The Human Zoo - The Royal Show Carnie

Daz has toured the show circuit for 20 years and is better at separating bogans from their money than a Centrelink piss-test. He runs sideshow games that are difficult but not impossible, kind of like procreating with Tony Abbott. 

The main tool in his cunt-ility belt is the art of antagonising. He spots a large bloke on a Tinder date walk by, “come on big man, have a crack, see if you can give a girly what she wants for a change”.

Daz has thrown down the gauntlet of emasculation, but the big man fails to win and like a pensioner at the brothel, Daz can’t wipe the toothless grin from his face, “don’t worry chief, she’d be used to going home with something small ay”.

The big man can do nothing but walk away as he knows the game is like a 3rd world African election: rigged and run by a man who probably won't hesitate to use a blade on you.

Now the slow start to the school holidays has slowed business, so Daz needs to tighten the clamps on his games rigging and act like even more of a condescending shithead to get more business the next day.

It’s not long until he spots a family of mouthbreathers scoffing fried food and screaming at their poorly supervised children. Jackpot. He jumps on his microphone and lures the herd over with an offer of a free game if all the kids play.

Daz makes sure the all the kids bar one wins a huge prize, but this is no act of charity. He is dividing and conquering the family. The losing kid makes it clear that he will erupt like a Bali brat-cano and spew molten tantrum all over the day.

The father attempts to say no but the mother steps in, “fucken ‘ell Kevin, he won't bloody shut up if he don’t get a farken Peppa Pig too, win one for him”.

The man proceeds to pump $120 into a game to win a $5 fluffy toy that is being held together by a glue created when tears are mixed with the broken dreams of a faraway sweatshop worker. What a deal.

At the end of each day, Daz counts the money he has harvested from the field of dimwitted potatoes rolling around the show and attempts to impregnate a non-blood relative in his van to help create more carnies for his ever-growing empire.

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The Human Zoo - Ms Down South

Chelsea sucks so badly at going down South that she could be mistaken for a blind-drunk virgin navigating the perils of oral pleasuring with a mouth full of braces. 

She gathers a group of girls that she refers to as her favs. Now, it’s important to note that her favs spend about 50% of their time bitching about Chelsea in a secret group chat. However, since she has the keys to daddy’s Yallingup beach house she suddenly looks “so fucking hot” in that every-bitch floppy hat.

They load the Getz and Chelsea makes her way down Forrest Highway. Her driving is what you might call, dickheadedly frustrating.

She sticks in the right lane and only merges rapidly into the left so the girls can try to pronounce the Mandjoogoordap Drive sign and laugh like a couch jumping Tom Cruise.

Chelsea finally exits the freeway after copping more fingers than Buddy Franklin’s 2013 Tinder matches. She pulls into Yallingup and tries to avoid eye contact with the caravan park plebs. How unsavoury.

Instead of taking in the beauty of WA’s south west, the girls spend their Thursday afternoon getting ready because they want to make all the other hoes at the bar look like homeless cock-for-cashlettes.

After a share plate and cocktail Instagram photoshoot, the girls decide to really slum it and pop into Settlers to see if any surfers have stuck around from the Masters to swim in a different ocean of wetness.

Chelsea is 7 “Expresso Martinis” deep and in a case of mistaken bald-entity thinks a local slaphead is Kelly Slater. Lucky for Chelsea's dignity, the slater look-a-like has seen more pissed up gold-diggers than the Kalgoorlie Cup and swerves her advances. 

In the absence of some shaka-cock, the girls head home to get a nights rest before the wine tour the next day.

While waiting for the tour bus they get a neighbour to take a photo of them posing: “Yasssss grape day with ma favs #squadgoals #wine #blessed#yallingup #douth #cultured #easter #whitegirld”

One may ask what the difference between a stretch hummer full of Rivervale slurries and a tour bus full of Claremont queens is in regards to a wine tour? Simple really, it boils down to whether the Chanel bag covered in spew is authentic or not.

She settles for a Taj Burrows lookalike and his mate in the toilet of Colonial and comes out dripping like a newly birthed calf.

Before they leave Yallingup they need to tick one more box on the basic bish list: paddle board yoga. They head down to Meelup beach the following day, however, karma strikes as the vineyards take their revenge for her popping a squat the previous day.

