The Human Zoo - The Perth Groupie

A few weeks ago, a footy player needed a date for a star-studded F1 after party. Now, there is a reason they call him the super trawler of poon, he snorts a couple of lines of coke and casts a vast net across Instagram, messaging 30 insta-hoes.

He manages a few nibbles and only one bite, but unlike John West, he’s more than happy to accept what Justin Bieber rejects. Jacqui is that fish and she knows she has found herself in a net of opportunity.

Gone are the days where she will have to add “@calvinklien” to every underwear-clad post in a desperate attempt to get some discount coupons and fool people into thinking she is sponsored. She was now aboard the S.S WAG.

After the event, she gets ploughed like a paddock after the harvest. She Snapchats the entire night and even posts a photo of her in his AFL gear the next morning. However, unbeknownst to Jacqui the farmer didn’t want a wife, he just wanted some guaranteed action.

He gives her his well rehearsed post-coital spiel about how she means so much to him, and even pays for her Uber back to the airport.

Back in Perth Jacqui wastes no time in activating full fame-leech mode. Firstly, she sets up a health & wellness blog and party planning Facebook page that she expects her new love to promote to his healthy following.

Like a shitbag Neo, he dodges all 64 of her phone call and message bullets over the coming week. That is until she decides to fly to Melbourne to confront him. No unrequited love is going to get in the way of her not wanting to work again.

She stalks him to a Chapel St cafe and confronts him. “Was I just some hooker to you?” Well kinda, but let's just say this athlete is a few molestations short of a church service. He freezes up, “uh ah nah babe like, my phone dropped in a toilet, um yeh new number ay”.

Nice try bud, but she’d launched a multi social media platform assault. A lost phone wasn’t going to cut it. Her dreams of full blown WAG’ery were fading but that didn’t mean she couldn’t milk the opportunity cow.

“Uh whatever, you promised to promote my business though, you are going to promote my business right?”

Shit Jacqui, the guy had consumed more coke than a fat kid at the HJs self service section. “Um look nah cos like, be a bit hard to explain to my girlfriend why I’m doing that ay, sorry Jacinta, was a pretty good night though I think”.

Oh shit. Calling her by the wrong name was the last straw and she threatens to blow & tell. “Look shit for brains, if you don’t share my business, I am going straight to the media, I bet they’d love to hear how you scream like Tarzan getting a prostate exam when you climax after 2 minutes”.

They end up settling on an Instagram post and a Mimco bag. If he’d remembered her name, she even would’ve told him that she’d pricked the condom and wasn’t on the pill. Now she plays the waiting game.

The Human Zoo - The Perth Foodie

Sara swoons out of her kitchen with deconstructed nachos served on square plates. Her uncouth barbarian of a friend opens his classless hole, “aw chips ‘n dip, you beauttttty”. 

Sara takes a moment to compose herself. “The protein was prepared via sous-vide and the kale garnish has been gently tossed with pink Himalayan rock salt OK?” In reality, the only thing that Sara is tossing is the gaping salad of pretentious cookery.

Sara spends the remainder of the meal talking up the complex flavours she has smoked in to her homemade corn chips. Sara is careful to not let the conversation veer too far from her culinary expertise. 

After all, you are at her house, eating her sweat and tears, show some god damn respect for this jus-serving MKR cunt. An awkward silence comes over the table as Sara retrieves dessert: sugar free poached pear, the culinary equivalent of fucking exercise. "Bon appetite". Ugh...

In between her constant trips to farmer’s markets and viciously dissing every meal on TV cookery shows, Sara has little time for romance.

Despite the odds, she is charmed by a bearded cheese-dick who she spotted berating a Leederville barista for “tainting” his coffee with a “slight char on the soy”. They bonded over stories of correct use of cream chargers and how Perth bogan’s couldn’t confit their way out of a greasy take away bag. 

