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?
The diarrhoeal flow of similes continues, but full points for "She needs a glass of Veuve Cliquot like Bernard Tomic needs a Red Bull"
Seeing as Perth is effectively on the other side of the world to the east coast and we see no news about it, my entire world view of the place is shaped by you Bell, and I must say, I still want to visit!
Come to Bentley cunt we got the dardyist shard cuz and the yorgaz go hard