The Human Zoo - Ms New Year New Me

Natharsha’s 2019 is off to a flying start. She has already lost 5kg from her NYE Origin pinga-fest and even woke up with her arms wrapped around the only constant rock in her life: the toilet bowl.

After serenading her housemates with the song of her stomach lining Natharsha was ready to be her best self, take 2019 by the horns and ride it like a stolen Commodore. She announces her intentions:

“2018 was pre lit, but also pre shit lol, 2019 is the year of Tarsh!!! There are dreamers, doers and then there is ME, new year new ME. Oh and no hate, I ain't bout that life, so if you are a jealous bitch you’re getting blocked in 2019! You do you, babes, and I do me”

Why does everyone born around the late 90s talk like a fucking idiot? Oh well with any luck, her No.1 “hater”, her father, may even stop staring into the cold abyss of parental failure when asked about her, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

After briefly glancing through a copy of The Barefoot Investor her mum got her for Christmas she opens up a new savings account. Feeling like the Warren Buffet of low fixed interest rates she turns her mind to filling it.

Unfortunately, her LashesByTarsh business is barely fending off the barbarians of rent and Afterpay, she doesn’t have any more second-hand clothing to flog off on Facebook and her boyfriend dumped her for sponging up his shit like a ShamWow infomercial.

Then it dawns on her if Snapchat views were dollars she’d be as loaded as Huey's second plate at Sizzler. It is so obvious, she embraces the spirit of bobs & vagene and starts plugging her “Premium Snapchat” on social media. 

What is a “Premium Snapchat”? Well, it’s an ordinary Snapchat account where naughty pictures are shared in exchange for a PayPal transfer. Why would someone pay? Well they either missed the memo on the whole “porn is free” thing or they are so thirsty they make a vulture stalked African child look hydrated. 

Well, there you have it, a savings account, drug-induced malnourishment and a foot in the porn door. Resolutions more basic than a headshot in GoldenEye with DK mode activated.

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A Guide to New Year’s Eve

1. Put the Night on a Pedestal 

The Earth has gone to all that effort of making a full rotation around the sun so you should spend hundreds on a night that fails to deliver so often, that it may as well be called AusPost.

2. The Mandatory 2018 Social Media Reflection

There are two #basic paths you can take on your reflection post. You can use it as a way to rub the smug-shit of your success in everyone's face for one last time or alternatively, you can use it to simply blame “2018” on the fact you made less progress than Michael J Fox building a house of cards.

3. Bore People with Your #newyearnewme Resolution

If the entirety of 2018 wasn't long enough to become a better person, the 1 day jump to 2019 is all you will need to completely change. The key is convincing other people you are going to stick to your bullshit, so keep them on the edge of their seats about your plans to sign up to a gym or open a fucking savings account. You're a total inspiration.

4. Snapchatting the Countdown is More Important than Experiencing It

If you couldn’t get over the excitement of a room full of people counting to 10 and then yewing fear not, because every single story on your Snapchat and Instagram will be a blow by blow account of it, some might even include fireworks. That is essentially how the countdown will be spent, millions of people filming footage that no one will ever want to watch. Killin’ it.

5. Getting Home

Better start sucking up to that boring, non-drinking friend you normally avoid like a warm patch in a public pool. Ubers will be sur-chaaaarging like Benny Cousins on day 3 and Taxis have no doubt added another button that quadruples your fare for no reason. You could try Perth’s famous public transport system if you are prepared to enter the mobile UFC octagon cage which will ultimately leave you stranded at a closer, yet equally inconvenient location to your abode. 

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The Human Zoo - Mr Why Haven't My Bins Been Emptied?

For decades, Ron has maintained relative peace with his Council overlords based on the understanding they pick up his shit on Wednesday and in return he doesn’t send them abusive handwritten letters.

So you can imagine the furore when his bins weren’t emptied the day after Christmas. He managed to keep it together until about 4pm when he was forced to accept it wasn’t going to happen. Needless to say, he went ape-shit.

The Council had forsaken him and his bin was filled to the brim with the kind of seafood that John West would certainly reject. Sick of his street smelling like a mermaid’s queef, John decided to take action.

He gathered up his first born and ordered him to help wheel the bin down to the local park and help him dump a Mandurah toilet seat’s worth of crabs into the Council’s bin.

It would’ve been a perfect plan if it wasn’t for that pesky Ranger busting them! Fortunately, the Ranger really didn’t want to be added to Ron’s mailing and telephone list, so he let him off with a warning.

Peace had been restored. At least until the 2nd January, when Ron stood outside his gate along with every other older gent worth his River’s cargo shorts and formed a guard of dishonour, waiting for their fucking bins to be emptied. To no avail.

