The Human Zoo - Mr I Hate Quokkas



There are two types of people in this world. One can walk past a playground and be happy that kids are playing. The other wants to get his clown costume on and line the back floorboards of his house with some fresh kid-sulation.

So generally when guests to Rotto Island encounter our beloved Quokkas, they look like dickwits trying to get a selfie 'em. Or if you are Johnno, you find ways to outdo your predecessors in the art of Quokka assault.

School leavers pioneered “Quokka Soccer”, some French cunt-ssaints lit one up with a deodorant can and two shit-for-brains attempted to make a David Attenborough movie, if David had been kept in a cage and forced to wear a mask of his mother’s skin every night.

Oh and fuck, just recently a Kiwi businessman, probably banging on endlessly about the fucking Bledisloe Cup showed the island exactly why he was never an All Black and launched a little guy off the jetty.

Much to our surprise and delight, a Quokka is a bit like Eric the Eel and can swim. A fact that Mr Kiwi businessman probably didn’t know. Making him the worst thing to come from New Zealand since their entire population every year.

Johnno knows he has some stiff competition. To join the list of window-lickers who have been financially ruined, criminally recorded or deported he will need to step up his game.

He is suddenly struck by inspiration from when he drank an entire goon bag at leavers. I’ll tea-bag one!

Now, tea-bagging is practiced by people who need to run their finger under each word when they read and involves putting your ball sack on someone or somethings head.

Now judging by Johnno’s Tinder matches it would appear he is used to bestiality. But the key difference between a rum-pig and a Quokka is the Quokka isn’t going to be won over by a second hand SS Ute and a 4 pack of Bacardi Breezers.

Society is hoping he has a figurative light bulb moment and realises his plan is dumb as fuck, alas he uses that bulb to freeze his lungs with enough ice to help him destroy a carton of Toohey’s Extra Dry.

It’s now 4pm and Johnno hears the rustling of tiny beast in his Geordie Bay court yard. He sprints outside with his pants off and starts hopping around trying to squat on it like a girl trying to have a piss in the ant-infested bush land of a Swan Valley winery.

Turns out the Quokka didn’t appreciate this dickhead either, so he got his little claw and slashes Johnno’s banjo string like a redneck wife sick of her husband’s animal-rooting jam sessions.

A butchered dick, animal cruelty charges and an unharmed Quokka. Finally, a win for our furry little friends.

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