Top Signs You Might be a Pyramid Seller

1. Life Hasn’t  Gone the Way You Hoped

In the JB Hi-FI bin of life, someone has to be the M*A*S*H box set, and it's probably you. You married an idiot, you manage your money like a bogan at a strip-club and you have the employment prospects of John Wayne Gacy at a Cirque du Soleil audition. You are EXACTLY the sort of superstar that pyramid selling attracts. Hell, you may even be one? Let’s find out more.

2. Your product is a total bag of shit

Actually, that is not fair. Even a bag of shit is useful when used to promote growth in agriculture. No, your product is as useful as a pack of condoms at a Young Liberal’s conference. See, the thing about the free market is that people usually spend their hard earned on things they either want or need. Which category does your goat’s cum skincare range fall under? The bin category mate.

3. You Have Become Scarily Intense

After just a few weeks of pyramid selling, you will have developed the unblinking stare of a serial killer's sex doll wrapped in his mother's skin. Your social media acquaintances have become your prey and if the first 10 messages & tags don't work, maybe another 55 will. Remember, go for the throat. Are they fat? Call ‘em that. Are they spotty & pale like a ranga’s shlong? Tell 'em! Your shit isn't going to sell itself and there is only one Cuntopatra in the game of pyramids. 

4. La di da di You Like to Party

Most pyramid selling is done online these days. However, your so-called “loved ones” have learned they can block you. What do you do? You go old school and organise a party! What kind of party? An event that makes a lemon party seem sweet, that's what! (Don't look that up). Once they are in your lair, you will be able to increase your intensity and pressure them into buying a second-rate vibrator or blow their next mortgage repayment on some shit-your-dacks tea.

5. You Fake It Until You Make It

The only thing more important than success is giving off the appearance of success. To that end, you will likely lease a car you can’t afford and get custom plates which shamelessly plug your shoddy company.  Apart from the deluded successful lifestyle you portray on social media, you may even get a chance to hold seminars. Where you can lie to yourself in front of future leeches in a room that makes the Bull Creek Footy Club look like the Hyatt. 

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The Human Zoo - Mr Perth Hoon

Dex’s Commodore is currently checked in to the Hotel Confiscat-afornia, but it wasn’t always like this.

It was the December of ‘14 when Dex invested in his VN in phoenix red. His misso and her kid will never forget the burnout he “done” on their driveway that day. The skid mark was thicker than anything she’d ever seen on his silk boxers.

Dex thoroughly believes you can measure your love for some other cunt’s kid by the change left over from your non-competitive car loan repayments. Accordingly, it was a tough X-mas for young Shon’Taey, but Dex really reckons she loves her new Chevy badge.

Unfortunately, the misso was less than impressed with the gift she got from Dex - a rather aggressive infection that Dex will swear he knew "nuffin" about - although deep down in her heart she knows she "seen" her sister itching in the same region. Naturally, Dex doesn't need this shit right now so he grabs his keys and goes for a cruise.

He pulled up at some lights with his Oakleys on and Commodore-arm out the window. After spotting a Camry he starts revving like the accelerator was attached to a penis enhancement pump.

As the light turned green, he lets out a mighty “YEWWWWWWW”, and drops a hektik skid, narrowly avoiding a collision with several cars. Did someone say Ebola outbreak? Because that was sick as fuck.

There was no time to admire the skidmarked carnage on the road, as he spotted a methy contingent of Snapback wearing cretins milling around an inferior vehicle in a Chicken Treat carpark.

Dex wasted no time lighting up his tyres and dropping the hottest single pegger of 2018. As the smoke cleared he was left with the laughter of drongos and the red & blue flash of doom.

He turned on his car cam and did his best to antagonise the police, “AM I UNDER ARREST, NO ANSWER ME, AM I UNDER ARREST OR AM I FREE TO GO”. Long story short, yes he was and his car was impounded too. Double whammy.

He was utterly devastated until he turned on Channel 9 one fateful evening. One of the Chicken Treat carpark cretins had sent in the video of his skid. He had officially attained the highest level of hoon notoriety.

“Farken grimslut ay”, oi babe, come check out my skid ay”

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The Human Zoo - Ms Perth Millennial

At 7am on a Saturday morning, Amy realises that she has hit rock bottom. She was an addict. All it took was the promise of brunch for Amy to bring that creepo home and let him smash his avo-cocko in her sourdough box.

In her defence she wasn’t thinking right as in an effort to raise $500M to become a “self-made” property powerhouse she hasn’t had a $4 coffee in days.

Sadly, the $16 in her savings account depressed her. Her deposit wasn't even close to being lit. She decides to follow Gurner’s advice and go nuclear by making up the difference by purging her wanderlust and going cold turkey from her #takemeback posts.

