Mr Royal Show

“Aw Cheryl, I’ve gone and bloody torn me good shorts”, Daryl laments as he hastily prepares for the event of the year: The IGA Perth Royal Show. Daryl quickly gets over his garment woes: it’s Royal Show time, and he has been putting $50 a month aside from his WorkSafe payments since January. He loads his large-eared and small-eyed brood in his step-mother's 1999 Torago and heads towards the Claremont Showgrounds. The herd is rolling towards greener pastures.

Daryl leads the charge, like a bloated King Leonardis. His wallet is brimming with a fat stack of pineapples. They haven’t been there 5 minutes before each of his 4 kids has a battered sausage in their hands. Daryl and Cheryl treat themselves to a top-shelf snack though: chicken satay burgers with a large chips each. Afterall, it’s a celebration. Daryl’s enthusiasm is higher than Cheryl’s cargo shorts: which are locked in a fierce battle with her gunt. His beard is covered in satay sauce, “saving it for later ay HA HA”.

Daryl’s offspring misbehave on the rides while Daryl laughs from the sidelines. Turns out all those years of Bathurst 1000 and Woodstocks have rendered him too “hefty” to participate in the rides. No biggie, Daryl’s flabby arm is primed to dominate the sideshows. He understands the mind of the carnie, he dominates a dart-based game, he wins Cheryl an oversized banana wearing a Rastafarian beanie. Fuck yeh. He reaches into his Piping Hot backpack and pulls out a Woodstock. The bourbon and coke that doesn’t reach his mouth cascades down his proud girth. He is the hero of the day.

The herd drifts through the Show, ever consuming, ever commenting on shit in that poetic bogan way, “check out that duck, fucking retarded bird ay”. Ah yes, an astute observation Daryl. Enough of the faggy animals, it’s time to hit the showbags. Dont kid yourself, Daryl and his herd are not amateurs, they have studied the showbag guide since it first came out, they know whats up. 48 Bertie Beetle bags, 10 Coke showbages, 5 Gag Magics, and a virtual rainbow of confectionary based bags. Enough sugar to fuel his delinquent children for months. Hey, they are going to be toothless like dad soon anyway, why not expedite the process.

Daryl hugs Cheryl while the herd watch the fireworks. It’s a family moment. “I am going to finger-bash the blue eye-shadow off you later sweet tits”, Cheryl hugs her oversized toy banana, smitten and reborn in the majesty of the moment.

Mr Coward's Punch

Derryn’s mission in life is to prove that he doesn’t take it up the arse through the art of punching blokes in the back of the head. You dont know who you are fucking with, son - mostly because you never actually see his manly fist coming. One too many Jack fueled UFC pay-per-views have left Derryn thinking he is the leader of the pack, in reality he is just a feral dog that that needs the muzzle of incarceration to be applied swiftly.

It’s Sunday afternoon and Derryn is dressed in the official clobber of the cunt who doesn’t like to be looked at: Tapout shirt, Unit boardies and a chunky silver chain. He rubs his freshly shaved head as he sits at the Old Bailey slamming back pints and looking staunch. He doesn’t see a bar, he sees an Octagaon cage filled with pusseys, faggots and cunts who dont wanna mess with him. “Oi, ‘nother pint” he barks at the bar tender.

It’s busy and some gentle bloke wearing glasses gets bumped into Lord Derryn. The man’s inherent weakness and small stature fills Derryn with the rage of a thousand steroid shrunken ball sacks whirling around in a meth tornado. Unreasonably, Derryn chooses to shove the man off him, “watch it faggot!” A smiley good bloke steps in and tries to defuse the situation, “he was bumped mate, no trouble, it’s all good”. Derryn mulls his options over: to cunt or not to cunt, that is the question: naturally, he rebutts the smiley man’s explanation with a swift chip to the side of his head. Derryn bravely flees the scene without checking on his defeated opponent.

This epic smash has left Derryn feeling like Floyd May-wanker and he heads to his mates house to brag and smoke gear. So much testosterone flies around as Derryn describes how he “dropped him” while giving a full re-enactment. He is marching around his mates backyard like Donkey Kong after he nailed Mario with a barrel of masculinity. “Mess with me, you’ll be eating through a fucking straw lad!” The moronic chorus of man-cheers fills the shed.

