Mr Feral Footy Fan

Unburdened by the weight of respectability,Macca heads to Domain Stadium to cause more mayhem than Chris Brown and Jeff Farmer on a double date. Being 5 foot fuck all and repellent to woman, Macca is no stranger to angrily snatching the scraps that life throws at large-foreheaded bottom feeders. With no prospect of sober decorum and slim risk of getting his dick wet, Macca acts like Fred Flintstone after he caught Barney giving Wilma a bronte-boning of cunt-istoric proportions.

Macca sits in his Kenwick Dwelling and slams back lonely tins of pre-mix fight-fuel. He is adorned in the purple armour of a bonafide footy warrior. He sees himself as a “passionate supporter” and excuses any outbursts of catastrophic dickheadery as simply “getting lost in the moment”. Years ago he used to go to the games with mates, now the list of people who will willingly sit next to him, is shorter than his overcompensation-worthy peen that last felt a woman’s warmth when Don Burke’s pug was still alive. 

By the time Macca gets to Domain Stadium, his Intoxication levels are somewhere between a Brownlow’d Fevola and Luke Hodge on a road trip. He staggers and uncouthly sways into scarf-clad fans at the entrance. His piss stained hands clumsily feed his ticket through the scanner and the self-professed gladiator enters the arena. All the rage of a thousand declined Centrelink payments rage through Macca’s fists and the usual sights and sounds of the footy anger him in ways a therapist couldn't explain. 

The opening bounce switches Macca from “mumbling drunkard” into “rabid pisshead” and he incoherently foghorns obscenities every four seconds. With each classless fury-boom, the patience of the crowd grows thinner than Bert Newton’s locks. Agitated punters start to turn on the “passionate” Macca and tell him to shut his hole. The voices of reason only serve to send Macca deeper into a delusion of persecution and he enter the wankerish mindset of a me-against-the-world-cunt.

During the second quarter, Macca has a beautiful James Blunt moment and spots his spirit animal: an equally “passionate” shithead who throws a shadow punch at Hawthorn’s Isaac Smith. Macca saw his face, in a crowded place but this time, he knows exactly what to do: step up his level of anti-social behaviour so he can be crowned the king neanderthal in the jungle. A few more mouth-missing swigs of beer later, and Macca begins directly threatening the supporters around him, “next cunt who farking tells me to calm down is copping it ay”.

A fed-up woman makes the mistake of directing bravery towards a coward and tells Macca to respect the family environment he is in. Obviously watching Freo choke, inspires Macca to latch onto the woman’s throat like a police dog in Rockingham. The power of the assault is directly inverse to the power Macca experiences as a “man” and despite his most sincere hopes, the act doesn’t make his dick any bigger.

Macca’s night ends by being swarmed by the crowd and angrily fuming in the back of a paddy wagon. While he soaks up the cold ambiance of a police cell, the only thing on his mind is the scummy excuses he will tell the magistrate on Monday morning. Perhaps he could raise the defence of crippling poorcuntery? Who could object?

The Human Zoo - Mr Stereosonics

Timmy Shredz is Johnny NoHomo’s little brah and is a real chip off the old block. The day Shredz bought his Stereos ticket he uploaded a photo of it onto his Instagram account, #CalvinHarris #Skrillex #yehboi#StereosBitch. A year ago, Shredz was letting Nova FM dictate the tunes he listened too. However, one festival season and a trip to Ibiza later, he is an expert on dance music, “I’ll pretty much have Skrillex playing at my wedding ay, fucking love dubstep bro”.

Shredz has been stepping up his fitness regime in the months leading up to November. “Boiled chicken and broccoli bro, every meal”. His body is rippling with misguided muscular definition. Health and strength take a backseat to his ambition to be the swole-boss at Stereos. In the end, he is desperately seeking the approval of Air Max-honeys who wear less clothing than a fake titted slurry on Big Brother Up Late. 

Shredz hosts the befores and struts around the collective of Ken and Barbie dolls that are yabbering on about the pinga's like they were in the Ambar alleyway, “shit chyeh bro, I’mma double drop a White Mitsi and a Batman 30 minutes before Calvin’s set, I’ll be chewing my face off during his drops”. The true mark of a music fan is being unable to enjoy your chosen genre without pinging harder than Benny Cousins on a public holiday. Shredz excuses himself, he needs to carefully work on his look.

He stands in front of his bathroom mirror. Tiny man-yoga shorts, a bright yellow singlet, a matching headband and a new pair of Onitsuka Tigers. He has a photo of Zyzz hanging on the wall and he carefully styles his hair in the same way. He returns to his flock and whips out a Mr Universe flex. His peacocking is met with moronic hollering that cements his Godlike status in the Church of shredded dickheadery.

Shredz's is higher than an old boys trousers and his little pee-pee is sticking out of his fuckboy shorts like a cute tiny turtle. He spends the first 3 hours rave-dancing like a prick near the public toilets. Unsurprisingly, he misses every artist that he has been banging on about for the last year. Amazingly, he doesn’t actually see ANY artist perform for the entire day. Instead, he spends his day exchanging phone numbers with blokes and commenting on each others 8-pacs.