While saluting the sun, she chunders more surfer DNA into the water than you’d find in a Margaret River single mother’s kid.

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The Human Zoo - Ms "I Lived in London"

Olivia decided to move away from her boring corporate life and blossom into a bohemian bad bitch in old London town. 

She got a 2-year work Visa and repeatedly told London to “get in me” with all the confidence of the best looking cousin at a Tasmanian family reunion. 

For the first month, she embarked on a Contiki tour getting cooked and spit-roasted like she was the centrepiece of a Hawaiian Luau. Her savings took quite the hammering too.

Back in London, she smashed originality boundaries by moving into a share house in Clapham. Although due to having the budgeting abilities of a bogan at a Balinese novelty t-shirt sale, she soon realised she couldn’t sustain the lifestyle. She needed a job.

Unsurprisingly, her attempts to just waltz into an art studio and be hired fell flatter than the brim of her recently acquired felt hat. So she pulled another move out of the Aussie playbook and got a job at a live-in pub.

After lasting 1 week living in squalid conditions she quit and shacked up with a posh lad whose teeth looked like a face-fucked pack of Liquorice Allsorts. She had found her Prince Harry <3.

That romance ended after she became unsettled with the relationship he had with “mummy darling”. You could cut the breastfeeding separation anxiety tension with a fucking knife. So at the 3-month mark, she decided to pull up stumps and move back to Australia.

Like the proverbial dog licking its own cockney in the living room, everyone politely ignored the fact her much-hyped new life only lasted 3 months. That was until she refused to drop her newly acquired “accent” and started with her constant bullshit.

At her homecoming she disagreed with the girl's notion to get a bottle of vino, “to be fair, wines a bit boring innit, when I was lived in London we were all about the jug of Pimms or Aperol Spritz, bitta culture never hurt you”.

Months passed and her attitude never improved. Almost every activity or purchase was measured against the whirlwind 3 months she spent abroad, “what a rip off a pack of f*gs was only 8 quid when I was living in London, it was proper lush”. Oh, shut the fuck up Cuntmilla Parker Bowles.

Every time she banged on about her UK adventure she had people rolling their eyes like an overdosing cookie monster. Even after a year of living back she still drags out that shit accent when she tells a story about living in London.

Which, unfortunately, is like every fucking day, innit?

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The Human Zoo - Ms “R U OK? Day”

Tara springs merrily out of bed in anticipation for a big day of social media whorin’. She has been meticulously planning her “R U OK?” selfie for days and to top it off; she is part of the organising committee for the "R U OK?" morning tea at her workplace. Is she OK? Well, she's going to get a shit-ton of likes and gets to wear a cute dress around the office, so yeh, she's pretty fucking OK today.

Before she gets changed for work, she slips into a pair of anti-anxiety undies and a depression-fighting skimpy singlet. She then applies enough self-esteeming make-up and sets her phone to a ‘dry-ya-eyes’ filter to bring out her perfect eyebrows and skin tone. She positions her phone in the most uplifting angle and takes a “meet sexy singles in your area” selfie of narcissistic proportions. She uploads the shot to her respective social media accounts, “Depression is like a totes serious thing, so deffs have a chat about it #ruok #asksomeoneiftheyreok #today #nofilter #nomakeup #morningtea”.

Her usual fan base of desperado insta-masturbaters are quick to comment on how inspiring her selfie is. She has gained 22 likes in the first 10 minutes. How could anyone be feeling blue with those kind of stats! She slips into her megs lush dress and desperately hopes it will be the focal point of her morning tea conversation, oh and people being sad and shit. She peps through the office door like a one-woman Wham film clip and begins setting up the boardroom as if it was Melbourne Cup Day.

10 am rolls around, and a stampede of sausage-roll focused office bison break into the boardroom. The room is full of dry conversations in between gluttonous bites of free food. Being fab, Tara swoons around the morning tea with a champagne flute full of Orange C. She makes sure one of the younger office girls is ready to take a photo when she goes and asks the wirey IT guy whether or not he’s OK. “Hiiiii ken or dave, so are you ok?” A breathless rush of social anxiety floods through the quiet man as he uncomfortably grimaces under the camera's flash and Tara’s Colgate grin, “just fine thanks”.

