The Human Zoo - The Perth Tradie

On site, Dane contributes as little as a limp-dicked cornerjacker at a bukake. Work 5 minutes with him and you'll realise he has a dual trade in talking shit and one-upping stories.

On smoko, Dane overhears a sparky talking about a root he copped on the weekend. Unable to leave this young buck's story unchallenged he sucks in his bourbon-belly and drops a bullshit-bomb,

“Yeh nah, nah, nah thats fuck all ay, I ‘member when I was fuckin’ working on the Mandurah line, there was this fuckin’ little oriental sluzza, anyway, after 2 fuckin’ hours I was giving her the old heave-ho on smoko. Up the bum too!”

Ah yes, the Mandurah line. You see, Dane was once the leading hand on the Mandurah rail project and like a footy dad berating his unco child, he can't seem to let go of his glory days.

After revolting the sparkies with his sexual untruths, he spots a young plumber shoveling like a British necrophiliac after Princess Di’s funeral. He stares at the hard working boy and lights up a smoke:

“Half way through installing me old lady's sisters below ground pool, me shovel broke, I said fuck it, and dug the rest with me bare hands, piece of piss mate ”.

The exhausted lad doesn’t know how to respond. He just stares blankly at the high-vis version of Santa Clause that merely drops nuggets of shit down the chimney of hard work.

Having inspired one member of the younger generation he finds his own apprentice, cocks his leg, rips a wet one and chucks a pineapple his way: “smoko cunt, fuckin’ grab us some Red Rooter would ya”.

While his slave is off fetching his chow, he takes the opportunity to big note his latest tool acquisition. A Milwaukee impact drill. Top of the fuckin’ line. He talks passionately about the 900-newton metre extension to his penis. 

It’s now 2:30 and Dane has literally done no work. He decides to help his apprentice out with a stubborn nut. “You fuckin’ peanut ha ha, stand aside and pass me a wrench and the persuader would ya?” The apprentice stares blankly, “the hammer, mate, the fuckin’ gentle persuader, ha ha ha”.

Despite calling a hammer a persuader every single time, Dane still smugly grins like it was a mic dropping moment at the Apollo. The boy musters up a cackle in fear Dane might tell another vulgar joke about “poofters”.

Finally, tools down. Dane's excited, it’s 4 pack time. He storms into the bottle-o and eye-fucks a pack of Devil’s Cut like a Thai hooker looks at a fat-shit wearing crocs.

After smashing the tins he pulls into the Inglewood car park to start his monsoonal assault on the back bar, the forecast: blithering shit-showers with a chance of terry tough-cuntery.

Ms Pauline Hanson

Like a Jetstar flight full of Bali-bellied bogans, the smell of patriotism has wafted into Western Australia. Pauline Hanson is in town.

Pauline was worried her trip to Sydney had given her ethnic-fooditis, so once in Perth she headed to a fair dinkum Aussie steak night.

At around 7pm Pauline and her entourage arrived at Botanica and are seated. After an hour a bodyguard suggested they move on as the atmosphere seemed a bit off. Pauline stares at him like Nick Kyrgios’ Tinder date after he finished as quick as the Aussie Open. She launches into full denial:

“I don’t like that Steve, there is no evidence to suggest the atmosphere in here has changed at all, and any further discussion into this social climate would be a waste of time, there is just no evidence Steve.”

They continued drinking until Pauline saw something that shocked her. A young perky waitress carrying a burger out to a nearby table. Pauline knows she can make a change, she is angry, excited and wants to get involved,  kind of like Chris Brown watching a woman’s UFC match.

“Missy, missy, no, no, you shouldn’t be forced to serve that burger. In Australia we do steak sangas, I’ve said it for bloody years, the burger is oppressive to one's appetite and it’s not the Aussie way. Ban the bloody burger!”

When Pauline’s own food arrives she brandishes her own bottle of tomato sauce from her bag. She turns to her friend, “I don’t trust most sauces these days sometimes they conveniently forget to put halal on the ingredients list, but you know it’s in there”.

They dine merrily until Rod Culleton stumbles into the venue trying to avoid being served a writ. “Oi cunts, who’s up for more pints, on me!” Pauline looks at her personal Judas and snaps, “no, fuck off, we’re full”.

After their meal, a staffer comes to clear the tables and notices Pauline hasn’t touched her salad. “Was everything ok with your meal Ms Hanson?” Pauline looks her in the eyes, “look luv, I didn’t love the salad, so I left it, love it or leave it, that's what I always say”.

Then Pauline was struck with an epiphany, why is this ethnic-ish waitress clearing her table, when there is an unemployed drunk Aussie bloke at the bar doing nothing? She interrupts the clearing, “now look, you’ve swooped in, without even giving that fair dinkum bloke over there a chance to clear these tables, I don’t like it”.

At the end of the night, Pauline decides to show her true Aussie spirit and get the bill. While waiting to pay she notices a man ignore bar etiquette and jump the queue. She scorns the  manager, “please explain why you don’t have stricter barriers and bollards? That lot will bloody do it every time you know”.

Well, you wouldn’t read about it, the bill comes to $457. The manager cheekily asks if she’d like to leave a tip. Pauline flaps her hands like a China made Aussie flag on a Toyota Camry, “get your till fixed yes, there is something very wrong with your system, very wrong”.

The Human Zoo - Little Miss Corporate

Jessica’s constant gloating about her grad position is like using the party potato salad to relieve your yeasty itch: it makes her feel good but leaves everyone else feeling a bit sick.

In her mind, being offered a $60k entry level finance position has redefined the notion of human achievement. In one fell swoop, she has Gillard’d herself above her peers and stands as a role model for women, nay, humans everywhere.

Like most Wall Street ballers, Jessica occupies the top 1% of her parent’s dwelling. Without the need to slay the demons of rent and bills, she is free to spend her salary on powersuits, heels and leather document holders.

Basically, she dresses exactly like the sort of shit head who says she will “pencil you in”, despite her entire day consisting of making coffees for man-gunted fat cats who leer-dream about her juicy spreadsheets.

Most of her day consists of sending people Linkedin requests and being Facebook’s biggest shit-eater. How does one achieve this? By “checking in” to work every morning and showboating work she's barely involved in:

“Getting ready to value a client's assets for a float… think i’m going to need a coffee… or three! haha#justfinancethings”.

It's exactly the sort of status that leaves her friends looking at their screens like Elliot Stabler looks at vicious felonies.

It’s now Thursday and Jessica attends a corporate wankfest sundowner. A meet & greet that will allow her to demonstrate her “value” and what a strong female role model she truly is.

That is until she has necked 2 glasses of mid tier wine and sends the 2IC a Linkedin message strongly implying she would like to go at the man’s soggy booze-noodle like an Asian businessman sucks on a ciggy.

Sometimes to stand tall, you have to get on your knees. Lo & behold, she is already winning. She is given permission to use a colleague's office for 2 days while he is on leave.

She snaps more photos than a Belmont janitors toilet cam and relentlessly posts the news of her “office” on social media. Clearly she was born without the segment of her brain that gauges whether people give a shit or not.

A knock on the door disturbs her online gloating. It’s a young sparky who needs to wire some shit. She barely acknowledges his blue collar existence as she grunts and moans every time the pleb asks her to move. She fires off a text to her friend, “omg gross like a tradie is in my office, smells like sweat”.

Nah he smells like someone who earns twice your salary you she-schmuck.