Later that night, Derryn is looping hard on the gear and sits at his mates computer commenting on the Facebook page, “Perth Fights”. He alternates between racial abuse and calling people out, “you fight like a fkn pussey fgt, wait till I see u”.

Wow… we were all wondering how much braver you could get today Derryn, you sure showed us you prehistoric dickbag!

Mr Dexies

 

 

Charlie doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. It was the summer of ‘01 that he was described the holiest of holy prescriptions: 100 D5’s per month, but Charlie was always prescribed 3 bottles at a time. The doctors figured it’d save him multiple trips to the practice, and it wasn’t like dexies had any recreational value right? Fucking idiots.

Fast forward a few years and Charlie is your classic adult-ADD sufferer. Kind of bloke that can never chill. Has no concept of sitting still and watching the cricket. Oh no, as soon as the Test Match starts, Charlie needs to be zooming around the room like a dexamphetamine’d fueled blow fly, “nah, come on, lets go down to the nets to bowl a few overs”. For the rest of his mates that have sucked back a few brews and cones, the idea is outright ghastly. Nevertheless, Charlie was the gatekeeper of all things energy and confidence: the bottle of D5’s. Want one? Then get your stoned hole down to those nets to face steamers from a ever-charging Charlie.

You bring out a sick antipasto platter. You purchased every individual ingredient from Woolies and you are feeling like Heston at this BBQ. You offer Charlie a crack at the sun dried tomatoes and those mini toast biscuits that taste oh-so-divine with a bit of Tzatski, “no thanks mate”. As per usual, Charlie has rejected the prospect of putting anything solid down his gullet. You notice his jaw gnaw ever so discreetly. Cunt’s been dipping into that bottle of fuck yeh. So you ask, “mate, can i grab a couple of D-Bangers”. Charlie’s demeanour suddenly resembles Golemn from Lord of the Rings. you have just asked for a couple of his precioussssssssss. Trying not to feel like a total fuckng fiend, he chucks you 2. “$8 mate”. When the fuck did they climb to $4 a pop?

You pay. You always pay. They may as well be $10. You’ll pay. There is no better tether back to sobriety, no better magic pill for a night of guaranteed sobriety, and after those 5 cones, you were going to be useless as Clive Waterhouse at a motivational speaking course. You only bomb dexies on the weekend so you down them in the usual way: with a big sip of VB. Not Charlie though, the wired cunt needs to rack lines on one of your dinner plates and snort them up with a fucking $5 note. You can’t help to think that old mate Charlie ain’t exactly living the rockstar life. Nevertheless, you snort up a line. You are from Western Australia ain’t ya?

It’s 3:30am that night and you are still awake thanks to Charlie’s magic bottle of euphoria. You look at your beloved antipasto platter and realise why Charlie rejected it so many hours before. The thought of food literally disgusts you. You take solace in the fact you are shredding… as you take a sip of your 15th beer and a draw of our 23rd dart. Yeh mate healthy as. It’s not a total pig-fest though, you manage to send off an overly emotional text to your newly ex-girlfriend. Fuck it though right, she needed to be told she was an angel that made you hard, especially at 3:45am right?

You sleep like a Priest before a Royal Commission. Probably clocking up a total of 3 hours of real sleep. You swear off the D-Bangers as you witness Charlie up at 5am cleaning the house and sucking back darts. He gets right into your shattered soul, “mate, got any Xanax?”

What a fiend.

The Perth Cyclist

The Tour de Poorcunt rolls along Mounts Bay Road on a crisp Sunday morning. The peloton of mid life crisis is filled like lycra clad men chatting incessantly about their ever important professional lives. Every motorist on the road is an agro bogan and every pedestrian on the footpath is an aimless zombie that better learn the sound of his bell. Fuck everyone, Dave has 24 gears of pure aerobic arrogance.

The peloton roll towards Atomic Cafe in South Perth. Mends St is a rich and fertile grazing pasture for the pot bellied men that have greased themselves up with smugness and squeezed into their racing lycra. The men navigate the tables while giving the cougars a hearty gander of their shriveled cocks poking out. Ah middle aged man chode, the perfect accompaniment to your eggs Benedict. They talk loudly about suggested road policy, “it’s bloody simple, 1m buffer zones and 5 second head starts from the traffic lights, bloody simple stuff lads".

