Mr Cyclist 2017



Move over Muslims, Gays and Aboriginals, there is a new oppressed minority in town: the road cyclist.

By day, Terry is a mild mannered physiotherapist that lives on a plant based diet. But by peak commute times Terry is the Cycle-nator 2000. Armed with a GoPro and the suppressed rage of a school shooter playing Duck Hunt with a faulty Nintendo pistol, Terry is waging war on aggressive drivers.

No longer will he be bullied into Government provided bike paths. No longer will he stick left to allow a safe overpass. This is 2017 and he isn’t going to sit behind the back of the fucking bus, motherfucker.

The Rosa Parks of mild life crises has one natural predator: the Ute driver. The kind of man that has escalated his irritation of cyclists into full blown homicidal hatred. The kind of man to kick a Quokka and laugh like an locally anaesthetised Forrest Gump getting a root canal.

Terry leaves his practice and is riding home. An old boy leaning forward in his Corolla squinting like a confused Jackie Chan in an Amsterdam coffee shop comes within 1.5m of his bike. The red mist of lycra-mooseknuckling comes over him, “OI WATCH IT SHIT FOR BRAINS”.

Terry is satisfied in giving this driver an official verbal warning. He continues in the middle of the left lane on Mounts Bay Road. Like the theme music to Jaws, Terry hears the ominous bass of Aussie Hip Hop coming up behind him. Like a surfer having her period, Terry knows he is a sitting duck.

A HiLux complete with Aussie flags still attached accelerates and overtakes Terry coming within 1.2m of Terry’s bike. Terry pumps himself up like Lance Armstrong’s veins and accelerates to meet the driver at the lights.

He pulls up beside the HiLux driver, momentarily turns off his GoPro and then boots the side mirror clean off. GoPro back on, he dismounts and confronts the driver “YOU TRYING TO KILL ME CUNT?”

The driver is perplexed, “Mate I was nowhere near you, ride on the fucking bike path you are holding up traffic”. Terry feels the rage of a thirsty African at an out-of-service coloured drinking fountain and goes Apartheid on his arse:

“MY PEOPLE ARE LEGALLY ALLOWED TO USE THIS ROAD FUCKHEAD, YOU WANNA FUCKING KILL ME? GO ON TAKE YA BEST SWING OR RESPECT MY RIGHTS”

Unlucky for Terry, the HiLux driver is fresh off his latest win at the Gate after the Green Mundine fight, “I’m gonna make your dick piss registration fees mate”. What follows is two grown men punching on over the spilt milk of petty cuntery.

Later that night, Terry cherry picks the best footage for his narrative and uploads it to Facebook. The oppression of his people continues. Spare a dollar for Cunt Vision and feed Terry’s ego for another day.


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The Human Zoo - Mr Perth FIFO


