The Bell Tower Times

Mr "P Plate"

No one could’ve prepared young Billy for the merciless leer of the tradie into his P-Plated Barina. Men with grizzly stubble desperate to sexually harass some cute chickybabe. The look of frustrated disappointment in the sun-weathered plumbers face will haunt young Billy for life. What did he do to cause the plumber to punch his steering wheel and mouth the words, “fuck off”? Little more than being a teenage boy in the most leered at car on the planet: the P Plated Barina.

Billy shanked his driving test 3 times. “Why do I even need to parallel park?” He laments to his gold-framed glasses wearing Pakistani driving instructor. The slick Pakistani shoots him back a look: “why do you even need your testicles, dickworm”. When Billy finally got his P Plates he was forced to sport the red plates for a period and then the green ones. If you are like most people who weren't born into the YOLO generation, you probably have made no effort to learn the difference between the two colours. Let us explain, the red plates demonstrate you will dangerously merge because you almost missed your Freeway turn off. The green plates demonstrate that you will try to drag race any cunt from the traffic lights.

Billy picks up a couple of mates from Bicton and excitedly squeaks, “Maccas run!” He gets stuck behind some bloke trying to turn off onto Preston Point Road. He obnoxiously honks his horn and flips the bird at the old boy. “Old cunts can’t drive ay”, he announces to his carload of bird-flipping motoring experts. Oh yeh, heaven forbid a motorist make the cardinal sin of waiting to turn safely onto their street!

Billy aka Peter Brock, pulls into the Maccas drive through. They immaturely goof around at the order box and order a large coke. Billy has been gagging for a chance to execute a “fire in the hole” for ages. The Maccas chick hands him the drink, he yells “FIRE IN THE HOLE” and attempt to launch it back through the window. It hits his window frame and explodes all over his own car and covers him in sticky failure. Shamed, he tries to burn it out of the drive through but experience gets the best of him and he stalls magnificently. The Macca’s chick looks at Billy desperately try to restart his car. “Nice Barina dude”.

Billy attempts to update his Facebook status while navigating out of the car park. He is spinning his moment of vehicular impotence as a great lark in the fine tradition of CKY and Jackass. Turns out, old mate Brocky is too experienced to type and drive at the same time: he slams into the back of some methbogan’s rapey-Hi-Lux. He is almost in tears as the methbogan goes troppo and angrily vents his frustration at the bingle. Billy is desperately trying to get in touch with his dad to find out the insurance details. When the methbogan leaves, he turns to his friend, “why was the cunt just stopped?”

Well Billy, thats what happens when you park your car, mate.

Sandra angrily storms into Dome dressed in the official uniform of the wife that hasn’t sucked a dick in 8 years: loose denim carpi pants, a plain shirt and a super practical pair of New Balance sneakers. Sandra has no time for MILF’y fashion pursuits, she is the CEO of the hardest job in the fucking world: raising kids who are more spoiled than the carton of milk that Kyle Sandilands bought in anticipation for a Cleo Bachelor of the Year nomination.

Within minutes, Sandra is berating a staff member at full volume, “what do you mean I have to pay for a babycino? Look my daughter is crying now! My daughter is crying, my daughter is crying!!!” The poor girl cops the narcissistic rage of a dickhead that believes the passing of a placenta gives her the right to stamp out the cigarette of entitlement on the face of society. “FedUp Perth will be hearing about this! Come on darlings we’re going!”.

She refuses to concede any footpath space as she forces a young couple to step onto the grass to avoid her precious entourage. She shoots them an early-menopausal bitch-stare that conveys her sinister thoughts, “how dare you find it inconvenient to move FOR MY DARLING CHILDREN!”. She continues to stampede away from Dome like a bull-dyke that just spotted a Spaniard wielding a raging boner like a spear.

She walks to her Tarago which is parked in a busy car park. She spends 5 minutes loading her screaming brats into her car and then makes an obnoxious phone call to her day-time television cunt of a friend. A lad who had been waiting patiently for her finally honks his horn. She boils over like a hormonal pot of pasta and storms towards the man like a tampon-tornado. “HOW DARE YOU!!! Now my babies are crying!! You pig!!!”

Hours later, Sandra is having lunch with her bestie. She talks endlessly about her precious little George while he demonstrates just how special he is by running around the eatery and destroying the serenity. A suited man leans over, “sorry lady, could you look after your kid? We’re trying to have a business chat?” Uh-oh…

Needless to say, the eatery is treated to a full blown bitch-Opera followed up an un-requested psychotic-encore by the mayor of dickheadsville.

Miss #Feminist woke up angry. This was in part due to the trauma of white supremacist patriarchal injustice, but it was mostly because sleep has been hard to come by since she checked her own privilege and started sleeping on the wooden floor of her bedroom. She looked around the sparsely furnished expanse, at grey walls once adorned with posters of bands, and Kardashians. Sometimes she missed music; but she knew that listening to the music of people from other cultures was appropriation, and that music made by white men was problematic, and that the objectification of white female performers directly contributed to patriarchy, so that left her with few options. Burning those posters and CDs was the right thing to do. Besides, it wasn’t like she had to sit in silence – she had Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble on audiobook, which she felt she was really coming to understand after the 47^th listen.

She reached for the glass of water and the two small white pills that she had thoughtfully placed next to her sleeping space the night before. It used to be one pill, but her doctor had increased the dose of her anti-anxiety medication a month earlier, after she scored a humiliating 94% on an English exam and had a panic attack. The Oppressor had found her in the corner of her room, shaking and saying “people who don’t score perfect marks can’t create a perfect world” over and over again. She still had not forgiven him for entering her safe space without knocking; there was just no end to male entitlement.

Remembering that today was free dress day at the private school she attended, her mood brightened. She skipped across the room to her wardrobe and threw open the doors, eagerly hunting for the pair of white capris that she had bought especially for this occasion. She was due to get her period today, and with any luck she would have an opportunity to raise awareness about menstruation all over the crotch of her pants. If she was doubly lucky it would happen while she was sitting in The Oppressor’s car on the drive to school. She resented having to rely on a man to take her to her school, which was six blocks away from her palatial Mt. Lawley home, but statistics clearly showed that there was a 9/10 chance that she would be assaulted if she walked herself there.

As she entered the dining room, where her family were already seated for breakfast, a hush fell on the table when they noticed her arrival.

“Good morning…erm…Ollen,” her mother nervously stammered. Ollen was the gender-neutral first name that she now went by. After what had happened the last time her mother had forgotten, and called her Meg by mistake, the family had learned to be more careful.

“Good morning, family,” Ollen beamed. “What were you all talking about before I entered,” she asked, with a hint of threat in her eye.

“Tony Abbot!” said her mother, The Oppressor, and Oppressor Jr., in unison.

“Yes, he is a cretinous pig, isn’t he,” said Ollen. “And what are we all eating this morning?”

“Toast,” said Oppressor Jr. Ollen shot her mother a glare.

“The bread?”

“Gluten free, dear.”

“Good. What of the milk?”

“Organic Soy, dear.”

“Excellent,” said Ollen, and began to take a seat at the table. However, before she had sat down fully, she noticed the mug in the hand of The Oppressor, and a thought troubled her.

“What of the coffee?”

Her father and mother exchanged a worried look.

“Sorry, dear?” The Oppressor said, his voice trembling.

“I said: What. Of. The. Coffee,” Ollen repeated, emphasizing each word.

