Mr Feral Footy Fan


Unburdened by the weight of respectability,Macca heads to Domain Stadium to cause more mayhem than Chris Brown and Jeff Farmer on a double date. Being 5 foot fuck all and repellent to woman, Macca is no stranger to angrily snatching the scraps that life throws at large-foreheaded bottom feeders. With no prospect of sober decorum and slim risk of getting his dick wet, Macca acts like Fred Flintstone after he caught Barney giving Wilma a bronte-boning of cunt-istoric proportions.

Macca sits in his Kenwick Dwelling and slams back lonely tins of pre-mix fight-fuel. He is adorned in the purple armour of a bonafide footy warrior. He sees himself as a “passionate supporter” and excuses any outbursts of catastrophic dickheadery as simply “getting lost in the moment”. Years ago he used to go to the games with mates, now the list of people who will willingly sit next to him, is shorter than his overcompensation-worthy peen that last felt a woman’s warmth when Don Burke’s pug was still alive. 

By the time Macca gets to Domain Stadium, his Intoxication levels are somewhere between a Brownlow’d Fevola and Luke Hodge on a road trip. He staggers and uncouthly sways into scarf-clad fans at the entrance. His piss stained hands clumsily feed his ticket through the scanner and the self-professed gladiator enters the arena. All the rage of a thousand declined Centrelink payments rage through Macca’s fists and the usual sights and sounds of the footy anger him in ways a therapist couldn't explain. 

The opening bounce switches Macca from “mumbling drunkard” into “rabid pisshead” and he incoherently foghorns obscenities every four seconds. With each classless fury-boom, the patience of the crowd grows thinner than Bert Newton’s locks. Agitated punters start to turn on the “passionate” Macca and tell him to shut his hole. The voices of reason only serve to send Macca deeper into a delusion of persecution and he enter the wankerish mindset of a me-against-the-world-cunt.

During the second quarter, Macca has a beautiful James Blunt moment and spots his spirit animal: an equally “passionate” shithead who throws a shadow punch at Hawthorn’s Isaac Smith. Macca saw his face, in a crowded place but this time, he knows exactly what to do: step up his level of anti-social behaviour so he can be crowned the king neanderthal in the jungle. A few more mouth-missing swigs of beer later, and Macca begins directly threatening the supporters around him, “next cunt who farking tells me to calm down is copping it ay”.

A fed-up woman makes the mistake of directing bravery towards a coward and tells Macca to respect the family environment he is in. Obviously watching Freo choke, inspires Macca to latch onto the woman’s throat like a police dog in Rockingham. The power of the assault is directly inverse to the power Macca experiences as a “man” and despite his most sincere hopes, the act doesn’t make his dick any bigger.

Macca’s night ends by being swarmed by the crowd and angrily fuming in the back of a paddy wagon. While he soaks up the cold ambiance of a police cell, the only thing on his mind is the scummy excuses he will tell the magistrate on Monday morning. Perhaps he could raise the defence of crippling poorcuntery? Who could object?

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The Human Zoo - Mr Stereosonics



Timmy Shredz is Johnny NoHomo’s little brah and is a real chip off the old block. The day Shredz bought his Stereos ticket he uploaded a photo of it onto his Instagram account, #CalvinHarris #Skrillex #yehboi#StereosBitch. A year ago, Shredz was letting Nova FM dictate the tunes he listened too. However, one festival season and a trip to Ibiza later, he is an expert on dance music, “I’ll pretty much have Skrillex playing at my wedding ay, fucking love dubstep bro”.

Shredz has been stepping up his fitness regime in the months leading up to November. “Boiled chicken and broccoli bro, every meal”. His body is rippling with misguided muscular definition. Health and strength take a backseat to his ambition to be the swole-boss at Stereos. In the end, h
e is desperately seeking the approval of Air Max-honeys who wear less clothing than a fake titted slurry on Big Brother Up Late. 

Shredz hosts the befores and struts around the collective of Ken and Barbie dolls that are yabbering on about the pinga's like they were in the Ambar alleyway, “shit chyeh bro, I’mma double drop a White Mitsi and a Batman 30 minutes before Calvin’s set, I’ll be chewing my face off during his drops”. The true mark of a music fan is being unable to enjoy your chosen genre without pinging harder than Benny Cousins on a public holiday. Shredz excuses himself, he needs to carefully work on his look.

He stands in front of his bathroom mirror. Tiny man-yoga shorts, a bright yellow singlet, a matching headband and a new pair of Onitsuka Tigers. He has a photo of Zyzz hanging on the wall and he carefully styles his hair in the same way. He returns to his flock and whips out a Mr Universe flex. His peacocking is met with moronic hollering that cements his Godlike status in the Church of shredded dickheadery.

Shredz's is higher than an old boys trousers and his little pee-pee is sticking out of his fuckboy shorts like a cute tiny turtle. He spends the first 3 hours rave-dancing like a prick near the public toilets. Unsurprisingly, he misses every artist that he has been banging on about for the last year. Amazingly, he doesn’t actually see ANY artist perform for the entire day. Instead, he spends his day exchanging phone numbers with blokes and commenting on each others 8-pacs.

One of his new shred-buddies sends him a photo he took of Tiesto’s set. Shredz uploads it to his Instagram,#NightsLikeThese #LoveTiesto #MusicLove#StereosBro. You've fucking ruined musical festivals you protein-pricked pinga popper. 

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Mr Toolie



Damo graduated from Lynwood High in 2003 and had the time of his life on his Leavers break down in Dunsborough. He sets out to recreate the magic of Leavers ‘03 every year. The smell of leavers is sweeter than the wax on his surfboard that can be described as “ornamental” at best. Damo has always believed in the Scarborough philosophy, that surfing is 90% appearance and 10% participation. If anyone doubts Damo’s surfing ability they can take it up with his koi tattoo. 