She shivers through a Thursday without re-posting that photo from Ibiza where she kinda looks like Kendall Jenner if you just squint your entire perception. Fuck still broke!

To add insalted caramel to injury, her diarrhoea tea business has folded as it turned out her relentless social media plugging was giving everyone enough of the shits as it was.

She was officially at odds with life as the list of what she can’t even grew out of control. She was having a mid-millennial crisis
.

She decides to take a long hard look at herself in the mirror. Literally. She can’t believe it, the answer was there all along. How fucking on fleek are her eyebrows and how many other girls have eyebrows like a leering Taxi driver?

Just like Picasso didn’t need market research, neither did Amy’s brow-artistry ambitions. She picks up the basics from Priceline and sets up a few social media pages, “High Brows by Amy”. Original.

Years of pyramiding like an Egyptian slave had equipped Amy well for the final stage of her plan: mercilessly harass her friends and family to book her services. Her reluctant aunt caves in after her 5th message.

Halfway through Amy’s aunt asks whether he can do lashes too. For an extra $50 sure she can. Sadly, her aunt would live to regret it, as you’ve probably seen people convicted of Sharia Law walk away from a lashing treatment in better shape.

Yassss, $100 bucks. She heads straight to a cute little cafe and gets a double serving of smash avo. The vicious cycle continues.

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The Human Zoo - Mr Bali Bongo Drums

Dylan trawls through Tinder with balls bluer than the Cookie Monster after a hot shot of smack.

After matching with an alluring Tindress, he skips the dance of the softcock and goes in harder than an Italian stallion on the Metros' dancefloor, “you, me, Bali, let’s go?”

6 hours later they are bonding over Bintangs on a beach in Bali. Life is good, but Dylan has an itch that can’t be scratched by mere booze and digit-orientated lust.

So, like Cuntrick Lamar, he fills a swimming pool fulla mushrooms and he dives in it.

Psilocybin powers him up like Mario dodging bullets of responsibility in a castle of distorted reality. Life becomes a colourful bowl of penne ao funghi and much like Dylan it is cooked al dente.

Life is great, but like the blooming toadstool he is, Dylan decides he needs to make like a spore and be gone in the wind.

Luck is on his side as he pulls off one of the greatest plays in cooked history: managing to book a ticket to Thailand to continue being a fun-gi.

Perhaps it was the bats that spooked him, perhaps he forgot how to use his phone, either way Dylan never informed his friends and family of his little trip extension.

Have you ever Yolo’d so hard that you caused an international search? No? Then lift your game.

You can turn your back on Perth, but you should never turn your back on a mushroom, and in the land of discrete Adam’s Apples, a hallucinogen can be risky. Survival kicks in and he heads for the beach.

His next step is what any reasonable man would do after consuming more mushies than a vegetarian with an iron deficiency: he buys a bongo drum.

He belts that drum like he was a Freo Docker in a kebab shop. Liberated from the shackles of life by the beat of his own drum.

Well, the shroom-cocoon was penetrated by rudderless moon-unit who recognised him from the international search. “Mate, like, New Zealand and Australia are looking for you dude”

Oh right. Shit.

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The Human Zoo - Mr Tax Return

A tax return is like winning the lotto for people who don’t realise that it’s their money to begin with, and much like a scratchie-card thousandaire the money will be squandered like the WA boom time profits. 

Todd doesn’t want to repeat the mistakes of yesteryear. The tax advice he got from the living silhouettes of Mike Nolan on site proved problematic. As it turns out a “just farken claim anyfink” mentality made Todd’s return stand out like a Hi-Vis’d lollipop man proactively directing traffic.

His stay at hotel auditoria was bleak, so this year he decides to ring Simon, an accountant he used to go to school with. The call is awkward as Simon is the friendship equivalent of a Michael Buble Christmas CD: boring and only useful once a year.

To be fair, Simon is just stoked at the human contact. Plus after overindulging on 3 glasses of wine at the EOFY party, he feels he needs to put a halt to his crazy once-annual party lifestyle. They agree to a carton of beer for his services.

After paying back what he owed from last year, Todd gets back $2,500 and combined with his fortnightly pay he is literally a millionaire. Simon tries to offer some sage wisdom, “transfer it straight to your high interest credit cards mate”. Todd almost contracts nerd-AIDS from that unconsented penetration of his cashed up vibe.

Like the Warren Buffet of Baldivis, he puts $50 to his credit card and goes on a little spending spree. He blows most of it on flights to Bali, new Oakleys and a bottle of dexies. He was the Pablo Escobar of ADD medication and he was loving it.

Upon his return from the land of the dog satay, he stares at his bank balance the way Fyfe stares at his Brownlow chances, “how did I let it come to this”. A week ago he was loaded, and this week he had managed to not only burn through his tax back, but his rent and bill money too.