The Zomatards head to a top restaurant, one of the few Perth establishments that are worthy of their culinary brilliance. Sir topknot has greased his cunt-antenna up and Sara’s resting bitch face is ready to eye-scowl the wait staff. 

Their first bottle of wine comes out and the pair swill it around in their mouths like a couple of stuck up washing machines. “No, no, no, no, I had good Tempranillo on the coast of San Sebastian, this is clearly corked, no”. 

The trained waiter whiffs the bottle, and politely disagrees. Sara’s face suddenly resembles something that eats it own young, “I think I know what I am talking about, bring us another bottle, very unprofessional”.

“I can't believe these Moreton bay bugs aren’t twice cooked”, the top knotted MasterChef agrees, “totes babe, really not Fat Duck standard”. In fact, the furthest either has come to Fat Duck is when a Tip Top truck rolled over next to Lake Monger at the annual dickhead BBQ. 

However, one must never let knowledge get in the way of super-critical culinary cuntery. Sara has only managed to crack a smile when a waiter tripped on King man-buns foot, and is quick to whip out her iPhone at the end of their meal. The final course for any dickhead foodie is always a hot serving on the eatery's page.

“Food was OK, wait staff were rude (never argue with the customer when you serve CORKED WINE!) and the plating up was amateur at best”. With the click of a button, she shits on the bold degustation and contributes to the ever-growing class of entitled diners who compare restaurant service to the shit they cook up in the kitchen of delusional grandeur.

The Human Zoo - Mr Perth Now

 

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. Oh, and if he disagrees with the articles subject matter it's a fucking slow news day ayyy. 

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-year 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... we don't even need a bloody bridge, and now it's gonna fucking collapse cos yous buitl it in CHINA using 457s”. 

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.

A Guide to Perthnow Commenters

1. Terry Tough Cunt

Terry is the toughest motherfucker behind a keyboard and pops up on articles regarding violent crime. That home invading crackhead better not choose Terry's dwelling next, or he will batter them so badly his wife will to ask to speak to the manager of the fish and chip shop.

He delights in dreaming up twisted vengeance methods, "lets just say I'd hook his cock  up to me Hills Hoist, attach me car battery and play ring around the raw-dicksie".

No penalty is ever tough enough for him either. Be it a burglary, rape or kicking a Quokka, the penalty is as stated above with that Hills Hoist weirdness.

2. The Expert 

No matter what subject, the expert reckons a bunch of highly specific shit about it. Generally, they pop up in regards to animal behaviour, responses to natural disasters and Government policy.

If you are lucky, the expert has at least plagiarised the first Google search they've come across, if you are unlucky then that reckoning has spewed directly out of their ever-open valve of shit.  Typically, they have achieved less in life than the sperm that thought it fertilised a piece of corn inside a pornstar's arse.

3. Mr Anti-Halal 

If he was a super hero, his power would be relating ANYTHING to "Islams", Halal certification and burqas. He also believes he has a PhD in Islam and loves spreading his thesis to anyone who will listen. Like seeing a pig's head at a Reclaim Australia rally, you aren't surprised but you do shake your head in a sort of disbelief.

Sometime you are genuinely impressed at the obscurity of the connection. "Oi SO them cunts can take me Commy for speeedin ubt Islams can wear towells on there HEADS in the bank ha ha h pissweak countries gon o the dogs"

4. Mrs Someone Think About the Children 

If offence culture had a face, it would be a suburban mum trying to start up a petition in a comment section to ban the sexualisation of toddler shoes with slightly raised heels on them.

You can pick this commenter out a mile away as she normally has better spelling from her mummy blogging (not always though). More importantly, she is the one that usually makes you want to punch a hole through your screen the most.

5. The FIFO

Everything is fuck all mate. From your working conditions to the current weather, this cunt has had it harder than nailing a head shot on Jaws in Goldeneye 64. Problem is every he says is as reliable as piss test after the 2006 Eagles premiership win.