“I’m sorry, dear, but we ran out of the fair-trade stuff, and I thought it would be ok if I just had the Nescafe this one time.”

“I see,” said Ollen. She paused for a moment, looking ponderous. Then with terrifying speed she grabbed the knife that was laying nearby, with avocado flesh smeared across the blade, and stabbed it through the resting hand of The Oppressor, pinning him to the table. She ignored his scream of agony; people who perpetuated injustice had no right to feelings. One day he would thank her for checking his privilege and calling him out so thoroughly.

“Well, it looks like I don’t have time for breakfast after all,” she said loudly, so as to be heard over the shrieking Oppressor.

She picked up her bag and sauntered around the table until she was standing behind the Oppressor’s chair. She bent forward, so that the right side of her face was almost touching the left cheek of The Oppressor, who cowered at her approach, and lowered his howling to a whimper. She reached into the pocket of his jacket, which was hanging from the back of his chair, and groped around until she felt the keys to his car. Slipping her finger through the loop of the keyring, she gently lifted them from the pocket, and as her hand brushed near his right leg, she gave him a playful squeeze on his upper thigh. She then brought her mouth close to his ear, so close that her lips dared to kiss the downy little hairs that were now standing to attention on his outer lobe. Removing her hand from his leg, she brought it up to the side of his face, jangled the keys in his ear, and whispered into the other, “I think I’ll drive myself to school from now on, Daddy.”

With that she walked out of the room, leaving the bloody mess behind her. As she entered the garage, pointed the keys at her dad’s BMW, and pressed the button to unlock the doors, she knew that today was going to be an incredibly empowering day.

Ever since Nat caught her year 11 teacher having a forbidden stare, she knew she would never be shackled to the world of gainful employment. In her world, smelling like coconut butter and smiling at the right big bellied businessman is the ticket to living lavish in a vodka-infused world of superficiality.

Early on, Nat made some masterful moves on the hoe-chessboard. She landed a Mining & Gas Executive who had all the charms of a forced redundancy email and the sexual allure of a Liberal frontbencher’s bukake party. She spent her days shopping for dresses that would boost his ego at official shindigs and he made her his. Of course, when one marries for proprietary interest rather than love, shit is going to get greasy. Long story short, Nat is now divorced and has a beautiful little Applecross apartment. Cupid’s arrow penetrated his balls and when it came out through his back pocket it pinned his wallet to the wall of wilful naivety.

It’s Thursday, so Nat slips into her sexiest Victoria’s Secret and drapes a back revealing Balenciaga dress over her fake tanned body. Her large Prada glasses pair effortlessly with her bright red botoxed lips, that only a viagra’d peen will ever know. She invites her best friend Cindy over for some Pol Roger and to discuses their Raffles game plan. Her friend can be described as a Yves Saint Laurent smelling Malaysian honeypot that manages to pout her lips like an unimpressed catfish.

Tonight, the girls are simply after their drinks paid for, a meal and a future invite to a large-arsed property developer’s boat. They sit at a table and order a bottle of Prosecco to share. It doesn’t take long for a sweat-patched knight in sleazy armour to ride over on his credit carded horse, “aren’t you girlies just gorgeous, why are you drinking that crap?” He turns his booze-reddened face towards the bar, “Krug, now!”. He invites his mate over and the pair of Jabba the Cunts start trying to impress their hot young delights.

Nat invites Cindy to the bathroom to discuss whether to catch & release the cashed up man-whales. “Oh my god Cindy, did you see his Patek Phillipe?” Cindy shrugs in conceited jealousy, “uh, my dirty old man only has a TAG, how disappointing”. After the skank-conference, Cindy decides to call it a night and Nat decides to let Mr Patek rest his man-gunt on her back while he gives her a forgettable chode-pump in his penthouse apartment. The nights passion is crooker than the underlying bestality themes in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast.

The next morning, the love birds merrily chirp over breakfast. Nat notices that her new man has a Hublot on now. “Wow you have such good taste in watches baby”. Scrambled eggs come snorting out of his mouth, “ha ha thanks darling, nah between us, just fakies my mate brings back from Thailand, thats whose apartment we made love in too”. The blood drains from Nat’s face, “what, you don't own that penthouse and your watches are fake?” His nod of agreeance sends her into a napkin chucking rage and she storms off, “ew gross! Delete my number you pig”.

Jabba leans back, rests his hands on his belly and smiles, “girls like that are just too easy”.

After enjoying a traditional Northern breakfest of buckets & eggs, Koby is struck by a yew-bolt of inspiration. He rescues his favourite Unit boardies from the dirty wash basket and proceeds shirtless to his beloved orange Xr6 Ute. According to Perth Revenue Raisers there is a speed camera around the corner and today is the day he obscures his plates and speeds past while yewww’ing out the window like a shard-smoking dog on Centrelink day.

Koby spots the speed camera while burning it down Marmion Avenue. He turns up the Aussie hip hop blaring from his speakers, slides on his white Arnettes and prepares to engage his target like a top-cunt Jet Pilot. Approaching the camera, he leverages half his torso out his window, positions his souther crossed arm and unleashes the battlecry of the deadshit, “YEEEOWWWWWW”. The camera serenades his despicable display of deroism with a series of flashes.

“Suck shit”, Koby thinks as he is safe in the knowledge that he has stuck the cardboard from a carton of Tooheys Extra Dry over his plates. However, his celebrations are short lived, as he careens off the road and writes off the mobile racial-intolerance billboard he calls his car. He quickly bails from the scene and runs home, all the while brandishing a ridiculous facial expression that makes you think he may be two-shards short of a point. He bullshits the mornings events to his Gosnell’s girlfriend who is less than impressed that Koby has wrecked his car.

“How are you going to get to work now dickhead? This is bad timing, cos, I’v been wanting to tell you, I’m fucking pregnant Koby!” All the paternal instincts that Koby’s father’s ashtray parenting instilled in him come flooding out of his lip-ringed mouth, “preggers, farrrk that, yous farking know I’v been pulling out, deffs not mine”. Koby breaks up with his missus on the spot and decides to enjoy a few yewww-pipes to celebrate dodging the parental bullet like Kecunto Reeves in the Matrix.

Koby assembles his shirtless crew and sucks down more meth than you’d find on the barbershop floor after a 2006 Eagles premiership team haircut session. They communicate in primate-ish grunts and Koby explains he is now single, childless and unemployed, “living the dream lads, YEWWWW”. The room erupts into a neanderthalic chorus of Yewws and shakka hand gestures, “you’re the fucking man bro!”

When you live your life one yewww at a time, you will never be struck down by the trials and trib-yew-lations that blossom from your own spectacularly ill-advised behaviour.

Good looks will always play prelude to the impatient glare of the sweaty reptile. Like any good DTF warrior, Kev swiped his life away on Tinder, until the the no new matches notification sent flaccid shock-waves down his perpetual semi-chub. To adapt, Kev has become the personification of a Netflix & Chill meme, and he is looking to share the shit out of it, all over the wall of your personal space, girly.

It’s Tuesday morning and Kev inboxes Kayla, a freshly acquired female friend. “Hey babe, having some people over for the Derby, you should totally come, 11am x”. Kev picked his target well as he garnered from their last chat that she is dead keen to hang with a new group of mates, accordingly, she ignores the greasy “babe and x” and accepts his gracious invite. Kev grins harder than Bert Newton’s son at a Chris Brown concert.