It seems the newly inked Southern Cross tattoo had mislead this debt sailor onto the shallow reef of fucking dickheadery. His shipwrecked finances looked dire until they attracted the beautiful but deadly siren of the Nimble loan.

“You beauty, what could possibly go wrong?” Todd reckons. After all, if you can’t beat debt, join debt

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The Human Zoo - Ms Facebook Mumma

Dani spent 9 months slow cooking a little bundle of Facebook irritation. Her little angel’s day of birth marked the happiest day of her life, and the day she became an ISIS-grade Facebook terrorist. “Dani added a new life event: had a child”. An ominous prelude to the tidal wave of baby shit that was going to smear your social media Huggies. 

Dani’s baby related Facebook carpet-bombing started off as a light assault on your care levels. A few posts a week showing her precious angel rolling around and acting disturbingly similar to how you conduct yourself while in the grips of some heinous hangover. This was the infant calm before the baby storm. On a bleak Friday afternoon, Dani loses her fucking mind and posts a picture of her little munchkin's shit stained nappy, “Oops little bubba made a mess haha xoxo #blessed”. Lord have mercy.

Everyone elses childling is a bald headed little piss pot, but Dani’s bubba is a supermodel, actor and comedian all rolled into one ray of sunshine that insists on glaring out your eyeballs while you try to drive down the road of patience. After the shit-gate incident, Dani tones it down a bit and posts a video of her sprog crying like a teenage girl at Justin Beiber’s coming out party, “oh mr grumpy bum is grumpy! haha xoxox #NewBornThingz”. Watching the video is as enjoyable as having breaky with your Tinder date’s family after a night of un-lubricated love making.

Months bang on and Dani’s Facebook posts starts to turn sinister, “LISTEN, whether I vaccinate my child is MY CHOICE and anyone who says otherwise can suck eggs - feeling angry :@ :@ :@”. It is unclear whether the update was born in the pits of self righteousness or plain ignorance, nevertheless, Dani has read some articles and by virtue of procreation is an expert on the subject. She argues mercilessly with everyone who comments on her post. Turns out churning out a placenta is tantamount to education these days.

The winds of temperament change as fast as they gust, and within 2 hours Dani is back to sharing "totes hilar" baby memes from the cutest bowels of Facebook. If you want to experience the pains of childbirth, reading Dani’s page is a good start.

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The Human Zoo - The Perth Baby Boomer

Frank is the sweat patch on society’s shirt: unwanted but hard to get rid of. 

After 35 years in the same job, Frank has finally climbed to the staggering heights of middle management. His dinosaur-ic approach to work is only matched by his penchant for barking orders while his boomer-hole is filled with a gluttonous load of morning tea. 

When it comes to technology Frank has a two tricks up his sleeve: leaving voicemail messages and accessing Perthnow via “that Google website”. After his daily destruction of the toilet bowl, Frank logs onto his favourite News provider.

He spots an article about a “Gen Y’er” complaining about Centrelink taking too long to approve his study allowance. He stares at the article like he’d spotted a youth sagging his pants. The rage of pompous capslockery pulsates through his sausage like fingers:

“PFFT YEH RIGHT! Typical gen Y, oh poor me poor me. When I was that age I bloody got a job, SHOCK HORROR! Didn’t rely on handouts or sook on the twitter BOO HOO WAAA WAAA. Needs a bloody boot up the backside if u ask me lol”.

Wise words from a man that entered an uncompetitive job market under the employ of his father. Besides, who wouldn’t want to follow in his footsteps? A man who stagnated in an ambitionless pool for 3 decades. A man who “bloody got on with it” rather than dared to remove the condom of complacency and bareback the shit out of his dream.

Panic comes over his face as he receives an email. He beckons his secretary in and demands a refresher course on how to deal with the bewildering situation. Thank fuck that crisis was averted. He can finally get back to his beloved Perthnow.

He spots an article that puts his heart under greater strain than his generation does the welfare system. “Home Ownership Out of Reach for Gen Y”. He can't believe this bullshit, what would an economist know anyway? Frank's from the University of Life.

“Well it isn’t bloody rocket surgery, STOP buying iPads, get a job and save up just like their bloody parents did. BUT NOOO, that would involve getting off Myspace and not vomiting all over Europe! Worthless”.

A Gen Y’er fires back, “we’re too busy paying for your lots healthcare and negative gearing to afford a deposit lad”.

Does this punk not know Frank owns 3 properties with a combined profit of negative $15k a year? He is a fucking tycoon. As for the healthcare strain, Frank is very happy with the public system thank you very much you HECS-debt'd shitcunt.

Well it’s clear what Gen Y’s problem is, they got their sense of entitlement from their elders.

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