Paraic isn’t getting high off the Perth craic lately. The FIFO gravy train has derailed, half his friends have fled and to make matters worse immigration are investigating him over his 2013 fruit picking lies.
He briefly held down a construction job in Perth until his boss tried to make him take a breathalyser test on a dusty Saturday morning. Maybe it was his refusal, or maybe it was the fact he had his superior by the throat up against a wall, “I will in my fuck pal!”
He never understood what all the fuss was about. What we call “assault” in Australia is just a standard workplace negotiation in his hometown of Limerick.
He laments his woes to an Aussie bar girl at his local, “bunch of pussys like ya marrrrn there was up in my shit over a few drinks and all, I cannnnotbedoingwiththat, d’yaknowwhatImeanlike?” She has no fucking clue.
Every day is Saint Patrick’s Day when you are unemployed, so Paraic sinks several more pints before getting a call from a mate. The lads are drinking at Rosie O’Grady’s in Northbridge, so he jumps in his Triton, and suburban swerves the back streets, just to be sure.
Despite being out of work for over a month, all the lads are still in full Hi-Vis. Partly because they are saving their best threads for next UFC pay per view, and partly because as far as the Australian Government is concerned, they are all gainfully employed.
After some banter, Paraic is busting for a piss and being drunk, bored or whatever, he decides to chase the snake out of his pants at the bar. A staff member approaches him, “what the fuck are you doing, someone has to clean that up you animal!”
Like Mi-flog Flatley, Paraic tries to Riverdance around the blame, “wasn’t me like, dis puddle was here all along like”. His slurring is unconvincing, and a manager walks over, “again mate? That’s it, you’re banned for life”.
Paraic thrashes around like a newborn deer emerging from its birthing sack, “I didn’t do natttttttttttttttttin like, didn’t do natttttttttttttttttttttttin I’m a harrrrrmless individual”.
A couple of bouncers grab Paraic to remove him forcibly. This does little to stem his anger, and like Conor Cooont-Gregor he starts mouthing threats, “I’ll box the head off ya marrrrrrn, lets fooking have it, lad”.
Predictably the police are called, and Paraic is eventually served with another liquor prohibition notice. He regales his housemates with the story, “and this female copper like, I said, who lit the fuse on your tampon like”.
What a 4 cunt clover.
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