For someone so battle-weathered he is mighty sensitive and will instantly call you jealous of his repossessed assets and 2 week coward punching benders. Oh, and don't mention 457, the combination that unlocks No.6 on our list.

6. The Caps Lock Crusader 

Mr Caps Lock can come in many forms. However, the best Caps Lock Crusaders know that the unadulterated caps lockery is essential to hammer home the ever important point you are trying to make.

"oi Jetstar i BOOKED my ticket 2 WEEKS ago and yous still haven't sent out an itinerary, NOT HAPPY!!!!"

Note how you wouldn't have understood the sentiment unless it was punctuated like a type-writer with tourettes?

The Human Zoo - Mr Imported Car Enthusiast

Ask any deadshit. Any real deadshit. It don't matter if you crash by an inch or a mile. Crashing’s, crashing.

Krys always knew he was going to make an impact on the import scene when he took out a $3k loan to purchase a 1990 s13 Nissan Silvia - complete with green P plates. It gets sooo many Instagram likes brah.

Much like a bogan on a Bali honeymoon, he wanted his bargain basement model to be decked out with the finest knock-offs money could buy.

To indulge his Lewis Cuntilton fantasy, he needed some racing bride seats for his car. His first port of call was low balling car enthusiasts on FB buy & sell pages:

“Ay bruz, saw ya add… not payin 4hunge but… can get one from china 4 like $150 ay… swap ya a half Oz for it ai? Also… give ya a point for that exhaust… good shit, keep ya up for a week ai”

Jesus, the only offer less appealing, is the spit soaked fingers of a windscreen washer gesturing towards his braided slurry for a quick double digiting behind both types of bushes.

Within months, Krys’ Silvia had more Chinese parts than you’d find under a Beijing serial killer’s floor boards. But hey, it LOOKED fast. He knew it was his time to graduate from sheep to wolf and he organised his own car cruise.

He posts an event on Facebook, “The Second Paul Walker Memorial Cruise”. An open invite to the sort of shit-eating fuck-eels that revere Paul as not only the greatest actor of all time but as some sort of drift-God.

Within minutes, a 16 year old posts in the event, “O.M.G, im dying! PW saved my life! Literally will suck someone off if they take me with them!”

Seeing as Krys is on a longer drought than a dick-cheese fanatic with a lactose intolerance girlfriend, he takes the jail-bait. “I’ll pick you up babe… riding in a rare JDM, so no teeth ;)”.

On the night of the cruise, Krys takes pole-smoking position and leads the attendees to Myaree for a spot of bubble tea. Seeing as his passenger is dressed like the love her father never gave her, Krys is quick to become toey and showy.

He chooses to reenact his favourite Fast & the Furious scene, he turns his head and stares deeply into his passengers eyes as he drives blind down Leach Highway. Within seconds he feels himself veer so he has a gander at the road and realises he's about to run a redder.

He slams on his brakes, but having scrimped on maintenance his plates are looser than Rolf Harris’ kwon after a year in prison. Well, he does manage to stop, not just himself, but the five rice burners behind him too. Absolute uninsured carnage.

Now that you won't be driving pal, you can have any brew that you want, as long as it’s a Cuntrona.

The Human Zoo - Mr I Hate Quokkas

There are two types of people in this world. One can walk past a playground and be happy that kids are playing. The other wants to get his clown costume on and line the back floorboards of his house with some fresh kid-sulation.

So generally when guests to Rotto Island encounter our beloved Quokkas, they look like dickwits trying to get a selfie 'em. Or if you are Johnno, you find ways to outdo your predecessors in the art of Quokka assault.

School leavers pioneered “Quokka Soccer”, some French cunt-ssaints lit one up with a deodorant can and two shit-for-brains attempted to make a David Attenborough movie, if David had been kept in a cage and forced to wear a mask of his mother’s skin every night.