The weekend rolls around and Kayla arrives at Kev’s seedy K.Y Jelly tequarium. She walks in and instantly notices the lack of people and the usual sights of Smiths chips, Old El Paso salsas and the token packet of Sakata for the hummus munchers among us. Kev feigns surprise, “geez, everyone is running late, ain’t getting here until like 2”. His acting is about as believable as Rolf Harris during a cross examination, but at this stage, Kev is smugly leering like he just smacked down a Draw 4 in a game of sex-Uno, got ya!

Kev turns on Netflix and invites Kayla to sit with him on the crusty wank-sponge he calls a couch. He then begins the delicate waltz of the creepy poon-hunter, “I’m really glad you came round hey”. Yeh pump your breaks Cuntanova, she came round to a party, not to fend off your skirt-seeking hand. During the course of the excruciating 2 hour awkward-a-thon, Kev ensures her glass of wine is filled to the brim at all times, no chickybabe will go thirsty under his watch.

6 domestically brewed Stella's down and Kev decides to turn this waltz into a full on pest-twerk, “you are such a pretty girl ay”. Her deer in the headlight eyes fail to warn Kev not to proceed, but ill-advised is the order of the day for a man who thinks with his dick. He slides a few inches closer, puts his hand on her back and leans in with a bit of tongue showing. Her body language is more irritated than a sniff-less Troy Buswell who missed out on the prettiest seat on the train, “ew nooo Kev, that's not happening, seriously dude”.

2 hours of boner killing silence falls over Kev’s love-palace. They both have their faces buried into their phones, desperately trying to ignore the reptilian elephant in the room. Finally, the rest of the party rocks up and Kayla has a chat to some of the girls, “oh my god, gross, he told me to come around at 11 and then tried to tongue-fuck my mouth, he looked like the Predator without his mask on”. Over in Kev’s corner, the story is different, “yeh shes playing a bit hard to get ay, don't worry though, she deffs wants it boys”.

In a world where sexual conquest is decreasingly void of honesty, the metaphorical casting couch will remain un-marinaded by the juices of love.

The Human Zoo Hybrid Series - Ms Full Time Mummy

Darleena’s parenting style is as pleasant as the stained bed sheets after a fish finger fucked a half smoked cigarette in the Flying Scotsman’s toilets. Sexually ignorant, Darleena believed that her yeww-pipin’ baby’s daddy’s inability to maintain an erection meant that he couldn’t impregnate her. However, he was able to thumb-pack and dick-mash his way to precisely the minimum amount of penetration needed to achieve a cretinous sprogging. 9 months later, Darleena is a full time mummy to little Jailyr, and father “Rocko” is taking life by the wheel and then ramming it into ATMs and shit.

It’s Tuesday morning, so Darleena is enjoying a few cigarettes with her unemployed sister while young Jailyr is wrapped up tight in a Playboy blanket. Darleena turns to her sister and opens up about her maternal-angst, “first I thought, this is fucked, Rocko is a drongo and i’m too young to have a loose’ole, but tell ya what, not having to work is fucking great”. Darleena’s sister nods in agreeance, “fucking oath hun, I’m thinking bout popping one out too, ay”. The moment is sweeter than Kevin Rudd’s pillow-talk to his look-a-like wife. Darleena’s sister toasts the sentiment with a big swig of Jailyr’s Red Bull, “oi slut, leave some for the little feller, ay”.

After attending to Jailyr’s basic needs, Darleena jumps on Facebook to update her occupation to “Full Time Mummy ♥” and then incoherently abuse Rocko in a rambling stanza of cuntslocked fury, “Som peple Are TOXIC, all gd to talk SHIT but wheen it cums to IT WHERE ARE THEY? If yous redding this Rocko u deadshit, why dONT u rpley aand to TEXt messages?Serroisly dont need this in my LIFE right now!!!” To offset the ambiguity and anger of the post, she posts a picture she made on Paint of her and Jailyr within a love heart that is peppered with comic-sans sweet-nothings. The display of full time mummery is so cheesy that a Kalgoorlie hooker is picking it out of her teeth.

Clearly, Darleena’s rabid Facebooking motivated Rocko to drop off $46.35 of the $50 that he promised to give her. Cashed up, Darleena takes her little angel down to the Rockingham Shopping Centre to splurge at Supre. Jailyr screams mercilessly as Darleena diagonally drifts the pram through a sea of irritated shoppers. Distracted by discounted Pharmacy perfumes, Darleena rams the pram directly into an elderly gent, “watch it shit-for-brains!! I’v got a farking kid here!” She then parks her screaming angel at the entrance of Supre while she looks for the best leggings to compliment her pink faux-uggies that she liberated from the Good Sammy’s bin.

Her next stop is Hog's Breath Cafe for lunchtime feed with her full time mummy mate. Jailyr and the other cack-dacked ball of joy stage a full blown scream-off, while Darleena treats herself to a sneaky Smirnoff. Her friend is struck with an idea, “I’ll ring mum, she’ll pick up the cherubs and we can unwind!” Darleena is ecstatic, “great, I need a break from all this mothering shit ay”. The pair offload their neglect onto a tired grandma, while they happily smoke darts without judgmental stares from strangers who believe smoking next to a pram is somewhat unwholesome.. “Second hand smoking is a bunch of shit hun, those cunts don't know me”.

Ashtray parenting is the art of defining your existence based on your maternal half-arsery, while putting the same passion into child-rearing as you would a red-headed step brother's birthday card.

The Human Zoo - Mr Top Knot

Toby longboards down Beaufort Street wearing a Street X shirt and a pair of “cack’d my dacks” saggy pants. He is on his way to grab a Burrito from Zambreros before heading to Highs & Lows to pick out a new pair of shoes to fashionably compliment his greasy top knot. His thin rat-face is burdened with a patchy and somewhat pubic beard. He snaps a photo of his new StampedLA sneakers and immediately uploads it to his Tumblr: a self indulgent blog to show off his amazing fashion sense and interest in amateur photography.

Toby has blown most of his earnings from photographing a local high schools year 11 dinner dance, however he still has enough for a coffee at the Daily Planet. He swaggers into the Cafe with his ridiculous Ozzie Osbourne style glasses and orders a skinny soy macchiato. He fiddles around with his Nikon D5300 and waits for the hipster chicks in the cafe to appreciate his beauty, style and artistic flare. His top knot serves a sleazy billboard that alerts everybody in its vicinity to Toby’s perfect storm of unenviable personality traits that only seem to be appreciated by other assorted wankers who share the common theme of making your skin crawl.

Later that evening Toby longboards to The Bird in Northbridge to take photos of the patrons. Toby slimes his way to the bar to talk to some chick wearing a Nirvana singlet with denim hot pants, “in Aboriginal culture they say a photo steals your soul, but I totally think it’s the photographer and subjects soul merging for a beautiful moment”. Oh blow it out your arse, you top-knotted fuckstain. The girls interest in Toby is about as genuine as her appreciation of Nirvana’s body of work, nevertheless, she really wants to climb the fashion food chain, one top knotted dick at a time.

The next day, Toby heads into the city to grab a toastie from Toastface Grillah. He is just passing through on his way to Dr Snippys in Subi to get a beard trim and a delicate snip of his beloved top knot. “If you’re dad doesn’t have a beard, then you have two mums hey mahn”, Toby smugishly remarks to the barber. Maybe a valid point if your own beard didn’t look like a full bush from a 1970s porno.

