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!”

K.

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