Oh and fuck, just recently a Kiwi businessman, probably banging on endlessly about the fucking Bledisloe Cup showed the island exactly why he was never an All Black and launched a little guy off the jetty.

Much to our surprise and delight, a Quokka is a bit like Eric the Eel and can swim. A fact that Mr Kiwi businessman probably didn’t know. Making him the worst thing to come from New Zealand since their entire population every year.

Johnno knows he has some stiff competition. To join the list of window-lickers who have been financially ruined, criminally recorded or deported he will need to step up his game.

He is suddenly struck by inspiration from when he drank an entire goon bag at leavers. I’ll tea-bag one!

Now, tea-bagging is practiced by people who need to run their finger under each word when they read and involves putting your ball sack on someone or somethings head.

Now judging by Johnno’s Tinder matches it would appear he is used to bestiality. But the key difference between a rum-pig and a Quokka is the Quokka isn’t going to be won over by a second hand SS Ute and a 4 pack of Bacardi Breezers.

Society is hoping he has a figurative light bulb moment and realises his plan is dumb as fuck, alas he uses that bulb to freeze his lungs with enough ice to help him destroy a carton of Toohey’s Extra Dry.

It’s now 4pm and Johnno hears the rustling of tiny beast in his Geordie Bay court yard. He sprints outside with his pants off and starts hopping around trying to squat on it like a girl trying to have a piss in the ant-infested bush land of a Swan Valley winery.

Turns out the Quokka didn’t appreciate this dickhead either, so he got his little claw and slashes Johnno’s banjo string like a redneck wife sick of her husband’s animal-rooting jam sessions.

A butchered dick, animal cruelty charges and an unharmed Quokka. Finally, a win for our furry little friends.

The Human Zoo - Mr Joint Facebook Account

Karen and Stanley’s marriage is a lot like wanking in a mate’s sleeping bag: sure it feels comfortable, but ultimately it ruins friendships. Near friendless but in love, Stanley sails the lonely sea of isolation, guided only by the shining star of his yearly tooth-happy birthday gobby.

One fateful night, Stanley consumed his permitted 6pack in record speed. Drunk on misadventure, he ripped off his shirt and sent a blurry topless mirror selfie to a babe’ing coworker. The grainy snap was heavy on the under chin angle and about as sexy as an airport toilet glory hole. Stanley waited with bated breath. Seen. But never replied.

Unbeknownst to Stanley, Karen has checked his phone ever since a “random slut” liked his profile picture in 2014. World War 3 erupts and after weeks of sleeping on the couch, a treaty is agreed on. Stanley was about to enter the emasculating world of joint Facebook account ownership. He will never be able to forgive himself for betraying his love, but at least he can atone for it.

“Karen andStan” wasted no time making its mark on social media. Every photo posted was of Karen and her girls and the endless Minion memes led their contacts to believe that Stanley was barely even a co-pilot on this starship cunterprise. Nevertheless, there was always an undue confusion as to who the fuck was actually using the account.

Karen receives a notification about a bucks night invite. She permits Stanley to temporarily re-attach his balls and use the account to let them know he was “maybe attending”. He comments, “Sounds good guys, would love to come”. Karen snatches her phone back, and replies to the comment, “ha ha if he gets permission!!!! Ha ha”.

The exchange sends dickless shockwaves down Stanley’s spine. He has had enough and replies again, “p*ss off Karen!”. Holy shit.

The red mist of mega bitchery fogs Karen’s vision. She goes into attack mode and replies, “HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT!! Guys, he thinks he is a big man, but trust me, he is VERY SMALL”.

The capslockery stokes his masculine wiles, “I’ve bl**dy had enough babe! I’m going to the event and that is that, Chr*st almighty”.

The atmosphere is tense with anticipation. Stanley's barely-mates are desperate to know who emerged the victor of this clusterfuck of awkward weakcuntery. Well, they don’t have to wait long, as Karen andStan post a status update:

“I would you all to know that Stanley is very sorry for the comments he made on FB and says he will definitely be taking his lovely wife Karen out for dinner tonight! Xoxo”.