Two weeks ago Bryan had a YOLO moment after too many cans of bourbon and booked a trip to Bali. Alas, giving late notice to his employer and disregarding his dwindling finances has become typical of Bryan’s unique brand of “she’ll be right” adulthood. A take-no-responsibility approach to life that so often leaves him aggrieved by the slings and arrows of foreseeable fortune. His passport is stamped with the ink of bogan entitlement and now, he is spewin’ about the #ashcloud.

Bryan has been stranded in Bali for 3 days. His Skygarden-hangover is being compounded by angry texts from his boss as to his whereabouts. As he waits on hold to speak to a Jetstar representative his mind drifts to the highlight of his trip - pissing on a passed out Frenchman at Potato Head. He turns to his anxious missus who is awaiting an ash cloud-related update, “fucking, pissed in his mouth too, ay”. Finally, he gets through to a Jetstar representative, “oi shut up, yous listen to me, this isn't good enough, I paid good money for me flights and yous is gonna get me farking fired, cant yous just fly me out?”

Unprepared to sleep in the bed he has made for himself, Bryan jumps on Facebook to blame an airline for the carnal rumblings of an ancient volcano, “Stuck in BALI! Jetstar r useless! wont TELL US ANYTHIN!! PAYIGN CUSTONERS!!! fuck, ok lol, probs lose job cos boss rekon it’’s my fault (lol fuak off)... still getin magget tho. I,f not sorted soon wlli be sueing..!!!.1 dunno wat an ashcloud is but rekon other airlin fly thru em, so the fuck?!”

Bryan knows that some ice cold Bintangs and McDonald’s delivery will cure what ails him. Predictably, he hasn’t checked his bank balance all week because he is not one to concern himself with holiday budgeting or any of that “shit”. He checks his ATM receipt, “$15.89”. The humble figure shocks the Southern Cross right off his chest, and he frantically tries to figure out who is to blame for his fiscal irresponsibility - Jetstar, of course, so he takes the fight to the airport.

The waiting area looks like a pen of hungover rock apes that have recently evolved thumbs so they could leave 1-star reviews. Bryan proves he is the king of the ape-ship brigade by approaching the desk and alternating between talking over the girl aggressively and obscure bursts of profanities. “I’M BROKE AND GONNA LOSE ME JOB COS OF YOUS, LEARN HOW TO RUN A FUCKING AIRLINE!!”.

Before the spittle from his slack-jawed lands on the small Indonesian staff member, a group of Bintang-clad men applauds Bryan’s eloquence in the face of disaster. “Fuck oath! You tell em!”

Sorry, Bali.

The Human Zoo - Mr Southern Cross Tattoo

Tyler paid some Balinese bloke $150 to get a body length southern cross tattooed onto the right hand side of his torso. Modern day bogans use the well-displayed tattoos to help navigate through the sea of racial tolerance and find a sympathetic ear whom is almost guaranteed to hold strong views about the unparalleled glory of “‘Straya”.

Tyler calls in sick to work so he can head down to Mullaloo Beach to get some sun. He scratches off a tomato sauce stain on his favourite Aussie flag board shorts, slips on a white wifebeater and walks barefoot to his car. Generally, Tyler doesn’t go anywhere without a 6 pack of VB in his little esky carry-bag. Today is no exception. He slides a bikini babe stubby holder onto his wrist and wears it as a boga-bracelet. He fires up his lime green Holden SS and carefully selects his music: his musical parameters are pretty simple, nothing faggy or ethnic. Cold Chisel it is.

While on the road, Tyler doesn’t fancy the prospects of letting an Indian taxi driver merge. “Fucking, Aussies first, cunt”. In act of frustration, the taxi driver cuts Tyler off and gains pole position. Arguably an unwise vehicular maneuver to execute against a man with 3 “patriotic” bumper stickers. The bumper stickers serve as a back-windscreen resume of the casual racist, “Fuck Off We’re Full”, “Love it or Leave It” and an outline of Australia with the word “FULL”. It will always be a mystery to newspaper readers where these sunburnt and dread-locked patriots purchase these bumper stickers. Nevertheless, they are more prolific than baby-bonus kids born into a seedy housing estate in Kwinana.

Tyler foams at the mouth as he gives the taxi driver a spray at the next set of lights, to cap off his expletive ridden abuse, he decides to deliver a low blow, “youse lot are fucking shit at cricket too”. Tyler is all worked up and needs to calm down. He pulls into a service station to grab a Ms Mac’s meat slurry and a Masters Choc milk. The gourmet degustation of the Aussie patriot. He seals the deal with a Drumstick, not one of those ethnic Cornettos.

At the beach, he sees a large Sri Lankan family enjoying the sand. He instantly whips off his wifebeater to expose his excessively patriotic southern cross tattoo. He stares them down while he walks across the sand smoking a Winnie Blue. In an act that screams “I Love Australia”, he chucks his dart butt onto the sand after he’s finished. After getting sufficiently sunburnt, he decides to head down to the Mullaloo Beach Hotel to watch the cricket, that is to say, watch the cricket while waffling on about how shit the Indian cricket team are.

Tyler catches a news preview of "some shit to do with "boat people" , he sighs and whimsically stares into space, “wish fucking ‘Straya Day would roll around ay cunts”.

The Human Zoo - Mr Triple J Snob

If music be the fruit of love then play on. Although, you must love within boundaries. Those who reach for the low hanging fruit of commercially successful artists should shamefully enjoy their 92.9-berries in a dark cave where their cretinous musical taste can't taint the circle-jerk harvest of Hottest 100 predictions.

Felix streams Triple J through his iPhone while buzzing around Mount Lawley on his beige Vespa. His beard is scruffy, his glasses are thick and his faux-flanno and skinny jean combination alerts pedestrians that he has totally posted his top 10 Hottest 100 predictions on Facebook and proceeded to argue and berate anyone who offered a dissenting opinion. In fact, his predictions aren’t even a list, they are the new Ten Commandments. Listening to Triple J has caused his body to become divine, he is God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit all rolled into one smug radio-devotee. Bow before his enlightened musical cock as he shoots a warm load of melodic education into your Nova FM peasant hole.

Felix returns home and logs onto his MacBook. His homepage is Pitchfork.com but he never browses the site. He waits patiently for his beloved Triple J to drop a tune, thus giving him the OK to research that artist's older work and draw his own snobby conclusions as to why that artist was better before they got big.

Standard procedure for a bloke that successfully alienates himself from people at parties and spends the night flicking through his iPod and snaring lone-revelers like a hipster venus fly trap, “I’m going to do you a favski brah, listen to these guys, I used to listen to them jam at the Hydey, before they both sold out”.

In an act of dietary smuggery, Felix fixes himself a bowl of gluten-free, activated, soy & goji berry stir-fry. He eats his “work a day for world peace” gruel while listening to Triple J’s Hack. Fuck Vice, Hack always has the hottest scoop. Ground level, front line journalism at it’s finest. He agrees with the opinion of some hairy legged, dolphin-fucking eco-warrior on the issue of live animal export. Felix turns to his pug, “mahn, those are the boats Abbott should be stopping, fuck Abbott, hey poochy”. Poochy licks his own gooch, while Felix rings up Hack to try and voice his opinion. In reality, they are doing the same thing, and the taste ain't different.

