Mr City2Surf

Today is the day all you mouth-breathing soft bodies cop a big load of Troy’s protein-fueled inspiration.

The City2Surf is the Perth fitness communities premier event where running skins are stained with the unpalatable sweat of unadulterated smuggery.

It is an event that proves, the pursuit of health is not fueled by calories burned, but by the number of self-validating likes on social media.

The most important part of Troy’s preparation has not been the meal prep selfies, nor has it been the intense greasy leers he shoots at Jacob’s Ladder slurries on Saturday mornings. No, the most vital step is the pre-City2Surf Instagram photo of his running clothes, drink bottle, iPod and shoes all laid out in a shit-eating way that you’d swear came from a Cunt-ry Road catalogue. “Aint going to let the rain dampen my run, this isn’t my first rodeo ;) #city2surf #fitspo #candidrunningpic #skins #perth #feelinglazynow? #halfmarathon #girlslikeguyswhorun #god #hero”.

Troy arrives at the starting line early to doll out unasked running advice to the myriads of Lululemon-clad babes who bubble around like duck faced porn starlets on an extras feature of Girls Gone Wild. He slides up to a girl wearing far too much makeup for a run and fires off some of  his trademark bum-pinch charm, “olive oil”. She looks up at Troy’s punchable face, “huh?” Troy gestures towards his chest, “bitta olive oil on the nips, and no chafe, I’ve brought some if you need?”

After sexually harassing a number of other candy-bootied stunners, he decides to finally do some stretches and prepare. He forces a nearby beta-male to take a photo of him while he is “getting into his zone”. Troy flexes every muscle possible and stares into space with the sort of intensity of a man on the brink of a shameful premature ejaculation. “Make sure it’s set to a black & white filter, blokeo”. After 5 attempts,Troy is happy with the shot, “Focused. driven. elite. Come at me bro! Personal best in sight! #bullbythehorns #enjoylookingatmyarse #turndownforwhat #pro #fitness #city2surf #lordjesuschrist”.

Troy smashes the pavement like a deranged personal trainer high on crystal meth. In between his over the top breathing techniques, he is squawking motivation zingers at the red faced, asthmatic plodgers who are honoured to run beside Thor… sorry,Troy.

He crosses the line and starts fist pumping and hollering like Tom Waterhouse when he sees one of his ad comes on the television. He then crams a cycling goo-tube into his face while he takes a sweaty photo of his heart monitor that proudly displays his time, “personal best #whathaveyouachievedlately? #boombaby #yew #lifebeinit #halfmarathon #herbalife #fitness #nobleprizeforsickcuntery”.

As a depressing requiem to his #lovemylife shit-show,Troy heads home to sit by himself and desperately hit refresh on his social media accounts. When you wield positivity like an ego-sword, then you should  expect good people to shield themselves from your smug fuckery.

The Human Zoo - Mrs B l a c k Face

Krysteena-dior was sick of the politically correct pooftatership and was faced with a choice: bow to society’s voice and refrain from black facing her kid, or keep it Queen.

Welcome to another segment of, when keeping it Queen goes wrong.

Krysteena’s son had to dress as his favourite figure from literature for the school's book week. Now, would a book by any other name read the same? Is the West Coast Eagles injury list technically a book? In Krysteena’s eyes: absolutely. So the boy was going as Nic Naitanui.

Now, the boy kind of wanted to go as Harry Potter, but fuck that shit. Krysteena still had tons of black face paint from her other daughter’s 21st/5 year wedding anniversary and her husband's 50th.  

Ah, Macka’s 50th. The sheer surprise when he rolled in dressed like black Elvis. Sure, many people remember the king as being succinctly caucasian, but according to Macka, “ye, but he sung like one of that lot ay”.

Unfortunately, Krysteena’s leftard sense was tingling. She knew all those “shower dodging University communists” were going to have a problem with her little angel dressing like his idol. So she pitched the idea to the Farmvillers and Minion-memers that make up her FB list.

The feedback was a mixed bag. Some were offended, some said yes but most suggested that the idea was probably misguided. Meh, fuck the haters. She didn’t rise to the ranks of CEO of Mummy Inc by listening to others.

Krysteena’s award winning costume probably would’ve gone under the radar if she hadn’t decided to post it online. Thus from the seed of innocent intent grew a mighty shit-tree. Her stunt split public opinion like Nic Nat’s ACL.

Perthnow forums slowly simmered with a distinct pro-black face sentiment, while mainstream media played it out as the second coming of Colonel Sander’s lynching rope. The right’s raging yin to the left’s quivering yang.

Ultimately, the furore will be resolved the Perth way: call each other cunts until the issue fades and with any luck, learn nothing.

Mr China Drug Cheat

Winfred Yeo awakens with a sense of unease. His chiney-sense is tingling. He can't be sure, but he has an awful suspicion that a nation of second rate convict citizens has disrespected the motherland!

He logs onto the news and his greatest fears are confirmed. Aussie swim-beast Mack Horton, a sort of genetically enhanced I.T guy, had strongly inferred that Sun Yang is a drug cheat.

(He is).

“Mack Horton should apologise! He shames himself and all of China. This coming from an offshore prison of drunk and immoral citizens. You should all die a slow and painful death. You may make arrangements to cease thinking we, China, are friends. May your black souls receive no sunshine”.

It’s a good thing he has a stockpile of Aussie A1 baby formula, because he’ll need substantial nourishment after that intense dummy spittery.

Unaware of what day it is, much less what's going on in the swimming, Dielyn rolls out of bed and trawls Perth: Have a Whinge on Facebook. He spots Winfred’s post that has been shared. “Fark offffff”. Not on Dielyn’s watch. No fucking way.

Dielyn launches into a tirade that would make Jack van Tongeren blush. He was at an all you can racially vilify buffett and his plate of sweet and sour poorcuntery was overflowing.

Worlds collide, and Dielyn and Winfred enter into Mortal Kombat over who can be the bigger fucking arsehole.

Winfred gets off to a great start with a *slightly hypocritical* swipe at Australia’s adherence to human rights. Not to be defeated, Dielyn makes an impressive comeback with a poorly worded tirade about whaling, driving like shitcunts and the poor service he once had at a Vietnamese cafe.

Who won gold in the argument is murkier than the “water” in Sun Yang’s bottle.

Nevertheless, the outraged debate is like a shitty toy under the Christmas tree, it was made in China and snapped up by bogans looking for a cheap thrill.