 50m - winning.

Still, everyone else is wrong and Tyler is right, because he has 50 hours of supervised driving experience and has a poster of Paul Walker in his bedroom. He exits the main road and enters a suburban driftopia of wide streets and quiet traffic.

At the one hour mark, he spots an Asian girl walking home and if his weekly Fast and the Furious marathons have taught him anything, it’s that Asian chicks love drifters.

He plans his peacockery and figures that if he comes around the corner again sideways he will have her undies so monsoonal that the UN will need to send aid.

He takes the corner at pace, jerks his wheel and hits the gas to attempts and straighten up. It is at this exact moment he realises he has absolutely no idea how to pull off this driving manoeuvre and loses control like Nollsy at a regional NSW gig. 

He manages to mount a kerb, pop a couple of tyres, take out some wheelie bins and fuck his wheel alignment right up. Good effort Tyler, the road to being uninsurable starts with a single act of vehicular fuckery.

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