Felix prepares for Australia Day. He updates his status, “the only good thing about Invasion Day is the Hottest 100”. Translation: “the only good thing about Australia Day is loudly disagreeing with the order of songs”. He has painfully prepared for every conceivable contingency, and is armed with a litany of reasons why his own top 10 list may not be reflected in the actual vote. Do you think this is a fucking game, you 94.5 cunt?

It now 1am and Felix considers catching a few winks. Alas, there are still comments being made on a “vote for Tay Tay” group on Facebook. Evil happens when good men do nothing. Felix simply can’t sleep while people are voicing incorrect opinions on an online forum. He is like a detective, an inspector, solving musical crimes one pleb at a time.

Go-go gadget dickhead.

The Human Zoo - Mr Facebook Chat

Toby’s Facebook behaviour is as fucked up as making eye contact with the naked guy in a gym changing room while he’s polishing his old man scrotum . To his male contacts he is as unsettling as a quiet guy with a monobrow, but towards random females, he is as frightening as Gary Busey wearing a clown mask made out of warm human skin.

It’s an unnerving 6:45am on a Thursday morning when Toby logs to terrorise the good people of Facebook. He spots a bloke he went to school with 11 years ago, he clicks on his name and is presented with a sinister chat history, 12 unanswered “hey” messages. Toby briefly ponders his “friends” lack of chit chat and devises a cunning plan to get a response from him, he types slowly and meaningfully, “hey”. Genius. Just throw that “hey” on the conversational garbage heap that Toby has shamelessly created.

It’s 11am and Toby decides to chat to a female contact that occasionally sends him a pity response, “lol rememba wen I puked on ya front lawn in year 10?” The desperation is thicker than the Vegemite on an uninitiated ethnic guy’s piece of toast. She responds, “hey Toby, na”. This is Toby’s time to shine, he has managed to wrangle an actual conversation with a human female, time to bring out the big guns, “lol”. Toby’s empty and creepy “lol” has sent shivers up her spine. If you could bottle a chat with Toby, it would smell like a heavy breathing taxi driver angrily leering at you through his rearview mirror. Seen but un-replied.

Toby’s comment on a Human Zoo article manages to get 8 likes. Sleaze drips off his fangs like a trench-coat wearing spider that has felt the tingle of a 17 year old fly getting trapped in his web of crusty tissues. One of the people who liked his comments happens to be a deliciously busty female with a semi public Facebook profile: the holy grail of Inbox sex pests. He begins the waltz, “hey add me lol”. Hmm no response. “you are so beautiful lol”. Seconds pass and Toby begins to get impatient, “did u block me lol”. Does this bitch not know what shes missing? “You look so hot babe lol, add me ay”. Toby is now simmering like a slow cooker full of restraining orders and zip ties, “fuck off then ya slut”. Woah.

Toby mate, you are as well adjusted as a cross dressing prison guard that pays a prostitute to call him a faggot. He is still seething from that “slut” ignoring his messages and goes on a vicious friend request marathon. Finally, a girl accepts, “hey how do I know you”. Toby licks his lips, “random add, hope you dont mind”.

She minds Toby, they all mind.

It's Sunday morning and the sun is shining but all Tom can focus on the $4 he paid for a coffee that tastes as bitter and burnt as a Freddy Kruger cock-uchino, he turns to this girlfriend "Perth can't do anything right". Their relationship used to be as effervescent as a cool can of Sprite, but Tom’s constant Perth hating has decarbonated their love and now they just sadly swish around like the dregs of a Maccas post-mix.

Tom storms back to the car, still fuming that he had to pay $13.80 for a few hours parking. He drives through the streets of Subiaco and shoots daggers at a number of closed signs, “fucking typical, nothing open, welcome to the wild west, babe, backwater shit hole”.

Tom spots a green light that just turned orange and gets right up the arse of the driver in front, “fucking, come on”. Alas, the driver stops as the light turns red. “Useless Perth drivers, seriously, if you don’t have the confidence to drive, then just stay home”. Tom launches into an animated rant about how every single driver in Perth (save for himself) can’t drive for shit. “WA, the fucking wait awhile state, typical, typiiiiical”.

Tom has a real knack for turning a pleasant little Sunday morning into an experience that would make being a Chux cloth at a bukkake party seem pleasant. Later in the day, Tom attends a birthday bash in Mount Lawley. He sits at an outside table in a state of obvious distress, “paid $11 for a pint and I can't even have a smoke with it, seriously, fuck Perth”.

Tom continues to be a barrel of laughs while boring the table with basic Contiki travel stories. Thanks, Tom, for an impressively unoriginal critique of Perth as compared to the norms of Western Europe, we didn’t know you were a tub of yoghurt, because you are as cultured as fuck.

Tom almost cracks a smile before noticing his mate trying to chat up some girls, “don’t bother, Perth girls are fucked, they just want some cashed up FIFO with arm sleeves and sells rocks on the side, mate”.

After finishing his Parma and calling for a Royal Commission on Perth food prices he begrudgingly agrees to head into the City for a cocktail. The group stroll past the great Perth Cactus, "This is what we call art? Looks like something Richard Gere would use to give the Gerbil more of a challenge".

On their way to get a cocktail, Tom describes how Perth is trying to rip off the small bar scene in Melbourne. “Perth is just so try-hard, desperately wants to be like Melbourne ay”. Oh, and Tom would know, he was instrumental in the emergence of the Melbourne small bar scene during his 2 weekenders to go and watch the Eagles play.

It takes 20 minutes to calm Tom down after the Uber estimates the journey home will be $40 with the surcharge. Nup, fuck it, Tom refuses to get in and decides to walk home and at this stage, his girlfriend really doesn't give a shit. Cya Tom.

The Human Zoo - Filthy Windscreen Washer

Derrik is pumped for a big day of scrounging cash off horrified motorists. He rides his stolen BMX to the bushes between Canning Highway and the Freeway off ramp. All his crew are the products of mutli-generational inbreeding, but only Derrik ticks every box: missing teeth, rat tail, FUBU shirt and to top it all off, a trolley pole stashed down his Adidas snap-pants. Time to get to work.

Dererik is basically like the paperwork for an old school baby bonus welfare allowance: crudely slapped together by a pair of uninformed public nuisances that mated with no higher ambition then their son to generate a small amount of income for the inevitable goal of smoking more cigarettes.

Derrik walks down an aisle of cars that are waiting desperately for the light to turn green. He holds his squeegee up in an attempt to find some consensual customers. Hmm, no takers. It’s plan B then: he slaps his filthy squeegee on the windscreen of a motorist who isn’t paying attention. The motorist signals that he doesn’t want Derrik to infect his windscreen with HIV. It’s far too late. Derrik is tapping on the motorists drivers window. He could ignore the street rat, but he suspects that will end in his car being vandalised. He wisely slips Derrik a gold coin. “Got any ciggys though, bro?” Yuk.

Derrik has collected $14 in an hour. He takes a short break: cigarettes, chocolate milk and some 50 Cent blaring from his stolen mobile phone. He crudely propositions one of his female crew members, “aw wet me dick ya sluzza?”. She probably will later. For now, it’s back to work. He pets his rat tail for good luck and goes forth to harass motorists again.

Derrik approaches a BMW. The motorist instinctively turns on his own windscreen wipers as a way of demonstrating to Derrik that his car does not need further cleaning. Derrik flips balls. He feels "disrespected" in that way that people worthy of no respect seem to, and starts kicking off like a junkie at a payphone. Luckily for all involved, the light turns green and Derrik fucks off back to the bushes. Derrik decides to call it day, “aw got enough for a tube of Tarzan's Grip, youse all can get fucked”.

