Mr Bush Doof

Simon is a rudderless psy-trance hippie that believes the path to spiritual enlightenment is paved with psychedelic drug binges in an open field. His new found lust for shoeless forrest stomping is at odds with his luxurious Nedlands upbringing and his attempts to reach zen have consistently been thwarted by uncontrollable acid-induced bowel movements. He is the spiritual Kelvin Krump and society is the ruthless Hermes Endakis, forever trying to pull his free spirited ship to the shores of corporate conformity.

When Simon isn’t being unbearably smug about his recent attendance at a Bush Doof, he is smoking bongs and reassuring his father that he will in fact finish his agriculture degree. If his father was to discover that Simon actually  tells people he wants to be a DMT smoking shaman, he would probably kick him out of their South Perth rental property and force him to pay for his own Sea Shepherd membership and monthly sessions to keep his grotty white-boy dreads looking sufficiently poserific.

It’s Doof Day and the first rule of Bush Doof club, is talk ambiguously but endlessly about bush doofing, so he logs onto his facebook profile, “Psymon Moondog” and updates his status, “going to break through, peace my brothers and sisters xxx”. Simon is dressed like a total John Butler Trio cunt. His pants are made from Nepalese hemp and the strings around his ankles were purchased from a French surfer selling shit on a rug in Fremantle. He decides against shoes or a t-shirt in favour of body paint and a rasta beanie made out of mung beans or some shit.

At the Doof, Simon spends the next 3 hours smoking DMT with a bloke called Earth Unit, who figured out the system was keeping him down and hasn’t worked a day since ‘96. They experience ethereal beings while discussing the last time they smoked DMT.  While these two Bill & Ted cunts are having their excellent adventure, the Doof is in full swing. It is a vibrant sea of jobless trust fund babies with looks of bewildered euphoria that can be attributed to an overindulgence of shrooms .

As history repeats itself, Simon lets a slurry of enlightenment flow freely down the leg of his hemp pants. He madly rushes to a nearby river to try and clean some of the spirituality off his legs but concedes that his grundies are looking chunkier than a Yogo Dirt Dessert. Luckily, given the incredible collection of B.O and ganky feet, no one seems to notice nor care that Psymon Moondog has taken on the aura of a steaming pile of shit.

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Ms #FML

#FML stands for ‘fuck my life’ however in reality it means ‘shower me with the pitiful rain of attention’. Her trials and tribulations are transmitted across social media like a herpes outbreak in a Mandurah caravan park gangbang. Applying the Zovirax of sympathy only inflames the situation and leads to a lengthy and vague period of self-indulgent inflammation of her needy desires.

Cheyenne awakens on a Thursday morning with a ferocious appetite for passive aggressiveness, she grabs her phone and posts a status, “so sick of this…#FML” A true masterpiece that is limitless in the ways it could be misinterpreted by her Facebook community. 

One of her sad-sack drama sisters puts the first runs on the board, “u ok babe? x” Like a truly great attention-batsman, Cheyenne lets the first query go through to the keeper. Next up to the crease, is the mayor of friendzone who still violently wanks to the memory of her hugging him at Amplifier, “i’m here if u need to talk babe xx”.

A hour later, Cheyenne adds some fire to her narcissistic wildfire by posting a meme, “It’s always darkest before dawn, I will fight, I will win, I am Woman”. Christ almighty, now it sounds like Cheyenne is preparing to go Rambo like Cuntvester Stallone. The meme is immediately preceded by another whopper of an update, “not gonna be someones plan b :@ feeling angry”. Finally, some clarity and the usual suspects spring into action. 24 concerned comments and no replies.

A young buck named Alex decides to break formation and fire a reality missile right at Cheyenne’s fort of pity, “crying on FB isn’t gonna help, ffs”. The atmosphere is now tense, kind of like the moment in class when you talked back to a newly divorced substitute teacher who has been forced to sleep in his car. Mental breakdown pending.

Cheyenne finally remembers how to reply to a comment, “how dare you!!! if yous know what I bin through, fuck you hey”. How can anyone know what “yous bin through” if post like the clues in a cryptic cunt-word in the fuckwit newspaper. 

By the end of Cheyenne and Alex’s brutal exchange, the Facebook community is still no closer to understanding Cheyenne’s clearly pressing life-tragedy. A few hours later, Cheyenne gets the niggling feeling that her sympathy-squad are doubting her sincerity. Time to go nuclear, she changes her relationship status from “single” to “its complicated”.