One of his new shred-buddies sends him a photo he took of Tiesto’s set. Shredz uploads it to his Instagram,#NightsLikeThese #LoveTiesto #MusicLove#StereosBro. You've fucking ruined musical festivals you protein-pricked pinga popper. 

Mr Toolie

Damo graduated from Lynwood High in 2003 and had the time of his life on his Leavers break down in Dunsborough. He sets out to recreate the magic of Leavers ‘03 every year. The smell of leavers is sweeter than the wax on his surfboard that can be described as “ornamental” at best. Damo has always believed in the Scarborough philosophy, that surfing is 90% appearance and 10% participation. If anyone doubts Damo’s surfing ability they can take it up with his koi tattoo. 

Damo arrives 3 days early and is staying with a couple of other bleached-hair desperados in the Dunsborough Caravan Park. They are all aged 29+ and have never missed a Leavers. They sip on warm UDLs while they brag about the future sex they are going to be having with 18 year olds in their respective tents. “They will be gagging for an experienced man who can hold his piss”. A bold statement, given that it has proved incorrect for the last 11 years. Damo’s extensive history of epic-droughts can be pinpointed to one key personality trait: he is creepier than Troy Buswell at a Laz-e-Boy convention that has run out of Febreeze on a summers day.

The group grow tired of each others sexual bravado and bullshit future-sex stories. They decide to go and make pests of themselves down at the Three Bears in the township. Damo rocks up in his official kit: blue wife-beater, Volcom boardies, Reef sandals and his dreadlocks flowing freely. Several groups of Leavers have come down early and are sitting around drinking and planning their holiday of a lifetime. Damo handles the situation like he was in prison: take out the strongest male in a show of unbridled alphaness. 

He challenges two good looking ex-Wesley kids to a game of pool. “Sorry mate, we don’t want a copy of the Big Issue”, one of the Wesley kids says to the chorus of roaring laughter from a group of Leaver-girls. Damo takes a breath, “you wont be laughing when I’m sexing your ladies”. Sexing? 

Damo doesn’t sink one ball. However, this was all part of his masterplan. “Guess i’ll be having to drop me dacks ay”. Damo does just that. His sight and smell of his uncircumcised johnson burns a dick-cheese shaped hole in the retinas of all the Leavers standing around the pool table. A couple of bouncers are quick to escort Damo out.

“Thats what a real mans dick looks like girls!” In reality, it looks like Clive Waterhouse sitting on the Docker’s bench: dormant with an intense look of longing for even the slightest moist dip of respect.

Mr Beaufort Street Festival

 

 

“Like, I totally loved Pugs before all these other sheep did, I’m talking Burkes Backyard Pug-love, mahn”, Tyler smug-ishly qualifies while walking to the Beaufort St Festival dog show. 

 

Much like Burke’s Pug rubbed his arsehole along the grass, Tyler is leaving a shit stain too, the only difference being, the shit is coming from Tyler’s mouth. His bearded face is expressionless while he stares at the Pugs on display. He takes a swig of his Coconut Water while standing cockheadily in his tight jeans with his ankles exposed. His “leg midriff” is doing a good job of distracting the crowd from his floral shirt, suspenders and bow-tie combination. “Cunt chic”.

Tyler walks around bopping to some Indie band that is hipstering out on stage. Tyler sidles up to some turd wearing a Tuxedo t-shirt and rolled up denim shorts, “I saw these guys at a shipping container gig in August, mahn”. The turd acknowledges the comment with a “devil may care” nod while he takes a sip of his Fiji Water. The pair bop un-enthusiastically to the music while shooting each other circle-jerk nods. They are both showing the exact right amount of enthusiasm for a band that is probably going to sell out by selling tickets to musical plebs: like YOU, brah.

A group of nose-rings and denim-overall wearing chicks are looking at some artwork at a stall. Tyler runs his black-nail polished hand through his greasy moused-up'd quaff and lets the force of facetiousness propel him over to them. “The only canvass I recognise is the brick wall behind the old 78 Records ay, babes”. Their red-lipsticked lips crack big grins: they have found a fellow artistic shit-muncher.

 

 “That is so true, are you in a band?” Tyler rolls his eyes, “siff, I play solo synth, girly”. Her undergarments flood with a tidal wave of moist cultural elitism: “totes”. Tyler gives her a nod and continues on his way. Swag.

Tyler is tired of making his presence noted at art stalls and Indie band sets. It’s time to really make the most of the street festival by camping at Clarences and getting fuck-eyed on cider. With each pint his opinions get louder and the hipsterism is so thick it could be scraped off the walls and sold as beard conditioner. “Anyone who wears cargo shorts should be quarantined for having fashion-Ebola, mahn”. Unlike the vast pockets of the offending garment, the pub is running out of room for his drunken arrogance. He is thrown out at 5pm.

Tyler staggers down Beaufort Street and decides to treat himself to feed from the El Publico stall. He crams his Mexican snack down his gullet while angrily staring at a guy in New Balance sneakers dancing to the Indie band from before. “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore”.