Derrik rides off into the sunset with the intention of inhaling glue and spreading infection.

Mr “I Moved to Melbourne”

It’s been 6 months since Matty moved to Melbourne City and he has been too busy cream’ing himself over trams and parmigianas to give his old Perth mates a holler. Mr “Imma Move to Melbourne” finally took the plunge and has returned to Perth for a visit. He swaggers through Perth Airport in his leather loafers like he is on a poorcunt mission to civilse the savages that inhabit his former homeland.

“I served Dane Swan a beer”, Matty smugly says to a disinterested Perth taxi driver. “Good for you, mate, now that’ll be $58.45”. Taxi fares stung while he was earning Perth wage, so on Melbourne wage it feels like an overdraft wasp repeatedly stinging him in his chequered scarfed dick. He arrives at his mates house dressed like he is there to redecorate their living room, “Perth really needs a Skybus like they have in Melbs hey”. His mate rolls his eyes and passes Matty an ice cold Creatures Bright, “ta mate, do you know any bottlos that stock Melbourne Bitter? You have to try it!” He really doesn’t…

Matty rambles endlessly about living with Gumtree randoms in Fitzroy and his wild nights at Revs. “It’s a 24 hour club on the weekends, nothing like this 12pm malarky in Perth”. Ease up Matty. The group head to The Merrywell to catch up and enjoy some drinks. “Oh there is this little bar near me in Fitzroy, don’t even know its name, but $6 pints on Thursdays”. Well that is certainly pertinent information for the group, mate. After a few pints Matty suggests the group grab a feed, “where can we get some dumplings?” A mate mentions there dim sum in Victoria Park. Matty feels the slippery rod of pretentiousness slide up his Melb-hole, “ah no, not dim sum, mate, like a proper dumpling house, like they have on Little Bourke St?”

Later in the night the group head out to the Flying Scotsman for more drinks. “In Melbs, there are actually bars that won't let you in if you are wearing dress shoes hey”. Oh Melbournites love telling you that little fact. “Plus, people are dressed nicer anyway, you know what they say, 4 seasons in 1 day!” His mates are conflicted: they are stoked to see their mate, but there is enough oral pollution coming out of his mouth to cause a blue-green algae outbreak on the Canning River.

Later in the night Matty is missing Melbourne and begins to whinge about waiting for a taxi. “Ughhhhh, we would just hop on the 78 Tram if this was Melbs hey”. Finally a mate snaps, “mate, shut up, you’re in Perth and it isn’t that bad”. Matty is so shocked the rubber band around his top knot almost flies off, “Melbs certainly doesn’t have angry bogans!” His friends just stare at his top knot. Sickening.

It goes to show, the only person more insufferable than Mr Imma Move to Melbourne is the prodigal son that returns from the promised land. 4 Seasons of Dickhead in one Wanker.

The Human Zoo - The Irish Construction Worker

The modern day St Patrick goes by the name of St Global Recession and he has driven construction workers off the green island and onto Australian shores. They slosh around Perth in a state of inebriated bewilderment and constantly chase their next hit of the craic pipe. To be sure!

Kiernan sits around his house wearing a blood stained Irish hurling jersey, jean shorts and a pair of thongs. His head looks like a compacted potato doing an impression of a bulldog licking piss off a nettle. Kiernan is in the process of forging his Visa papers to convince the Government he did in fact go fruit picking. “Maybe you shouldn’t lie mate”, an Aussie friend suggests. “I will in my fuck!” Kiernan continues with more semi coherent paddy talk, “ya marnnnn wanted me to work 7 days like, I cannotbedoingwiththat, d’yaknowhwatimeanlike?” The Aussie mate feels like his brain and just been riverdanced on by Mi-cunt Flatley.
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Kiernan is satisfied with his immigration fraud and joins the rest of his sharehouse who are crowded around a television watching Gaelic football. He lives with 14 other Irish lads who like to hit the streets of Northbridge in a roaming sausage sizzle that offers plenty of complimentary sleaze sauce. Kiernan rarely has much luck with the ladies. This can be mainly attributed to the 20 TEDs he smashes at pre-drinks and the subsequent 15 pints of Magners. His usual drinking session will span 2 days and cost him a cool $280. Does he urinate on himself? To be sure.

Kiernan’s Gumtree ad described him as a hardworking construction all rounder. The contractor who picked him up is beginning to doubt that claim as Kiernan storms off the job at 11:30am on account of it being, “too fooooking hot, like”. He goes and sits in the front bar of the Paddington in his high vis and dusty work boots. After a few too many sparkling apples, he tries to sneak a cheeky piss at the bar. Not an easy mission at 1pm on a lazy Wednesday. A staff member quickly approaches him, “again? Thats it you're banned for a month”. Kiernan thrashes around like a newborn deer emerging from it’s birthing sack, “I didn’t do natttttttttttttttttin like, didn’t do natttttttttttttttttttttttin I’m a harrrrrmless individual”.

Kieran goes down swinging, “I’ll box the head off ya marrrrrn”. Predictably the police are called, and Kiernan is eventually served with another liquor prohibition notice. He shares the craic with his house mates, “and this female copper like, I said, who lit the fuse on your tampon like”.

What a 4 cunt clover.

The Human Zoo - Ms Belmont

Belmont: come for the cheap bottleshop deals and stay because you failed to navigate the syringe-ridden obstacle course that the locals fondly refer to as “streets”. It is a bustling hive of a cretinous behaviour that will shatter your faith in humanity like the window of a car parked outside Kooyong IGA.

Crystal emerges from her Belmont property looking like an Adidas-clad cave troll with all the majestic youth of a cigarette smoking Chico Roll in a bain-marie filled with blue eyeshadow and TAB bet slips. She jumps in her rusted Ford Falcon and leaves a thick trail of pollution on her way to the Belmont Forum. She needs to pick up the essentials: ciggies, frozen food and an ice pack for her unemployed boyfriend who got into a smash at Carbon Sports Bar during the Mayweather fight.

The Belmont Forum carpark is a glorious who's who of derro BMX riders and meth-addled lunatics with no respect for payphones. Crystal parks in a disabled bay and abuses a couple of “Islams” who had the nerve to snub their noses at her vehicular-cuntery. “Oi, youse Aladdin cunts can just fuck off orrrrrright, my back is sore!” To be fair, if being a crusty racist fuckwit was a disability, then she deserves her ACROD.

On her way to Coles she spots her daughter causing a scene in the Amcal Chemist. It appears her precious baby is furious her demands for Oxycontin are not being met. “Mum, I farking told this Chinese that I’d bring in the prescription tomorrow, dumb slut is calling me a liar!” Crystal feels the rage of derro-entitlement flow through her veins and starts rambling about human rights, dog cunts and how she will be taking this matter to the courts. Her little mother-daughter bonding session has drawn a crowd so she decides to take her leave, “no wonder me son bloody held you pricks up! Get a fucking dog up ya!”

The pair charge towards Liquorland and angrily chirp like a couple of baby bonus birds in a classless aviary. She attempts to purchase a 30 pack of Horizons and a 4 pack of Bulliet Bourbon, however her plans are foiled by an astute employee who notices that she is on the banned cunts list. She still maintains that the skank she hair-pulled and stomped had it coming because she had given her boyfriend a Red Rooster-greased wristy in the back of his Kingswood in Rivervale last Christmas. The lifestyles of the poor and the ratchet.