That night was the domestic waste purge. Neighbour turning on neighbour as they played pass the rotten parcel with each other's frozen bags of fish heads and ham bones. No one’s bin was safe.

Facebook chat pages exploded with the frenzied caps locking of boomers scared of a slight change:

“How BLOODY HARD is it to empty a BLOODY bin on BIN DAY. Its called BIN DAY for a reason duh????? What do I pay me rates for and me taxes!?!? What am I meant to do about me bins you counsil GRUBS?! This isn’t over”

Well, apart from simply waiting for the next day, you could try a Valium and a glass of red Ron. Instead, he penned a 3-page letter to his local Council and waited at his gate the next day to give the Garbos a piece of his mind.

When they arrived he sprayed them like a territorial cat. They coped his abuse as they smiled menacingly, looks like Ron’s bins won't see a timely evacuation next week either. Dickhead.

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The Human Zoo - Ms Pop Up Bar

Perth’s pop-up fever outbreak has reached epidemic proportions with millennials suffering symptoms ranging from life-threatening FOMO, pangs of exclusivity and chronic and uncontrollable hashtagitis.

Sharlean has been fighting a stage 5 infection since the start of summer and despite bars stretching the definition of “pop-up” further than the skin on a Cottesloe cougar's facelift, she wasn't going to miss out on the chance to drink out of a plastic cup or sit on “furniture” stolen off a forklift.

Just to clarify, Sharlean isn’t like all you other basics, she lived in Melbourne for 3 months and knows a thing or two about pop-up bars. She knows that there are only 2 nights that matter, the night the bar pops up and the night before the bar pops down. It’s called being in the “in-crowd” sweetie, look it up.

Sharlean also knows that the key to pop-up barring is to act like you’ve discovered a hidden gem that the decidedly un-vogue masses of Perth wouldn’t know about. It’s not like they have read the same Broadsheet or Urbanlist article that any dickhead with an internet connection has.

Last week Sharlean stormed into The Docks opening night venue like she was premiering her latest playsuit on the red carpet of the Oscar Awards Cuntemony.

She ignores at least 5 other socialites she knows as she races to get an Aperol Spritz, the official drink of being a hip, cultured influencer. Once she has her drink she utilises her boyfriend for the only thing he’s good for: being her personal photographer.

Now that she is Instagram ready, she acknowledges the existence of some other girls she knows. She sizes them up to make sure their outfits and faces aren’t cuter than hers and eventually satisfies herself that they will be forming her "squad" for the shot.

She makes her boyfriend retake the photo 7 times before she is satisfied she is slaying and her “besties” look like fucking dragons:

“Popped in to the Dock’s opening party with these 10s #intheknow #exclusive #VIPS #popupsquad #ganggang #skrrrt #enjoyingtheparamountlosers #popup #thedock #popupkween #slay #STMsocialpages #perthonality”

Yuck. If that’s the effect of pop-up fever, just give us regular Ebola thanks.

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The Human Zoo - Mr "I Bought a House"

Sure Anthony worked, but when it came to blessings, life always had its legs open and he always seemed to be washing his dick in the VIP sink.

That hand-me-down Beamer, that second hand Rolex and that passport with more stamps than the combined lower backs of the Mandurah Forum clientele. Something was up.

You always suspected, no fuck it, you knew that Anthony’s parents kept him more secure than the bolts on Fritzl’s dungeon door. A labour of love, because they weren’t hit-n-run hush money rich, they merely feasted on the nutrient rich after-birth of their baby boomer’s easy run.

How disrespectful, at least the boomers fought wars. Wars just like the one his FB contacts waged in their head while deciding whether to invade their screens with their fists after his latest post.

He is standing in front of a duplex and beside a SOLD sign in the leafy ‘burb of Wembley:

“Just bought a house! Hard work and sacrifice has finally paid off and I’m a homeowner. Watch this space it’s only going up babaaaaayyyyy, enjoy renting suckers :P”

While he is peacocking around on social media his parents are praying desperately he doesn’t fuck up. Unlike Anthony’s delusions of self made mannery, his parent’s deposit and signatures on those guarantor papers are fucking real.

His social media gloating is bad, but his overnight belief that he is the Kochie of mid-range property investment is worse. He waltzes into the Captain Stirling and orders like a man not restrained by the ropes of a $600K mortgage.

The Sultan of Cunt-nei didn’t even look at the specials menu. He didn’t even enquire as to the pint of the month. He stuffs rib eye down his privilege-hole as he gives unsolicited investment advice, “you guys should really think of buying, renting is just throwing your money away”.

His mates roll their eyes as he continues, “I’m already looking at a place in Nedlands, it’s important to not let you portfolio stagnate, I’ve got the collateral so probably sign away my life next year some time *laughs Blizerianly*

Even though his mates want to call him out, they also want to use his folk’s boat in the summer. This vicious cycle will continue and Anthony will grow old without ever having to let the barbarians of self reflections through his fragile gate.

