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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