She returns to her dwelling to see the familiar sight of the door kicked in and her boyfriend too drunk to stop the thieving youths that crawl through the hood like trolley-pole wielding cockroaches. If you cant handle the aggravated burglary heat, then get out of the Belmont kitchen, ya prissy bitches.

We can't call a place without demons Hell, so we call it Belmont.

Craig awakes to Uptown Funk blaring from his phone: the song of a fucking champion. He proudly struts around his room like Viagra-induced erection on the set of a gay porno. He slides into his Under Armour top, Skins tights and brand-spankin' ASIC Gels: the official get up of the Jacob's Ladder leerer.

Craig walks into the gym with one fist in the air. The champ is here you soft-bodied dick-munchers. He swans through the group dolling out unsolicited motivational zingers. “Lets see you push through the Filthy 50 today, Bruce, Jenny, your wedding is in 3 weeks, lets pump up it to the max girl, ohhhhh J-Man in the house, whattup dog, you are looking straight jacked”. Calm down Craig, you fucking goose you are as genuine as a Thai sex tourist’s Rolex.

Craig conducts his workout with the kind of intensity you see in Lleyton Hewitt’s eye as he eagerly penetrates himself with an Aussie Open trophy while watching his career highlights reel. The instructor has lost all control over Craig and is powerless to stop him from forcing some beta-male to record a video of him lifting a dumbbell over his head. He uploads the video immediately, “This is how it’s done bitches #CrossFit #Inspire #Fitness #Mirin?”

In an act of unfathomable weak cuntery, Jenny quits halfway through a set of burpees. Craig starts foaming at the mouth, he walks up to Jenny and inspires her, “I guess you don’t want your fucking wedding dress to fit Jenny, FUCK”, Craig turns around and punches a door. He puts his hand up in the air, as to alert the group that he needs a moment to compose himself. These fitness jellyfish aren't worthy to train with the champ.

After his workout Craig storms out and power-douches into a nearby petrol station. He approaches the drinks fridge and sees a flabby soft-bodied pleb eyeing off a Powerade and is overcome by his own inspired greatness, “ah, maybe stick to the water if you’re not training ay pal”. Go fuck yourself Craig.

As the mining sector begins to swell, the Perth fine dining scene prepares for another wave of neck tatted gourmands to crash down on their shores. For decades Kev only ever dined on frozen food like a culinary Eskimo but now, he is cashed up again and can afford a break from getting Steggled every night.

Kev rolls a dart while perusing fancy menus at the Karratha airport. He is planning to take his misso out for a “kutz feed” on his return to civilization. He doesn't much like all this "fusion shit" so he decides to go with old faithful - Rookpewwwwl.

Before dinner, Kev primes his palate with a 4 pack of Jack & Coke while slipping into his Magistrate Court best: black Billabong button-up, O'Neil jeans, Volcom belt and a pair of leather shoes that are so white they make the young Liberals look like Wu-Tang Clan. He rolls his sleeves up to reveal his LATEESHA forearm tatt and walks down the Kelmscott catwalk flashing all the glamour of the Ascot races general admission toilet.

At Rockpool, Kev is asked if he would like wine pairing with his tasting menu, “nah mate, fuck that, yas give us fuck all each time, nah two bottles of ya best Mer-lowwww ay”. The first course arrives at their table and Kev indiscreetly barks, “farking small as”. A further 4 courses come out and each time Kev is left dissatisfied with the size of his portions. “What a fucking rip, to think, we only paid $20 for that Wah-gooo in Bali the other week, ay”.

By dessert, Kev is fully toasted and grabs a waiter by the arm, “look, we paid a shitload and I’m still starvin’ marvin, reckon yas could do us a steak to go?” A move that truly glistens with all the class of a neon sign outside of a back street massage parlour. His request is denied and Lateesha resorts to the dero diner's deathblow: the 1-star review.

Kev re-buckles his belt and taps his missus on the arse, “let’s go Teesh, tomorrow we’ll go to Hogs Breath and get a decent sized feed, fuck this shit for a joke, ay”

The Human Zoo - Ms "Im Outraged!"

Cynthia is a bubble-wrap cunt who wants the world to concede to the PG-rated fuddy-duddyism that she propagates from her armchaired throne. Short haired and perpetually scowling, Cynthia is the embodiment of tense, likened only to the atmosphere when Lloyd Rayney’s new girlfriend accidentally burns the snags at a Kings Park BBQ.

It’s a Thursday morning and Cynthia is surveying her fertile hunting grounds: News.com.au comments sections. A magical News site that manages to double penetrate your mind with Buzzfeed quality tripe and faux-journalism that is as hard hitting as a dehydrated chode’s fifth cumshot for the day.

She spots an outrage-inducing article, “Shane Warne: are you thirsty?” Cynthia is so outraged that pieces of the poorly buttered crumpet fall out of her mouth. She cracks her knuckles and gets to work. “This is a bloody outrage, he should be a role model! How dare he promote drinking! Creepy Uncle!!!!!” What does the woman expect from a chronic sex-texter who had baked beans imported to India? How dare he suggest the lads crack a few tinnies.

A few hours later she stumbles upon another simmering pot of outrageous offence, Karl Stefanovic made racist remarks about the Indians and Kiwis! The suggestion that Indians work at 7 Eleven and that Kiwi’s are dole bludgers triggers Cynthia and she evokes the spirit of the keyboard warrior. “I have lost so much respect for Karl, disgusting comments, I will be Boycotting Karl and certainly hope he gets the sack!!!!!” Cynthia needs a badge, Detective Sargeant Poorcunt of the Banter Police.

In an ideal world, Cynthia’s outrage would be a small blemish on the face of the status quo. Unfortunately, when the outraged minority start a jamboree we are all forced to dance. Fear mongering media latch on to “outrage” like the parasitic cunt-leeches they are. Cynthia is feeling elated, she has brought some serious wrist game to today’s offense circle jerk.

Time to start up a “Boycott Sam Newman” FB page

The Human Zoo - Ms Perth Foodie

Sara swoons out of her kitchen with deconstructed nachos served on square plates. Her uncouth barbarian of a friend opens his classless hole, “aw chips ‘n dip, you beauttttty”. Sara takes a moment to compose herself. “The protein was prepared via sous-vide and the kale garnish has been gently tossed with pink Himalayan rock salt OK?” In reality, the only thing that Sara is tossing is the gaping arsehole of pretentious cookery that smears Perth like the nasty skidmark it is.

Sara spends the remainder of the meal talking up the complex flavours she has smoked into her home made corn chips. Sara is careful to not let the conversation veer too far from her culinary expertise. After all, you are at her house, eating her sweat and tears, show some god damn respect for this jus-serving MKR cunt. An awkward silence comes over the table as Sara retrieves dessert: sugar free poached pear, the culinary equivalent of fucking exercise. "Bon appetite". Ugh...

In between her constant trips to farmer’s markets and viciously dissing every meal on TV cookery shows, Sara has little time for romance. Despite the odds, she is charmed by a bearded cheese-dick who she spotted berating a Leederville barista for “tainting” his coffee with a “slight char”. They bonded over stories of correct use of cream chargers and how Perth bogan’s couldn’t confit their way out of a greasy take away bag.