What the fuck, honestly, fuck all our lives if we need to read this oozing pus on the daily.

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The Human Zoo - Mr Bali

Bali: making yewww’ing poorcunts feel like kings since forever. Aussies with more tattoos than tolerance flock to the island to escape the shackles of law enforced acceptable behaviour that Australia so overbearingly demands of it’s citizens. They seek to purchase freedom for a discounted rate, yet it’s Australia’s reputation that always picks up the bill.

Johnno rocks up to the airport 4 hours early. The savings made on his budget ticket & accommodation will be used to sink as much piss as possible while bogan-frothing about “cheap ciggies and slarrrrts”. His banter is a lot like his encroaching shoulder-hair: thick and utterly stomach-turning.

He is no greenhorn when it comes to Bali, and his airport outfit conveys that message strongly: white Bintang singlet, Jet Pilot boardies, flogged out double pluggers and pair of white Arnettes with accompanying head strap. Mr Yewwwww on tour.

Johnno arrives in Kuta and checks into The Bounty. He wastes no time running down to the main drag and hires a scooter: the chariot of the drunk knucklehead. He drink drives directly to the closest pharmacy to stock up on enough ephedrine and Valium to simultaneously excite and calm down Russell O'Callaghan. 

While flicking through his wad of rupiah he regales the pharmacist with one of his opinions, “those Bali 9 pricks are fucked ay, dead shit druggos”. His errands are done, now it’s time to get trollied and urinate in the Bounty’s pool bar.

In between random outbursts of “Aussie Aussie Aussie” and “tits out for the boys”, Johnno manages to fine tune his pulling technique on a couple of Pilbara princesses with full braids and skin so red they look like a sunscreen-less Julia Gillard at La Tomatina.

He points at his Southern Cross chest tattoo, “see, it’s the Bali-mans tiny little hands, makes all the difference, best tatt I have ay”. He swims up to the bar like a Centrelink Dugong and orders another Bintang, “no worries boss”. Calling Johnno “boss” gets him a little hard and causes his face to resemble a dogs after it’s owner scratches the sweet spot behind it’s ear. “Respect I’m farking due ay”.

In preparation for Skygarden, Johnno bangs 3 Valiums up his arse and changes into his formal attire: black Bintang singlet and a pair of Rusty jeans that he’s had for 12 years. His sunglasses tan is as impressive as his fashion sense and he tears through Kuta on his way to Poppies Lane 2 for his customary mushie shakes.

 He smashes three and has the best night of his life at Skygarden: vomiting on the dancefloor, telling Balinese girls they should try a “real sized cock” and most importantly, fingering an Essex skank who neglected to tell him she was on her monthlies. “Can yous just take it up the kwon tonight, luv?”

In the morning, Johnno realises that he has pissed himself and his backdoor lover is not impressed. He flees into the morning and picks up some more Bintang to deal with his hangover. Back at his hotel room, Johnno decides to order in Maccas, he justifies his decision to his mate, “Bali food makes me shit ay”. He gorges on Maccas like a baby-bonus anaconda and urges his mate to “smell me finger”.

Absolute cretin.

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The Human Zoo - Mr Work X-mas Party

Keith is a walking sexual harassment complaint. A triple smoked ham of a man that has been cunting down the days until he can get utterly Buswell’d at the Christmas party

Today is the office party and can you sniff that? It’s the chair of opportunity, and Keith will surely wait until a figure huggin’ honey sits on it.

The office closes at 1:00pm and Keith swaps his suit jacket for a leather jacket that has been fashioned from the hide of a mid life crisis. One wet comb through his deforested scalp and he completes the look, “bra-snapper-chic”.

Upon arrival, Keith fist-fucks his goatee-hole full of canapes. He crams, half-chews and duck swallows like a ménage à trois of fat cuntery. Others party to his conversation are treated to not only shit banter, but a little prize, right from his mouth to their face.

Within the first 45 minutes Keith has slurped down his first bottle of win. He approaches a girl young enough to be his daughter and lets the cat out of the cradle, “struth, you brought the twins!” His leering gaze upon her exposed bust remains unbroken as she nervously giggles.

Next stop on the sex pest express is his 45 year old secretary. Cheryl’s cougar instincts have set in as she purrs at each joke hot Ricky from level 4 blurts out. Not on Keith’s watch.

Keith bowls on over and death grips hot Ricky’s hand like a savings-hungry priest on an altar boy’s dick... smith’s 20% off voucher. “I wouldn’t be so cheery if my sales figures were down 1.32% ay Rick?”