Jesus.

Ms Perth New Zealander

Trish is rougher than Vulcan giving you a jack-job with a sand-papper’d fleshlight before Mike Whitney asked if you were ready.

She was born in Rotorua and spent the majority of her 20s travelling the world drinking with as much regard for herself as a cult member at a Kool Aid clearance sale.

Now at the tender age of 28 she sits at the front desk of a Rockingham car dealership and lives her life one shameful Liquids display at a time.

It’s Wednesday afternoon, so Trish has her phone cocked and is playing a game of dick-hunt on her slut-tendo entertainment system. Success, she managed to find a bloke who claims he is gainfully employed. They match.

Her mulleted lothario greets her at her door, “uh wanna grab a feed or some shit?” Trish snorts, “ya feel like Chinese?” He pauses as he tries to determine it’s halal status, “uh yeh”. Trish chortles, “good, cos if ya play your cards right you’ll be eating some pussy later ay”.

Lucky for Trish, casual racism turns him on, and they head straight to the pub. After several beers, Trish offers to buy a round. Her date watches her muffin top flow over her denim cut offs that are so short they make a North Korean politicians lifespan look long. The icing on the muffin is a Silver Fern tramp stamp. Delish.

Trish brings back 4 shots. “yous Aussies are weak ay, we’d be having tea pot shooters in New Zealand ay”. She slams 3 and gives her date 1, “try to keep up ya big figgit”.

The rest of the date consists of Trish moaning about Australia and telling her date she plans to get tribal tats despite having no connection with any tribe.

Half way through the date, Trish leans over the table and launches a bushman’s blow right onto the floor. Her date can’t take it anymore and drags her into toilet cubicle for some sex that’d be rightfully accompanied by some David Attenborough commentary.

Her date can tell she is disappointed, after all, she’s been the hooker in a ferocious amateur Dunedin’s rugby team’s scrum.

To be fair, she can tell her date is also disappointed, as she’s got vomit all over his 3 year old Unit shirt. All in all, this was a successful date.

Trish races home to make sure that this cunt hasn’t cooked up her fucking eggs. Shit. She missed he pill regime.

Oh well, it’ll just have to be plan B tomorrow: just like she claims living in Australia is.

Top 5 Things to Do On a WA Public Holiday

1. Lose Your Mind Over Petrol Prices

Let the petrol priced hate flow through you like pollutants in the Gulf of Mexico. You can either rant like a lunatic to everyone you talk to or pull out a classic lower-middle class dad move and drive 45km to an obscure station to save $1.10 on fuel.

2. Get Double Demerit'd

Perth is all about choices. Either drive a precautionary 25km under the speed limit or get so frustrated you drive like you're gold starring in Mario Kart and cop the blue shell of licence suspension. Hell, you may even lose your job and subsequently your marriage, after all you know what they say, change is as good as a public holiday.

3. Take a Labour Day Selfie

What's Labour Day all about? Minimum wage or some shit. You don't know, fuck you probably don't care, but don't let that stop you from commemorating the day by getting your tits out and putting your face through so many filters you would think you were drinkable African water.

4. Fail to Pace Yourself

Three days off seems like an eternity from the soul destroying full timery you are forced into each week. You will promise to turn the weekend into a full blown Pepsi Max commercial. Well, the best laid plans of gronks and men go yeww'y when on the first night you consume more piss than Donald Trump in a Russian Brothel. By Monday you'll be lucky if you can get out of bed.

5. Shame Yourself at Rotto

Rotto is a beautiful island that turns into a shame buffet, and you know you're hungry. Maybe you can flirt with a rich wanker for the opportunity of having an unpaid insta-modelling shoot on his boat. Alternatively, become unemployable by kicking a Quokka, when in reality, you should be kicking your crippling shitcunt habit.