Her job is done, and she prances over to the camera to check how good the photo is. She examines the photo and loves how caring she looks. She uploads it to her social media accounts and also the office page. She has exercised the most shallow “just the tip” compassion, and while it may be good for the ego-duck it is invasive to the anxious-gander. To make matters worse, she posted the exact moment she belittled a man’s problems and slopped it on social media like it was a fucking gay ol’ time.

Tara is high on insta-likes and decides to sink lower than the meth crater in Russ O’Callaghan’s kitchen. She posts a somber black and white selfie with slightly less cleavage, and starts typing likes the keys were made out of hardened bullshit, “even I feel sad some days, but you just have to pick yourself up, shake it off and be the change you want to see in the world, stay positive and you can achieve anything #ruok #positivity #lifeisaboutattitude #behappy”.

Shameless.

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The Human Zoo - Mr "I'm a Lawyer!"

These days Australia has more lawyers than you’d find in O.J’s living room after receiving the consolation prize of an exquisite set of steak knives after being evicted from a dating game show.

Most Unis pump out graduates without any regard for the fact the market needs them like George Calombaris needs another Fair Work investigation. 

After their 5 year degrees, the graduates scramble like desperate baby turtles trying to get to the ocean of opportunity. The connected ones swim while most just get savagely pecked at by the grim reality they spent $45K to be unemployed. 

Not James though, he is instantly plucked from the primordial graduate goo and put to work at a family friend’s firm for just above minimum wage. Within a year, he had come to view himself as a Herculean Superman of sorts. His superpower? Bringing up his profession faster than a speeding bullet. 

The first line in his Tinder profile is naturally, “lawyer”, although, “restricted practitioner that spends his day having his work corrected and photocopying shit like he was a middle-aged divorcee with a lost cat” would fit a lot better. 

He matches with a receptionist for a mining company, which he and his toilet posse of law grad Malcolm Turdbulls find riotous, “ha! Better wear 2 condoms don’t want to catch working class mate”. Despite her inferiority, he agrees to go on a date at a pretentious CBD bar with her.

Now he is precisely the sort of shit-stain to order a scotch on the rocks at 24 years old he does just that and walks over to his date and her mates, “hey everyone this is James”. 

What the fuck, it’s been 1 minute and no one has asked him what he does for a living. Do these duplex-dwelling D-munchers not recognise his $799 suit and entry-level Longines watch?

He interrupts the conversation, “tremendous story there bud, reminds me of a client I had”. Fuck here he goes. One of the friends takes the bait, “oh right, what do you do mate?” He gives his date an “I can't believe you didn’t tell them” stare and adjusts his cuff-links.

In preparation for the climax, he grips his glass firmly, “I’m a... *pauses dramatically* lawyer”. Internally his ego is cumming so hard that if externalised the room would look like a painter’s overalls. All he gets is return is a “cool”. 

The nonchalance sends James into a spiral of shitcuntery; he begins handing out his business card to everyone at the table. “Yeh never lost a case (never done a case) so give me a buzz if you need any help, and I’ll pencil you in”. 

Jesus mate, this isn’t a Linkedin funded corporate circle jerk. Your business card is about as useful as a bar of soap in South Fremantle.

He turns to his date, “let's get out of here, have you ever been to Subiaco? I have a townhouse; I can show you my ties”. She instantly dries up like the landscape in a World Vision ad.

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The Human Zoo - Ms. Swan Valley Wine Tour

Every year the Swan Valley is transformed from idyllic Australiania to a nauseating pig pen of cackling hens sipping mini Yellowglen Pink out of a cock-shaped novelty straw.

Mercedes has organised a hen’s day, and they all promise to be on their best behaviour. Good intentions are one thing, but when you put the lid on the bender blender and hit start, all that is usually left is a thick slurry of dignity that is destined to fertilise grape vines.

The party bus rolls down Great Eastern Highway to the ear-splitting sounds of the hen’s cackling. A sound that can be likened to Fran Drescher going barnyard style with a Hyena while high on shrooms.

To add to the experience, the interior smells intensely like the Clubba toilets as the tacky red seats have seen more bodily fluids and teary-eyed regret than the back seat of the Bang Bus.