Funnily enough, Keith didn’t land the deathblow to Ricky’s puss-game like it had played out in his head. He adjusts his gut and waddles off to moister pastures.

Fuck it, he reckons as he drinks until his teeth are stained like an Orc. He begins to stagger through the dance floor like a semi sedated water buffalo in search of cocktail franks.

It’s now 10pm and Keith is mumbling incoherencies as he tries to speak his mind to a couple of more successful executives. “Maybe you should hit the waters Keith mate”.

Instead of taking it easy and drinking some water, Keith decides to tell Malcolm that his wife tongued hot Ricky’s balls at the office paintball day in February.

The function room staff look on in horror as Malcolm chokes hot Ricky with his bare hands as Malcolm’s wife swats at her husband with a Gucci clutch, “at least his dick works MALCOLM!”

Keith sways drunkenly in the breeze as he admires the trail of destruction he has caused. Triumphant, he turns to the weird IT chick, “me wife will be home, but we can use me daughter's room if you’re keen?”

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The Human Zoo - Mr Whipped

A 7:30am alarm sends couples-shivers down Chantelle’s spine. She looks longingly into William’s eyes while running her hand down his chest, “wouldn't a snuggle and some shopping be better than golf, babe?" He reaches for his phone: "cant make it guys frown emoticon". He knows his mates will be pissed off but he is a Mr Whippy’s soft-serve cunt that cant handle the separation anxiety of being away from his beloved girlfriend for a whopping 4 hours.

William signs onto their joint Facebook page - "William & Chantelle <3". Hands held, they update their status together - "Going shopping :P". The loved up pair walk around Garden City and decide that they would both like a skinny soy latte with half a packet of equal. They sit at the cafe and discuss the joint bucks/hens night they are planning. “This will be so much more meaningful than getting drunk with your yahoo mates and ogling skanks, right babe?” William nods and kisses Chantelle on the forehead, “so lucky to have you babe”.

If being a spineless soft-cock was a crime than William would be up in front of the Hague for crimes against cunt-manity. William spends the remainder of his Sunday morning following his missus around the Subiaco Markets and discussing their “meal plan” for the week. On the car ride home, William nervously musters up the courage to ask Chantelle for permission to attend his mates poker night. “Oh, um OK, I thought we were going to catch up on American Horror Story, but fine, do what you want hey”. Finally, William’s balls come back from their little getaway at Lake jelly-dick and he puts his foot down, “babe, I am going, and thats final!”

William arrives 30 minutes late to the Poker night. His face is frostbitten from the extreme exposure to the icy-shoulder he received from his scorned lover. During the game he seems vexed and disappears into another room to make a phone call. 45 minutes later Chantelle rocks up with a large loaf of bread hollowed out with dip inside. "Surprise guys, Chantelle's here!" His best mate shoots him a stare that can only be likened to Mike Whitney stink-eyeing a loser who didn’t dare to win.

By 8:45pm, William can no longer ignore the mega-bitch vibes he is copping from his bored girlfriend. “Alright guys, it’s getting late, and I’m taking the missus down to Mandurah tomorrow”. His mates grunt in acknowledgement. Thommo finally cracks it, and knocks the bread to the ground, “you are so fucking whipped, such a joke, mate”.

William looks over at Chantelle who is scowling like Germaine Greer at a FHM sponsored jelly-wrestling competition. He responds, “sif I am mate, you guys are just jealous because you all drunk and single!” The pair storm out and complain bitterly about his friend’s immaturity on the ride home.

A typical couple of his&her-cunts.

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The Raft-Up DJ

Raft Up: the day parents unwillingly donate their beloved boats for their children’s hedonistic floating Instagram-fest off Rottnest Island. An aquatic wonderland of connected boats, fake tits, arm-sleeve tattoos and most importantly, Perth’s premier amateur DJ’s who are going to whip off their shirts, pose for fish-lens photos and rinse that party like it was an old boys grundies after casserole night at the RSL.

Dimitri’s DJ resume reads like a depressing document of the half-arsed pursuit of a difficult skill. “Self taught” and armed with a shit-ton of pirated tracks he is ready to mix up all his favourite tunes on his CD Jacks. “Vinyls’ dead bruh”, shut up Dimitri - the ghost of Narccisist on Barrack would be rolling in his grave. #RIPNarccisist

Dimitri heads to Freo in a pair of tanning shorts, white singlet, Brazil flag Havaianas and his full DJ kit. His Aquinas mates welcome him, “Raft Up Brah!” Dimitri slaps hands and boards the vessel with a straight back: like an amateur musical God without a flock to bestow any higher props than, “we needed some cunt to do it”. Dimitri is that cunt. Oh yes he is.