For most, buying a house in Perth is like getting robbed: it’ll happen at the end of a train line and you’ll be left broke.

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The Human Zoo - Mr Down South

Adam is planning a trip Down South, but like an impotent male escort, he relies on toys to get people to come.

His weekend warriors toy box contains all the goodies: dad’s 4WD, surfboards, a quad bike and the main attraction, the multi-million dollar beach house that has been in his family for years.

After loading up the Landcruiser, Adam encourages his female passengers to get into their bikinis for a #squadgoals for the Gram:

“Douth sorted, this is how we roll ba-bbby #lit #boss #baller #douthdoneright#mybeachousecalls #workhardplayhard #surfsup #adventure#whereyoudratherbe #boysgotthetoys #babes #4WDnation

While it’s frustrating that Adam flaunts all this shit like he owns it, his acquaintances know it’s best to not pollute his very delicate ego-system with the bitter toxin of truth. Fuck it, they’re getting a holiday out of it.

While steaming down Forrest Highway Adam attempts to brush off his disappointment at getting flashed by a camera, “ha! Who gives a shit it’s just money”, which is wankstralian for “daddy will cover that one”.

On the first day, they hit some wineries and Adam attempts to show off his pedigree by interrupting the winemaker to give his own tasting notes. After impressing exactly nobody he gives the other plebs a taste of his family’s credit card spending power, “buddy, I'll take two cases of your best, my crew only drinks the best”. Yuck.

Next stop, is Yallingup to get a photo of himself with the surfboard he can't use in front of waves that he can't ride. He pontificates on Instagram, “only surfers know the feeling #barrels #yew #fatlip #swell #boardnation #gnar#stoic #localsonly #nokooks”. The photo says more than actually surfing a wave ever could.

The next day Adam decides to show everyone his 4WD skills by taking the rig onto the sand. Like he was hosting an episode of All Aussie Cunt-ventures, Adam neglects to let his tyres down and within 5 minutes of filming footage of himself beach bashing, he is well and truly bogged.

The tide slowly comes in and within a few hours, the car is soaked in so much salt that Sarah Jessica Parker might appear to lick it. Unable to do much they abandon the car and Adam retires to one of the rooms in the beach house to inform father of the bad news.

What a player, and you know what they say, there is nothing more balling than getting blasted by your dad for 45 minutes for being a waste of his surname.

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The Human Zoo - Mrs Organic Mumma

Celeste can’t believe doctors study for 10 years to be so wrong. When it comes to raising a healthy bubba David “Avocado” Wolfe is Jesus, and Pete Evans wrote the bible. 

Unlike your disgusting working class spawn, Celeste’s children need an extraordinary blend of organic, non-GMO, gluten-free, sustainable food that must be sourced ethically in hand-woven baskets by the kind of dollar-a-day Oxfamlings that she believes live off her husband’s insincere charity write-offs. 

Didn’t catch all that? Don’t worry, Celeste has a stack of cards printed out with said information that she dishes out like a grad position lawyer at the Raffles on MILF night. 

Today Celeste is trying to realign her chakra by masturbating with an activated zucchini while reading pseudo-scientific health articles that make Buzzfeed look like Al Jazeera. 

Chakra re-aligned, and her bubba’s fed on a delish bone broth, Celeste instructs her cleaner to whip up a special cleaning agent that the avocado-dicked fuckstain Wolfe recommended. She tweaked her recipe and calls it Eat, Love, Spray & Wipe. 

As for Celeste, she is off to yoga to tell all the other luxury 4WD owning mummies that big pharma allegedly has its finger in a particular brand of organic baby water. 

“I would never give little James Earth Glow H20 again, I read that big pharma is paying off the Siamese hills people to add vaccine residue and sneakily get our kids hooked on vaccinations! It’s like a gateway drug to autism”.

There is a mighty gasp from the Lululemonites who are now stumped as to what water to give their babies. The tap stuff is loaded with fluoride, and now their trusted brand of GMO-free organic water is tied up in the conspiracy. 

For fuck's sake, this woman is a few steps away from being a beautiful mind-cunt with a bedroom full of newspaper clippings and string connecting the dots. 

She starts a petition on a mummy group to boycott the water and proceeds to only hydrate little James with the purest of kale-strained Voss water. “It’s the only way I can be sure”. 

Nevertheless, sprouting insane health views is perfectly acceptable when Dr. Google will see you at any time. You won't even need to re-read a 7-month-old edition of Woman’s Day while you wait for some medical hack to tell you that you are a moron.

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The Human Zoo - Mr WA Engineer

There were plenty of swinging dicks in the WA boomtown gangbang, but none swung as far past the knees as the University of Western Australia Engineering graduate. 