There is a kerfuffle at the first winery when Mercedes is informed there is a $5 tasting fee. She can't believe this shit. Wine tastings are supposed to be about the producer showcasing the best they have to offer and then for cretinous wine-plebs to get fuck-eyed for free.

By the third winery, the group realises they are not getting drunker fast enough. Mercedes has it covered, “who do I have to fuck around here for a bottle of sharrrr-don-ayyyyy?” A winemaker sheds a tear as the group heads towards the bus necking the wine directly from the bottle.

At the final winery, the girls are frolicking in the vines while taking #blessed selfies. A few of the other girls are sitting under a tree and having a bit of a cry. Crying about what? Fucks knows, mate, fuck knows.

Next, it’s onto Feral Brewery for some much-needed food. The car park is chock full of pink stretch Hummers, party buses, and Maloo Yewwts. It’s a who's who of general riff raffery with enough postcode tattoos to form a street directory.

Now, when large groups of bogans migrate to a common watering hole, the laws of being a fuckwit states, that you must out-fuckwit the other fuckwits, or go home a beta-fuckwit.

Mercedes and her hens have their work cut out for them as a group of ex-Jet Ski owners have begun launching marinated octopus around the beer garden and chanting “yeh the boys!” Strong fuckwit contenders.

Not wanting to be outdone Mercedes and the hens turn the inside restaurant area into their own dance floor. For the few innocent diners, the experience is as pleasant as a 24-hour flight in front of a chair-kicking brat raised on free range parenting principles.

After getting evicted, the group heads back to Perth, needing to stop 7 times by the side of the road so Mercedes and the girls can go full Melbourne Cup on some bushland.

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The Human Zoo - Ms "Father's Day"

Jessica wakes up and vomits violently all over her sheets. Not due to the ill-effects of an intoxicated stupor but rather due to it being that Clemen-time of the year again: Father's Day.

Ever since fucking with Tumblr blogs, she has grown to view the male penis as a beaming antenna of oppression and the idea of a day dedicated to celebrating her oppressors was too much to handle.

She has a few hours before the Father’s Day lunch that she plans to boycott, so her first order of business is turning the attention back onto herself, women and any other caregiver that doesn’t fall into the disgusting category of “Father”.

“the language surrounding today serves to degrade and confuse anyone, not in a binary, cis, “traditional”, nuclear family that the patriarchal enemy forces us to accept as a reality. So please, please acknowledge all the single mothers today and trans couples, today is #SPECIALPERSONSDAY oh and boycott father’s day”

Even the Unabomber has posted things that have hurt fewer people’s eyes. In particular, her brother who is busy rushing down to Bunnings for a last minute gift. He can't help to remember the rambling Shakespearean sonnet of love she posted about their mother in between erupting like a pinga & jizz vomcano on her way back from Groovin’ the Moo earlier this year.

He gives her a call, “Oi Jessica, how much has Dad done for us and you go and post that? Didn’t seem to mind when he paid for you to Instagram your way around E U R O P E, you better be ready in 1 hour when I pick you up”.

Jessica sees an opportunity to fill the wage-gap in the echo-chamber her current post had missed. She posts about her brother forcing his masculine view of the world on her, and then cites a shitload of domestic violence stats and rants about “deadbeat dads”. “This is what Father’s Day represents”.

Her brother picks her up and takes them to the folk's house for a BBQ. They arrive, and he presents his dad with an unwrapped set of spanners. The beautiful gift brings a tear to his eye, “really appreciate this, son”. Jessica interjects, “well I didn’t get you anything, don't you think men get enough every day?”

Jessica’s dad cackles, “oh I don't expect gifts, just happy you’re all here, come on let's have a drink”. This was the final straw. Jessica is livid.

How dare this privileged white patriarch patronise her with a disgusting display of HUMILITY-RAPE. Just because HE is in a privileged position to not NEED a present from a GIRL.

Her brother proposes a toast to all the sacrifice their dad has made to send them to good schools, provide holidays, cars and all the other shit a stand-up man does.

Jessica again interjects, “also, a big cheer to mum, for all those times dad couldn’t take me to netball because he was overseas, or the meals he couldn’t prepare because being a big man at work was more important”.

An awkward silence falls over the table. Jessicas usually angelic mum puts down her glass of bubbly, “oh stop being a little bitch”. Boom. Mic drop.

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