The Aquinas lads vessel hooks up with other PSA boats in the designated areas. Everyone is slapping Banana Boat on and cheersing ice cold bevvies while perving on the amazing collection of Creatine-dicks and Chadwick rejects as far as the eye can see. Not Dimitri. He is setting up his sound-station on the cabin of his mates boat. He sweats, cusses and exhales in frustration, but eventually he drops his first tune.

He warms up the crowd with DJ Sammy’s Boys of Summer Remix. He pretends to utilise the fader correctly while the song slams its own weak drops. Those are the moments where he puts both hands in the air, first pumps and then pretends to concentrate on the mixer. They should call him DJ WinAmp.

Dimitri really wants a new beer, but he can't leave his station: a crew of Christ Church rinsers have boarded his vessel. He can't risk a mutiny and have his Jacks commandeered by some Trap Lord. Not on Dimitri’s watch. A large busted girl approaches Dimitri to check he is OK. He puts his finger up to stop her talking, Roni Size’s Brown Paper Bag is playing and he needs to pretend to affect the drop at the right moment.

The entire boat is chomping their faces off on pingas and Dimitri hasn’t so much as cracked a third beer. Who knows, Andy C might be on the next boat and discover him. There is no time to party when you are a shirtless Raft Up DJ.

Eventually, an AFL player boards the vessel and insists he is given a go at the music. Dimitri stews in his own juices while angrily telling a Motorway promo model about his upcoming gig at Shape. The AFL player drops Darude Sandstorm to the overwhelming cheer of the drugged up revelers.

Dimitri is defeated by the Y2K superhit.

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Ms Work Christmas Party

To take the edge off, Jodee necks two bottles of Yellowglen Pink before her work Christmas party. She isn't sure if her dress is too revealing, but given that she is showing off more skin than a serial killer's latest interior make-up over, you can safely bet it is. 

Within minutes of entering the function room, Jodee has a glass of bubbly in her hand and is making flirtatious chit chat with a couple of managers. The pot-bellied leer-lords take a big bite out of the cleavage buffet on offer and whisper inappropriate nothings to her. Each greased up comment sets her off like a Hyena on a helium bender. The sound of her cackling is suddenly silenced by the ominous shattering of her dropped grass. It has begun.

An office meathead yells “taxi” while a flurry of designated drivers and office matriarchs swarm upon the glassy hazard. Jodee is too drunk to feel shame and decides to make her move on one of the few single men in her office that don't need to freebase Viagra. He is unimpressed with Jodee’s ungracious slurring and snidely encourages her to “take it easy, ay”.

She drowns her sorrows and in a rapid landslide of emotion, her face begins resembling the Joker on the wrong end of a super soaker. Her work friends console the blubbering mess while she serenades them with a sonnet of self-pity. The girls try to sober her up but Jodee has a better idea. She stumbles like a T-Rex into the toilet and feasts upon a nice fat line of powdery dexampheta-yum.

Jodee emerges from her shame cocoon as a turbocharged cougar. She hits the d-floor and showcases dance moves that she pioneered while being grinded on at 3am at The Clink. Luckily for all, the music cuts out for the speeches. Red-faced directors slur out a few insincere pleasantries and then the bubbly office manager grabs the mic to make an announcement, “congratulations to Kim and Mike on their engagement!”

Jodee feels the jealous clock on her biological time bomb ticking, “HA! I Sucked his dick at the End of Financial Year party! HA”. Sweet Jesus. The room is tenser than the bicep in a gym selfie. Jodee’s entire cohort is staring at her while she puts the final touch on her disasterpiece: a power-yak all over the pin-striped bum-groper standing uncomfortably close to her.

The next day, Jodee experiences the holy trinity of the loser: hungover, jobless and shamed. Looks like it’ll have to be another Chrisco Christmas hamper this year ay, Jodee?

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Ms Anti-Vaccine

This is Linda and she is an anti-vaccine advocate. Priests hate her! As she has proven that you can ruin a generation of children without needing to put something in them! 

5 years ago, Linda transformed herself from bored Xanax munching housewife, to a new age holistic purveyor of well being. Something had to fill that pool-boy-penis shaped hole in her life, so she embraced yoga, clean eating and of course, relentlessly broadcasting anti-vaccine propaganda like it was an urgent storm warning.