By the second week of his degree, Adam was already swaggering around his physics lecture like Cuntsaac Newton. By the third week, he was calling himself an engineer with the sort of shit-eating grin you’d expect from a property trust fund-aire at a Nescafe Blend 43 sale.

Now you may think to call yourself an engineer in your third week of a degree is total wank, but fuck you, did you even see his calculations in that recap of year 12 maths unit? They were more out of control than George Calombaris at an under 17’s soccer match.

After graduation, Adam was offered a 6-month contract with Rio Tinto and spends his first 3 months in the Perth office walking around like his work lanyard is a fucking gold medal.

Sadly, the thrill of showboating to admin staff wore thin, so he decided to join the lunchtime jogging crew who donned Rio Tinto branded t-shirts and ran around the CBD just making sure everyone knew.

The second half of his contract was spent doing FIFO work. Getting to wear a hard hat and Hi-Vis vest gave him a bulging power-stiffy. On top of his little dress up party, getting to carry around a clipboard and look down on tradies made him harder than the shortcut on Rainbow Road. God, he was important.

What would highly skilled tradesmen know? He had 3 months experience and a little thing called a “brain”. Needless to say, his arrogant and belittling tone had him dodging stink eyes like Cardinal Pell would dodge an extradition order.

In the break room he spots a tradie heating up a can of soup. So superman dons his cape and swoops in to save the day, “you should put a glass in the middle of the soup for more even heating, geothermics at play, lucky you have an engineer here hey”.

It takes two men to hold the tradie back, “don't tell me how to heat up me soup ya dog!” It seems Adam has greatly misjudged the level of respect he commands on site.

On a side note, it’s fortunate he is on a mine site, because he now needs to excavate a dirty load from his jocks.

Thankfully, the mining giant will let him go after 6 months and like the economy his ego may just go into recession.

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The Human Zoo - Ms “We’re Engaged!”

Lauren’s relationship had three basic stages: the 2 week fun bit, the 2 year restructure of her man as a human and an intense 6 months of dropping engagement hints that would make a thrice-divorced mummy-prenuer’s pyramid sales pitch over messenger seem subtle. 

Over time Lauren’s hints became more aggressive. She needed a ring to provide credibility to her relentless boasting to her favs that she and Dan were tighter than a baby boomer's fist in the economy’s hole without the decency to use the sweat of Gen Y as lube.

She storms into the lounge room while Dan watches India rip through the Aussie Cricket team like a poorly refrigerated Vindaloo curry, “are you even serious about all this?” She runs out crying and refuses to elaborate further on her outburst.

It’s not just the outbursts, it was also the sex life. It’s like his dick was a Zooper Dooper that was too cold for the mouth so it’d just be squeezed impatiently until it melted. He even used to enjoy a little foray into ol' brokeback’s shack, but that has since been abandoned like Dreamworld’s ticket line.

Dan tries his best but sometimes his judgment misses the mark like a 3am piss. He waltzes into Cash Converters and starts perusing the “my baby’s daddy is in prison so I sold the ring” section. He puts a deposit on a $600 ring and intends to return the following week to complete the transaction.

Alas, Lauren uses his car the next day and spots Cash Converter’s Victoria Park in the GPS. “He better be after a new fuking kite surfing board” she thinks as she travels to the rip-off-a-torium. After a series of intense questions, she determines that a man matching Dan’s description had attempted to commit engagacide.

When Dan gets home that night, Lauren is standing in the corridor staring at him like Elliot Stabler looks at an especially heinous sex crimes. “Cash Converters? I won’t say yes, did you think you could get away with it?”

Fuck. Dan has been exposed like a dick through a trenchcoat. He bites the bullet and blows his savings on a $5k piece with a diamond that looked as big as a little African kid’s hands as compared to the enormous pick-axe use to mine it.

As per Lauren’s dreams (instructions), Dan books a holiday in Cable Beach and arranges a $200 beach picnic. He goes to reach into his pocket but is interrupted, “champagne first darling, the sun hasn’t even started setting”.

Sun now setting, he proposes with her dream words (script) but she is too busy fucking around with her iPhone camera to actually say yes. Not to worry, she takes 78 couple’s selfies until she decides on the perfect one that makes her look hot and the stone sparkle like a toilet in a Spray & Wipe commercial.

Instead of enjoying the moment, she spends the next 30 minutes re-drafting her social media post caption, settling with, “he ROCKS my world ;)#shesaidyes #yes #marriage #engaged #diamond#whereisthediamond #broome #love #loveconquors#helovesme #yallslutslonley”.

As they say, you are not officially engaged until you’ve alerted a bunch of high school acquaintances on social media that you’d rather die than ever see again.

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