The cycling circle jerk is compounding the hangover of a salty lad trying to find solace in his scrambled eggs, “how about you stop blocking the roads and use cycle paths?” Dave is so offended he almost takes off his Oakley polarized sunnies to respond, “it’s a disgrace that cars are even allowed on the road!” There we go, his true colours come out. The Pol Pot of road policy, under Dave’s regime, cars would be indiscriminately hunted down and destroyed, all in the name of the environment! If you were so keen on the environment, stop spewing so many verbal pollutants from your gob you Orica Green-cunt.

After brunch the peloton rolls on through the City, down Hay Street and onto Underwood Ave. The City to Surf of motorist inconvenience. A frustrated Triton driver beeps his horn and decides to overtake the group. Dave is in a cycling trance and ignores the warning signs. He decides to break from the group and show his peloton a thing or two about sprinting. He pulls out right in front of the accelerating Triton, causing the man to slam the brakes and almost lose control. “Ya fucking idiot!” Where is Warney when you need him.

At City Beach, Dave is still fuming. He updates his Facebook status, “some agro bogan tried to run me off the road!! We need reforms and jail sentences for motorists!!!!” Nah Dave, we just need anti-fuckwit vaccines sold at bike stores

Ms Rockingham

Rockingham is the suburban equivalent of getting glassed because you spat on a prostitute’s tramp stamp after she sprayed you with breast milk. Southern Crossed locals wake up to the soothing sounds of screeching tyres and police sirens as they add a cheeky splash of Jack Daniels to their morning soft drinks. You know what they say, you don’t have to be an aggressive wall-punching pisshead to live in Rocko, but it helps!

The way that Kaylah dresses would make an African priest want to wear a condom: pink Unit shorts, a Malibu stained singlet, faux-fur Bad Girl hoodie and a pair of Ugg boots. She only ever deviates from this “Chlamydia-chic” ensemble when she goes to Liquids (Liqos). She applies a healthy smear of tanning bronzer to her face and slaps a Roxy cap over her peroxided locks. She loads her children into her currently incarcerated husband’s VL Commodore and drops them off at school. In the school car park, a tear rolls down the eye of a dreadlocked deadshit as he salutes her “Up the Bum No Babies” bumper sticker, “fuck oath”.

She catches up with her girlfriends at the Rockingham Shops to pick out a new Supre dress for the evening. Her friend cautions her, “don't get black this time you slurry, remember that jizz stain last week?” In Kaylah’s defence, her little bathroom suckfest was a small price to pay for a bar card and a verbal guarantee they could skip the line next week. Nevertheless, as a Rocko fashionista she decides on a little understated number: bright pink and thigh tatt exposing. Yum.

She hasn’t been this excited about a night out since her current boyfriend took them on a holiday to Crown Casino last May. She looks up a cheap baby sitter on the Rockingham Buy & Sell FB page and checks her funds: “farken dogs at Centrelink haven’t paid me”. Not to worry, she jumps on Tinder and within 25 minutes she is having a drink with a Gardnen Island Navy man at the Swinging Pig. 7 free Jack & Cokes later, she ditches her dashing date and meets up with her girlfriends at the foreshore. They are doing damage to a cask of Fruity Lexia and hurling abuse at some Mandurah skrag that used to date Kaylah’s incarcerated hubbie. Kaylah barely spills her plastic cup of goon as she hair-slams the 6210 slut into the turf, “roc city bitch”.

Kaylah hails down a “towel headed pooftah” and instructs him to drive towards Liquids. The girls already have their heels off when the cab stops and execute a runner with precision. Not that they care too much, a man of ethnic descent wouldn’t be game to chase Rocko girls through the racist UFC cage-match they call a township. By this point, Kaylah is so sloshed that she manages to get half her Nick’s kebab on her new dress. “Fuck it”, she reckons, “the boys like a bitta meat anyway”. She straightens up a bit by munching a handful of her kid’s dexies. Sorted.

Inside Liquids, Kaylah grinds on men who steal sneakers and are probably living it up YOLO style because their impending court appearances could prove inconvenient for their future plans. A muscular shaved head guy gets Kaylah’s attention by holding up a Smirnoff Black and then spitting on his fingers: the mating call of the Rocko wildlife.