Fuck, someone pass him a spaceship then. 

Mr Beaufort Street Festival

“Like, I totally loved Pugs before all these sheep did, I’m talking Burkes Backyard Pug-love, mahn”, Tyler smug-ishly qualifies while walking to the Beaufort St Festival dog show. Much like Burke’s Pug rubbed his arsehole along the grass, Tyler is leaving a trail of shit himself, the only difference being, the shit is coming from Tyler’s mouth. His bearded face is expressionless while he stares at the Pugs on display. He takes a swig of his Coconut Water while standing cockheadily in his tight jeans with his ankles exposed. His “leg midriff” is doing a good job of distracting the crowd from his floral shirt, suspenders and bow-tie combination. “Cunt chic”.

Tyler walks around bopping to some Indie band that is hipstering out on stage. Tyler sidles up to some turd wearing a Tuxedo t-shirt and rolled up denim shorts,  “I saw these guys at a shipping container gig in August, mahn”. The turd acknowledges the comment with a “devil may care” nod while he takes a sip of his Fiji Water.  The pair bop enthusiastically to the music while shooting each other circle-jerk nods. They are both showing the exact right amount of enthusiasm for a band that is probably going to sell out by selling tickets to musical plebs: like YOU, brah.

A group of nose-rings and denim-overall wearing chicks are looking at some artwork at a stall. Tyler runs his black-nail polished hand through his greasy moused off quaff and lets the force of facetiousness propel him over to them. “The only canvass I recognise is the brick wall behind the old 78 Records ay, babes”. Their red-lipsticked lips crack big grins: they have found a fellow artistic shit-muncher. “That is so true, are you in a band?” Tyler rolls his eyes, “siff, I play solo synth, girly”. Her undergarments flood with a tidal wave of moist cultural elitism: “totes”. Tyler gives her a nod and continues on his way. Swag.

Tyler is tired of making his presence noted at art stalls and Indie band sets. It’s time to really make the most of the street festival by camping at Clarences and getting fuck-eyed on cider. With each pint his opinions get louder and the hipsterism is so thick it could be scraped off the walls and sold as beard conditioner. “Anyone who wears cargo shorts should be quarantined for having fashion-Ebola, mahn”. Unlike the vast pockets of the offending garment, the pub is running out of room for his drunken arrogance. He is thrown out at 5pm.

Tyler staggers down Beaufort Street and decides to treat himself to feed from the El Publico stall. He crams his Mexican snack down his gullet while angrily staring at a guy in New Balance sneakers dancing to the Indie band from before. “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore”.

Fuck, someone pass him  a spaceship then.

A Reflection on Instagram Models

Ms Melbourne Cup

Today is a big day for Cheryce: it is Cup Day and it also marks the end of her suspended sentence for glassing a bitch in the Toucan Nightclub a couple of years ago. Without the threat of immediate imprisonment Cheryce believes she can fly, and just like R Kelly, she is going to piss on something that isn’t a toilet.

It’s 9:00am and Cheryce is sinking back Pink Sparklin’ with her gaggle of elegant looking friends. She is dressed in a striking lime green number by Supre. If we are being picky, we would say the dress is a little tight and combined with her vast array of faded amateur tattoos, she looks like a criminal Kermit the Frog who just washed up on the shore of the Swan River: bloated and drug-mule-esque. She is already unsteady in her high heels and is having a hard time keeping her fascinator hat on. The entire gaggle look the same: “the no undies crew”.

Cheryce’s behaviour in the maxi taxi is unbecoming to say the least. She loudly discusses her ambition to get some “bathroom dick” and then proceeds to ask the taxi driver whether or not he has become erect based on their sensual conversation, “you got a stiffy or what, Sanjay?”. In actual fact, his dick has retreated back into his body: an instinctual reaction to keep his manhood as far away from the thick musk of gonorrhea that is wafting through his taxi.

At the race track, Cheryce stumbles around while laughing in that hysterical and high pitched way that bogans do. She crudely flirts with a buzz-cutted security guard to try and gain entry into the VIP area. Access denied. She stumbles towards the toilet and is unimpressed with the line, “fuck that shit”. She finds a tree, squats and laughs during her entire piss. She locks eyes with a man in white-shoes and a Volcom belt. She now believes in love at first sight. She heads towards her prince charming but alas it is too late. He is already threatening to swing hooks and calling security guards “weak cunts”. This is what it feels like, when doves cry frown emoticon

Cheryce is shattered that she missed a great chance for a bathroom shag, so she starts swigging sparkling straight from the bottle. She is now so drunk that she can't see the screen on her mobile phone. High heels in hand and mascara running she heads towards the front gates. She takes a tumble and decides that she has come far enough. She wallows around on the floor while inadvertently treating the public her famous no undies show. She abuses her friends as they try to help her and completes her public display by power yakking all over herself. Class.

She is unlikely to appear in the social pages, but on the other hand, she is fairly sure that she didn’t glass anyone. We will chalk that up to a loss for horse racing but a win for society as a whole. Cheers Cheryce.