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.

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Mr Mount Lawley

Mount Lawley is the bohemian flame to which the scarfed Perthian is drawn. It is a bustling hub of irritating fashion, latte sipping fixie connoisseurs and crusty locals that have inhabited the leafy ‘burb since time began. Come for the variety of food and drink, and get stuck because some shit-stain on a Vespa is trying to turn right onto Walcott. 

Matt steps out of his small cottage home with his French Bulldog, “lap it up Pierre, this is the best suburb in the fucking world”. His clothes are purchased exclusively from Elroy and his fashion sense can best be described as “bogan kryptonite”: a beige beret, a striped scarf and tight Chinos rolled up to expose his ankles. He insufferably covers his body in arbitrary pop culture tattoos and in an act of despicable unoriginality he flaunts them with nonchalance. Oh, he also rocks a greased cunt-antenna and his dog is dressed like a prick too.

On his Sunday morning walk to Bossman Coffee, Matt pauses at the site of the old Planet Video and pours a splash of his coconut water out on the pavement in respect for the sacred grounds. He spots a couple of nose-ringed girls that he knows and pauses to select a suitably pretentious tune on his iPod: Coltrane? Perfect. He sleaze-strolls up to the dark haired fringe-bishes, “coming to the Scotto for a pizza & pint ladies?”. Of course they are, the high price of rentals in Mount Lawley forces the young hipsters to feed off the fat of the discount.

Before the Scotto, Matt must meet his mother at the Beaufort Street Merchant for their weekly coffee and Matt’s weekly money grab. Living the Mount Lawley lifestyle isn’t cheap, and he will never live his dream of mixing trap-jazz fusion at the Velvet Lounge on a Friday night if he looks like an Inglewood peasant. $50 richer, he heads to the Scotto to get drunk and tell anyone who will listen about his upcoming audio-visual art project: “Like, Start the Boats, Fuck Abbott”. Sounds like an edgy ripper, mate.

His group sit out the front and spend the majority of their drinking session talking about how brilliant Mount Lawley is, “there really isn’t anything like it, it’s the most Melbourne-like ‘burb Perth has”. After numerous pints Matt is sloppier than a 1am Mount Lawley Whopper and becomes very Melbmotional: “so sick of Perth bogans mahn, I am totally moving to Melbourne next year”.

An ambitious plan for a man that lives off canned food and has only traveled as far as Highgate in the last 3 months.

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Ms Selfie Stick

Yolanda sits around her parents living room playing with her most treasured Christmas gift: the GoPole selfie stick. Finally, she has an apparatus that will negate the literal limitations of her own arm in the pursuit of taking endless selfies of her totes YOLO life.

She now laughs at the pathetic single-shot selfies of the arm-extending uninitiated: she uses a GoPro to get hours of footage of her walking around so that she can screen-grab the finest shots of her perky little face. Ask anyone on her Instagram account: her selfies are always on point. She would win a Nobel prize in the field, if they awarded one for being a self-absorbed photo-cunt.

As luck would have it, Yolanda has been invited to the T20 game at the Furnace. First of all, she gets her outfit sorted: a Perth Scorchers t-shirt tied up to reveal her belly-button pierced midriff and then slaps on a sombrero: the official hat of the half-hearted cricket fan. She squeezes into her denim short-shorts that don’t leave much to the imagination. Well, thats not true, her father imagines a parallel universe where he didn’t have to stare down every seedy bloke that wants to get an early harvest peek of his daughters ripe peachy offerings.

Yolanda jumps around the house and records some GoPro selfie-stick footage of her getting ready for the game. She uploads a video to Instagram, #GetScorched #CricketBish #HotInTheFurnance #Sombrero.

At the game, "I Dont Care I Love It" plays for the eight time and Yolanda successfully pisses everyone in her immediate vicinity off. Her total lack of attention to the actual game can be attributed to her infuriating need to position her selfie stick to take footage of everything from her Chicken Treat microwaved slop-roll (#FatPig #ChickenTreat) to her glass of cheap white wine (#Memories #Vino #DrunkAgain).

Yolanda’s obliviousness almost comes to a surreal end when a 6 comes her way. “HEADS”, the ball lands within metres of Yolanda. She quickly swivels her stick to capture the ball and her best “shocked face”. She uploads the selfie immediately, “Almost hit by a Six! #GetScorched #iDontLikeCricket #OhNo #iLoveit”. Ahhhhh fuck off Yolanda.

Yolanda jumps in a taxi after the game and spends the entire 15 minute journey refreshing her Instagram account. A physical embodiment of an Aqua di Gio bottle comments on her cricket selfie, “love chicks that love cricket babe”. She replies with the official response of the YOLO Bish, “:P xxx”.

She spends the remainder of her night ignoring SnapChats from the greaseball and trawling through the 4 hours of footage she took from the night. She creates a shortlist of selfies for her Album, “I Love Cricket”. She has 345 screen snaps in the shortlist but is having a literally hard time deciding which ones should make the cut. Poor Yolanda: it’s really hard to live up to her Carpe Diem ankle tat when she is clocking her 3rd hour in front of her MacBook trying to decide which selfies to upload.

She has no choice but to upload them all. The human Aqua di Gio bottle licks his lips with anticipation. He thanks the gods of the selfie stick for inventing a device to significantly aid his revered hobby of beating his dick to selfies of babes.

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