From that point the only thing stickier than the floor is the lad’s fingers: it’s love, 6168 style

Ms Gluten Intolerance

In 2009 Celeste moved to the bohemian backstreets of South Fremantle. Her fiendish penchant for pingers and darts was replaced by Bikram Yoga and a new set of dietary guidelines. It’s a sad story, she grew up with gluten, went to school with gluten, but now she lives in the wrong neighbourhood and can't even been seen associating with gluten. Her stomach has no intolerance for gluten and proudly waves the flag of the new age dietary trend while saying , “fuck off i’m full”.

It’s Celeste’s 24th Birthday and in the world of mid-sized accounting firms that means she is expected to bring in some morning tea for her desperate cohorts. The fat directors resemble vultures as they circle the kitchen at 8am waiting for Celeste’s offerings. Celeste bounces in like a human pogo-stick with the self satisfied smile of the culinary terrorist . “Raw gluten free brownies!!!” The bulbous bellied men look shocked and betrayed. Does this bitch think this is a game? Morning tea is the only ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak world of Nescafe instant coffee and Croissant Express BLTs.

As is customary at Celeste’s workplace, the team goes out for a feed at lunch for a coworkers birthday. Celeste sends the group email out at 1030, “Raw Kitchen at 1 guys!”. She hits enter and within 10 seconds she hears a man punch a hole through his own keyboard. Celeste has deprived him of a sugary morning tea and now she has robbed him of his chance to get a parmy and chips for lunch. The aggrieved fat-o-saurus flails his disproportionately short arms around in a fit of prehistoric rage, “bloody moon unit ruining my bloody day”. Celeste perkily guides her team through the Raw Kitchen's menu. Her enthusiasm is contagious in the same way Ebola is: you are most likely to contract it from the shit spewing out of her mouth.

Not content with ruining her coworker's day, Celeste sets out to bust the balls of a dude she met the other weekend. Ignorant to her gluten free-chic fashion, he makes a reservation at the Mexican Kitchen. Oh you fucking arsehole, you should be hauled in front of the Hague and charged with crimes against Glutmanity. He looks on in disbelief as Celeste asks approximately 155 questions of the waitress about the exact genetic makeup of the menu items and proposing advanced alterations that even Heston would consider to be a sick joke. “Maybe I should’ve let you pick the restaurant”, he says. Yeh dickhead, this ain't some bread scoffing slurry, she is precious.

He was foolish to think he was going to land his baguette in her bread bin with amatuer plays like that. They part way and Celeste heads home to post circle jerk comments on Gluten Free Facebook websites while snacking on something that looks like a potato chip but is actual fact is made out of kale: kind of like cabbage, if cabbage tasted like a recycling bin.

Mr Freo Dockers

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Mr Perth Maori

Temuera is a powerful man. 6 foot 2 and 125kg of pure Rotorua rawness. He sits around his Padbury duplex with his cousins slamming down cans of 6% Woodstocks and arguing about whether Richie McCaw or Sonny Bill is New Zealand's finest rugby player. “Ow! et ah cuz, Sonny Bill is mean, but Ritchie is the man G”. His cousin Jake politely disagrees by belting Temuerain in the face. A flurry of tight rugby shorts, tribal tattoos and Maori-giggling erupts as the two men rumble. After the smash, they sit around their destroyed outdoor setting giggling and sharing the last can of Woodstock, “churrrr boi, thats the second outdoor setting this year!”

Feeling reborn in violent after-birth, the men decide to go and have a munch down at The Saint in Innaloo. Temuera compliments his tight rugby shorts with a black singlet and his pair of Blundstone work boots. He jumps in his filthy Triton and cranks 50 Cent on his drive down to The Saint. In the car park he smokes a poorly rolled and roachless doobie with Jake. Temuera pats his rumbling stomach, “I could hard out eat a horse G”. Jake shoots him a Muss-look, “etah bay, are you Tongan or something G?” Yikes, another minor disagreement, so the pair contemplate a good old fashioned car park scrap but decide to postpone until after their fish feed. “Lets scarpo bro, I’m starving as”.