The only thing Robbo believes in more than providing for his family is getting paid what he is worth, and he has calculated that worth at $130k per annum with fuel allowance.
Sure, it has been a tough 5 years since his last job at Cloudbreak, but he keeps his wife motivated during her 80 hour weeks cleaning apartments by assuring her that only a scab would accept the salaries being offered currently:
“Nah, nah, nah, fuck that shit ay, only way to get paid what yous worth is to turn down bullshit offers like that, anyone accepting em is a dogcunt. Plus we’re orrright at the moment, yous is bringing in good coin ay”.
Reassuring words from a man who has the drive of an ‘78 Kingswood that needs a push start every morning.
It’s Thursday afternoon and Robbo scrolls through the news in a day-drunk haze. He spots an article: “Roy Hill to offer 600 jobs” and word on the street is that they’re paying alright ay.
That night, Robbo is an inspired man. He looks at his exhausted wife like Pauline Hanson would look at a pre-Halal certified jar of Vegemite, "guess what baby, the R-train will be working again!”
The alcohol paraphernalia and sports memorabilia rattle as Robbo mounts his wife, props up her arms, and rides her like a Jet Ski right on that pool table.
"Yewwwww, get that dick”, he screams as his wife knows the words to make him cum, “we are now starting our descent to Denpasar Airport baby”.
Sober(ish) Robbo calls his recruiter and sends through an unchanged version of his CV. The recruiter gives him an icier reception than an Australian flag salesman on the streets of Freo, “I won't lie mate, a 5 year employment hiatus doesn’t look good, and positions will be extremely competitive”.
Robbo slams the phone down and explodes into a patriotic rage. He is king dick of FIFO and everyone else in a Hi-Vis is fuck all. He knows the reality of the situation, it’s not his lack of drive, it’s 457 Visa scabs.
He jumps on Facebook to convey his thoughts:
“Wateva happened to Aussie jobs for Aussies ay? Fuck Roy Hill for a JOKE, all the jobs will go to 457 scabs for half what ya should get payed pfffft oh and cant have xmas trees cos of that lot either lol GUTLESS WONDERS”.
Typically, when it comes to his trials & tribulations he has more excuses than Ben Cousins’ defence lawyers.
Oh well, he’ll be right, the misso can pick up plenty of extra work over the Christmas party season.

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The Human Zoo - Ms Perth Asian




Chuntao Lee (Jenny) was born in Kardinya to two Chinese immigrants. A well loved child that copped a taste of the old one-child policy when she fell 2 ATAR points short of UWA medicine.


She was cast out of the mainland of the large en suite and placed in the Taiwan that was her little sister’s room. She would occasionally ask if she could have her keys to her Honda Civic back, but like a Beijing’er trying to google oppression, it wasn’t going to happen.


Desperate for her parent’s approval, Jenny spent her days at Utopia taking peace sign selfies and her nights at Metros City hoping to find herself a husband. She takes one sip of her drink and goes redder than a pegged baboon's arse. Time to prowl.


Ni hao! She spots an Asian gent in Yeezy Boosts and a Supreme shirt. He was hotter than the sandal buckles on a self immolating Tibetan Monk at an anti-Chinese occupation protest. Simply put, she set her oriental wiles on fire. Oh and he was a resident doctor.


She knew "zhōnɡ le tóu cǎi" when he offered to take her to the Casino for cigarettes and gambling. They bonded over stories of bogan's overtaking them and informing them they drive like fucking goo… d times were had let's put it that way.


After 4 hours on the poker table, Chung Pen (Wallace) takes her back to his Honda Civic. The transformer's sticker on the back and the illuminating shit under his car made her wetter than the filling of a xio long bao dumpling. She was about to live her life 3 ¼ inches at a time. His finger, you racist fucks.


Before she could let him toss her wok though she needed to follow a strict procedure. Firstly, inform every Caucasian yellow fever creeper on her messenger that she would no longer be catching up for bubble tea with them, and secondly, Wallace had to meet the parents.


At first, Jenny’s parents look at him like a Japanese war criminal. Her father turns to his mother, “Tā chuānzhuó xiàng yīgè péngkè!”. But to their surprise Wallace speaks good Mando and politely informs him that while he may have western swag, he is in fact a doctor.


He has passed the test. The couple celebrate with a night with karaoke and having a good old noodle-squat for dinner. Alas, they couldn’t consummate the relationship until Wallace’s parents gave their nod of approval.


“Curtin Uni? No wonder you had to settle for our shameful son, you know he had to go through bio-med at Notre SHAME to make it into medicine?”


Wallace flexes like Bruce Li busting for a shit during take off on an aeroplane. His father continues the shame-a-thon, “you know, he also just want be GP! HA”.


Humiliations aside, they are allocated the top half of Wallace’s house, where he finally gets to thrust his straw into her sago.

She can now put her silly dreams of engineering aside, and focus on cooking more rice than a Napalmed rice paddy. Wait that's Vietnam, not that you people would know the difference, until you’re getting shanked by a Nguyen in Northbridge over a drug deal.

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