The urban-spooners head to Jacksons, one of the few Perth establishments that are worthy of their culinary brilliance. Sir topknot has greased his cunt-antenna up and Sara’s resting bitch face is ready to eye-scowl the wait staff. Their first bottle of wine comes out and the pair swill it around in their mouths like a couple of stuck up washing machines. “No, no, no, no, I had good Tempranillo on the coast of San Sebastian, this is clearly corked, no”. The trained waiter whiffs the bottle, and politely disagrees. Sara’s face suddenly resembles something that eats it own young, “I think I know what I am talking about, bring us another bottle, very unprofessional”.

“I can't believe these Moreton bay bugs aren’t twice cooked”, the top knotted masterchef agrees, “totes babe, really not Fat Duck standard”. In fact, the furthest either has come to Fat Duck is when a Tip Top truck rolled over next to Lake Monger at the annual dickhead BBQ. However, one must never let knowledge get in the way of super-critical culinary cuntery. Sara has only managed to crack a smile when a waiter tripped on King man-buns foot, and is quick to whip out her iPhone at the end of their meal. The final course for a dickhead foodie is always a hot serving on UrbanSpoon.

“Food was OK, wait staff were rude (never argue with the customer when you serve CORKED WINE!) and the plating up was amateur at best”. With the click of a button she shits on the bold degustation and contributes to the ever-growing class of dumb cunt diners who compare restaurant service to the shit on toast they cook up in the kitchen of delusional grandeur.

The Human Zoo - Ms HBF Run for a Reason

Trish’s road to fun run glory started a month before the event. She took time out of her busy schedule of posting squat rack selfies and replaced them with updates of her bi-weekly run times. Fueled by Isagenix and motivated by her desire to inspire, she hits the pavement with #determination. As a #livelifetothemax-cunt she feels a divine obligation to relentlessly smash social media with posts of her #cleanliving and all round fucking awesomeness in the field of narcissistic fitness documentation. This is her life, and you’re living it one selfie at a time.

Trish awakens on Sunday morning with the smug glow of fitness superiority. In the two weeks preceding the HBF run she has been taking some of the best fitness selfies of her life and is pumped that her big social media day has arrived. She gets ready for the run by applying a #nomakeup amount of makeup and adorning her she-adonic frame in the finest Lululemon has to offer. She posts her first mirror selfie of the day, “getting ready for the HBF Run for a Reason #hbf #runforareason #nomakeup #fitness #health #lululemon #running”. Shove that in your Burger Ring shoveling slack-holes you lazy pigs.

She arrives at the registration area and promptly lays her competition shirt, number card, sunglasses and fitness watch on a grassy patch for her next update. She takes a great shot but is struggling to think up a sufficiently boastful caption. “Oh my god, I totally forgot my reason, hey Terry what reason are you running for?” Her friend pauses for a moment, “um brain cancer of course”. Trish is relieved, “oh yeah good one!” She completes her update, “getting ready for my 21km to raise awareness for beanies for brain cancer #whatsyourreason? #funrun #runforareason #sunday #iPod #babeswithsunnies #wellness #lifecoach #braincancer #halfmarathon”. Staggering, it’s poorcunception: raising awareness for an awareness campaign. Magic.

Trish powers through the sea of sweaty hashtag activists and is running for a good reason: to make sure her newspaper result time photo the next day is better than the other fitness hoes that go to her gym. No one is going to accept her as their life coach and Isagenix pusher if she posts a bad time, so she grits her teeth and runs harder than Hey Dad’s stiffy while watching the best of Nudge . It’s the moment she has been waiting for, the holy grail of fitness selfies, the 21km medal pose in front of the finishing line banner. She posts her photo and unleashes a steaming pile of self-absorbed fuckery:

“such a proud moment, I competed hard and got the results I was after, you can do anything you put your mind to, ignore the haters, live your dream and most importantly never give in, I believe in all of you xxx #halfmarathon #accomplished #believe #lifecoach #unbelievable #healthylife #inspo #bethechange #whatsyourreason”.

Trish heads out for a recovery feed that she intends to Instagram the living shit out of. She may have raised $0 for brain cancer, but that's OK because the inspiration that she provided to all of us pretty much makes her Jesus Christ himself. She is going to sell so much fucking Isagenix and she has a new shirt that she intends to wear to Jacob’s Ladder every single day until the City to Surf. #killingit.

The Human Zoo - Mr Anti Gay Marriage

Ireland’s bold decision has Frank fuming unreasonably in his cave of hateful ignorance. He bitterly turns to his son from a third marriage, “worlds gone to the dogs, son, poofters have public toilets and normal people have marriage, bloody simple”. The ever present homophobic itch has frustrated Frank for most of his life, and the only way he sees fit to relieve it is by ruthlessly scratching away layers of compassion and logic. A brave new world is dawning, but Frank desperately holds on to the familiar darkness that plagues our society and gives a voice to the knuckle-dragging, homo-hating cunts.

Frank wasn’t always the staunch amalgamation of pure masculinity you see today. Growing up he was so deep in the closet that he was finding his own father’s gimp mask. He would endlessly draw dicks on his lever-arch files and enjoyed the homoerotic warmth of communal change-room showering. His boys school education equipped him for the tiny shorts world of construction and he became a master of degrading passing woman with his testosterone-laden banter. After all, only a faggot would be nice to a woman.

It’s Thursday night and Frank heads over to catch up with his ex wife’s kids. After a few too many cans of Export, Frank lets rip, “I’ll tell yas, i’ll be voting no on gay marriage, sanctity of marriage must be respected”. The atmosphere becomes tenser than the finger spitting, brokeback-esque vibes at Frank’s annual camping trips. His daughter’s husband speaks loud enough to be heard over the background noise of Channel 9’s hit, Married at First Sight. “You can't really mean that can you Frank?” Challenging a bigot's prejudice is the proverbial red flag that always leads to aggressive displays of dickheadedness, “mate, marriage is between a man and a woman, no one is saying they can't keep bumming each other and spreading AIDS, just keep that circus where it belongs”.

An interesting stance to take from a twice divorced man who is infamous around certain Perth circles for being a little bum-pokey during intercourse. Frank becomes irritated as he is far more comfortable discussing his views with like-minded champions of sanctity, “and I’ll tell you this mate, it’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve ha!” Frank makes a complete arsehole of himself as he scrapes the barrel of adversarial dignity. Throwing catchphrases out rather than intelligently defending his stance. Any other day of the week, he’d be happy to tell you how Christians are a bunch of rock spiders, but when invoking religion helps his hate, he is all for it. Confused as a dildo at a scissoring party.

He leaves the dinner party in a homophobic huff. He swings by Highgate for a quick rub & tug and then heads around to his current wife’s house to watch reality television. Angered by a News clip of Irish “pillow biters” celebrating he decides to jump on a News.com.au forum and give the fairies a taste of his own harsh truths. He finds an article about gay marriage and starts hammering his keyboard, “I’m against gay marriage as it’s going to fuck the place up. THINK about the bloody CHILDREN from these so called "families". They will grow up FUCKED cos of not having a NATURAL environment of man AND woman, no ifs no buts. NOt to mention the bloody risk of PEDOFILES adopting!!!!!”

Ah, the beauty of the rambling incoherency of the hate-monger, they never quite understand how much damage they do their own cause when they get behind their keyboards.

The Bell Tower Times

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