Jake pulls out his phone and turns to Temuera, “suss out some menus bro, I’m texting this bird, she is tu meke”. Temuera walks off to find some menus and bumps into a busty female, “sorry I am wasted as sis, but choice knockers, those things are mean as”. She flicks him back a smile. Temuera continues his dance of smoothness, “show me your tits, bitch”. She declines his chivalrous invitation. Temuera is confused, in Rotorua, he used the exact same line on Jake’s cousin and banged her in his uncle’s car out outside the dairy. Oh well, he orders four servings of fish and chips to ease the blow.

The men drink heavily while trying to solicit their scaffolding services to anyone that comes within ears-reach. “Going with any other scaffies would be stooooopid bro”, Temuera says while handing a crusty Australian drongo a hand-written business card that manages to spell his own name wrong. Temuera’s scaffolding success has little to do with his marketing techniques and much more to do with his passion for stealing other cunt’s scaffolding kit and thus saving him thousands on overheads.

On their way out Jake is momentarily angered by his reflection, which he thinks is some fulla staring at him, he turns to Temuera, “you munched way more tartare sauce then me, you poaka momona” . Temuara responds, “hoihoi you taka tapuhi, I’m gonna give you a crack ay”. The pair finish their lovely afternoon with a brotherly scrap in The Saints car park, which will go down in history as the messiest exchange of haymaker swings you are ever likely to witness. Go hard or go home ay G?

Mr Perth Now Commenter

Perth Now forums are barren wastelands of caps locked fury that are polluted by the willful ignorance of fuddy-duddied fuckwits. Australian media is facing a brave new world of misinformation, and it needs a hero equally as misinformed: Mal is that hero and he proudly wears his crusty mustard jocks on the outside.

Mal fancies himself a straight shootin’, tough as nails realist that is blessed with the infallible genius of the revered baby boomer. In reality, he is an outdated pack of cheese that has grown the various moulds of phobic and uncompassionate beliefs. No punishment is severe enough, no change is necessary enough and no member of Gen Y has any bloody sense. He paid a modest $50K for his dwelling in ‘83 but rubs it’s current market value in your face like a dog owner rubbing it’s pet’s snout in a puddle of fiscal irresponsibility.

Luckily for the disenfranchised, Mal is a self professed PhD-cunt in the field of methamphetamine. He cleans the fish finger crumbs off his Laz-e-Boy, whips out his Dell laptop and logs on to his beloved Perth Now. According to the quasi-journalistic clickbait of Newscorp, Perth is facing an ice epidemic of ad-revenue raising proportions. Mal decides to educate the nation, “CRACK is taken over… so many mindless moronic IMBERCILES taking CRACK which is on the brink of indemic SAturation. Deadshit DRUGGIEs, lock em up and throw away the KEY SIMPLE…”. Well said.

While he sits back and waits for unpatriotic lefties to challenge him, he remembers fondly his top comment from yester-month where he called for the Bali 9 ringleaders to be shot twice, “just to make sure the DRUGGIE SCUM are dead”. Despite never having been wronged by heroin traffickers he copped a fierce retribution-stiffy from his “bloody logical” opinion. Drugs are always wrong, unless of course in the case of Mal shoving dexies down the red cordial stained mouths of his now delinquent children. "Different kind of amphetamine, mate".

While ruthlessly mind-fucking himself to the fantasy of his own brilliance, he also remembers his bold call to introduce mandatory sentencing to any hoon found guilty of being under 25 years old. His own E-Plates are of course a different story, given that he isn’t a leftarded bludger and knows what a real days work feels like.

During a Today Tonight ad break, he stumbles upon an article discussing the proposed footbridge to link East Perth to the new stadium. The bridge is not only wavy and homosexual, but the pure audacity of the Government to spend millions of dollars on infrastructure has Mal foaming like the 7th can of domestic beer he has cracked this evening. “Arty FARTY BULLSHIT, $54M! yous are got to be kidding me! TAXPAYERS getting rip offed again... surprise surprise... try again COLIN, we don't even need a bloody bridge”. He argues with “Tony of Subiaco” before laying his famous death blow, “mate try moving out of your PARENTS house and get a bloody clue, son”.

Mal retires to bed, tomorrow he will tackle Islam, refugees and the road works near his local bottle shop. The job of an obnoxious poor cunt is never done.