Before yoga, Linda decides to wake up some sheeple with an anti-vax meme. The graphic contains uncited statistics and dubious quotes from American TV doctors. Unfortunately, Linda’s head is so far up her own arse that she is unable to smell the pungent stank of bullshit. She worsens the situation:

“I am a pro-choice mummy and will not let the wills of Big Pharma put my children's well being at risk. My kiddies have never had whooping cough or measles and that's because I give them super oils every day. Vaccines do more harm than good, stop putting our children at RISK Australia!”

Oh yeh, Linda just battled logic in a game of Mortal Cuntbat and delivered a 12 hit combo fatality. She floats off to her yoga class without the weighty burden of a fucking brain in her head. After the class, she rounds up a couple of mothers who she suspects are as “enlightened” as her.

“Darlings, my neighbour's kiddy has contracted chicken pox, so I am hosting a chicken pox party, bring your little balls of sunshine over and we can fight disease the natural way, by promoting our baby's immune systems”.

There will be more infecting going on than a hooker with a condom allergy at a Swanbourne public toilet dogging fiesta. After all, what's a horrible virus between friends ay?

It turns out that Linda underestimated the non-fuckwittedness of one of the mothers. She promptly alerts the other mothers at the school that Linda has finally jumped off the deep end of the gene pool and now wades in the window-licking shallows. More than a few concerned parents speak their mind.

It is decided that Linda’s children will not be invited to any of the class parties should Linda go through with her plan. Now, when you poke the bear of delusion you get DiCaprio’d. Linda turns into a mauling mummy and goes on a social media rampage. It’s not long until decorum takes its leave and Linda is in full tinfoil-hat mode.

Unsatisfied with just putting her children’s health in danger, she decides to strike a brutal blow to their social skills as well. Linda’s children will now be home-schooled in the arts of free thought, yoga and the benefits of mineral oil scrubs in the combat against infectious diseases.

Amazing how a chemical and GMO-free lifestyle can still make you sound like you are smoking meth.

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Ms Facebook Complaint

Carol bull-dykes around the Woolies organic section like she’d seen the red flag of a cuntador. Her child screams with all the freedom of progressive parenting and she loudly exhales to notify the world that she is aggrieved. Woolies' crime? Directly causing the starvation of her entitledlings by not stocking organic mushed peas with chia and mungbeans or someshit. 

Like a sexually frustrated deputy headmaster, she clicks her fingers at a 15 year old pleb restocking the shelves. “Do you seriously expect my child to eat Woolworths Select? Is it even organic? Really not good enough!” The pleb stares at her like a deer caught in the headlights of raging dickheadery. “Uh!! Let me speak to the manager, you CLEARLY can't help me”.

Having staunched a mid-pubescent Clearasil-cock, Carol prepares herself to savage the 20 something Woolies supervisor. The supervisor offers her no satisfaction so she storms out as irate as Troy Buswell after losing at musical chairs.

She returns home and immediately gives Woolworths a 1 star review:

“I am appalled that in this day and age, I am unable to shop for the brand MY child likes. EXCUSE ME for not wanting to poison my child with non-organic rubbish! When I asked for help I was met with unhelpful and RUDE staff! If I could give 0 stars I would. Absolutely outrageous”.

Ah the sweet vindication of the unreasonable fuckwit. She proceeds to 1 star Baker’s Delight for not stocking bread with the exact combination of seeds that her child needs and then attacks her local swimming school for removing her child from the pool after losing bowel control like a drunk uncle on a pull-out couch.

“How DARE you create a stigma around number twos. My precious darling was in tears, if I could give you a 0 star review I would! Outrageous. I demand a full apology!”

Carol is high on the thrill of acting like a bottle-less baby-cunt and decides to step up her online fuckery. She stumbles upon a viral video of the Loosest Aussie Bloke being as uncouth as a NRL player at a puppy farm. How dare adult content float around the bubble-wrapped land of Carol’s Facebook.

With no hesitation she resorts to reporting the video like the insecure fuddy duddied sack of human smegma she is. The world must be censored so her soft-cocked view of the world remains unfettered by the barbs of reality.

Facebook advises her that the content does not breach their community standards and the video remains. Not on her watch! She posts the link in a group of like minded captains on the SS Censor-ship. They bombard the risque video with complaints and generally behave like the video is the harbinger of social decay in western society.

She is unsuccessful on this attempt, but armed with 1 star reviews and a report-hungry finger, Carol will continue to mope like an armless masturbation addict.

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