Damo arrives 3 days early and is staying with a couple of other bleached-hair desperados in the Dunsborough Caravan Park. They are all aged 29+ and have never missed a Leavers. They sip on warm UDLs while they brag about the future sex they are going to be having with 18 year olds in their respective tents. “They will be gagging for an experienced man who can hold his piss”. A bold statement, given that it has proved incorrect for the last 11 years. Damo’s extensive history of epic-droughts can be pinpointed to one key personality trait: he is creepier than Troy Buswell at a Laz-e-Boy convention that has run out of Febreeze on a summers day.

The group grow tired of each others sexual bravado and bullshit future-sex stories. They decide to go and make pests of themselves down at the Three Bears in the township. Damo rocks up in his official kit: blue wife-beater, Volcom boardies, Reef sandals and his dreadlocks flowing freely. Several groups of Leavers have come down early and are sitting around drinking and planning their holiday of a lifetime. Damo handles the situation like he was in prison: take out the strongest male in a show of unbridled alphaness. 

He challenges two good looking ex-Wesley kids to a game of pool. “Sorry mate, we don’t want a copy of the Big Issue”, one of the Wesley kids says to the chorus of roaring laughter from a group of Leaver-girls. Damo takes a breath, “you wont be laughing when I’m sexing your ladies”. Sexing? 

Damo doesn’t sink one ball. However, this was all part of his masterplan. “Guess i’ll be having to drop me dacks ay”. Damo does just that. His sight and smell of his uncircumcised johnson burns a dick-cheese shaped hole in the retinas of all the Leavers standing around the pool table. A couple of bouncers are quick to escort Damo out.

“Thats what a real mans dick looks like girls!” In reality, it looks like Clive Waterhouse sitting on the Docker’s bench: dormant with an intense look of longing for even the slightest moist dip of respect.

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Mr Beaufort Street Festival

 
 
“Like, I totally loved Pugs before all these other sheep did, I’m talking Burkes Backyard Pug-love, mahn”, Tyler smug-ishly qualifies while walking to the Beaufort St Festival dog show. 
 
Much like Burke’s Pug rubbed his arsehole along the grass, Tyler is leaving a shit stain too, the only difference being, the shit is coming from Tyler’s mouth. His bearded face is expressionless while he stares at the Pugs on display. He takes a swig of his Coconut Water while standing cockheadily in his tight jeans with his ankles exposed. His “leg midriff” is doing a good job of distracting the crowd from his floral shirt, suspenders and bow-tie combination. “Cunt chic”.

Tyler walks around bopping to some Indie band that is hipstering out on stage. Tyler sidles up to some turd wearing a Tuxedo t-shirt and rolled up denim shorts, “I saw these guys at a shipping container gig in August, mahn”. The turd acknowledges the comment with a “devil may care” nod while he takes a sip of his Fiji Water. The pair bop un-enthusiastically to the music while shooting each other circle-jerk nods. They are both showing the exact right amount of enthusiasm for a band that is probably going to sell out by selling tickets to musical plebs: like YOU, brah.

A group of nose-rings and denim-overall wearing chicks are looking at some artwork at a stall. Tyler runs his black-nail polished hand through his greasy moused-up'd quaff and lets the force of facetiousness propel him over to them. “The only canvass I recognise is the brick wall behind the old 78 Records ay, babes”. Their red-lipsticked lips crack big grins: they have found a fellow artistic shit-muncher.
 
 “That is so true, are you in a band?” Tyler rolls his eyes, “siff, I play solo synth, girly”. Her undergarments flood with a tidal wave of moist cultural elitism: “totes”. Tyler gives her a nod and continues on his way. Swag.

Tyler is tired of making his presence noted at art stalls and Indie band sets. It’s time to really make the most of the street festival by camping at Clarences and getting fuck-eyed on cider. With each pint his opinions get louder and the hipsterism is so thick it could be scraped off the walls and sold as beard conditioner. “Anyone who wears cargo shorts should be quarantined for having fashion-Ebola, mahn”. Unlike the vast pockets of the offending garment, the pub is running out of room for his drunken arrogance. He is thrown out at 5pm.

Tyler staggers down Beaufort Street and decides to treat himself to feed from the El Publico stall. He crams his Mexican snack down his gullet while angrily staring at a guy in New Balance sneakers dancing to the Indie band from before. “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore”.

Fuck, someone pass him a spaceship then.
 

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Mr Beaufort Street Festival

“Like, I totally loved Pugs before all these sheep did, I’m talking Burkes Backyard Pug-love, mahn”, Tyler smug-ishly qualifies while walking to the Beaufort St Festival dog show. Much like Burke’s Pug rubbed his arsehole along the grass, Tyler is leaving a trail of shit himself, the only difference being, the shit is coming from Tyler’s mouth. His bearded face is expressionless while he stares at the Pugs on display. He takes a swig of his Coconut Water while standing cockheadily in his tight jeans with his ankles exposed. His “leg midriff” is doing a good job of distracting the crowd from his floral shirt, suspenders and bow-tie combination. “Cunt chic”.

Tyler walks around bopping to some Indie band that is hipstering out on stage. Tyler sidles up to some turd wearing a Tuxedo t-shirt and rolled up denim shorts,  “I saw these guys at a shipping container gig in August, mahn”. The turd acknowledges the comment with a “devil may care” nod while he takes a sip of his Fiji Water.  The pair bop enthusiastically to the music while shooting each other circle-jerk nods. They are both showing the exact right amount of enthusiasm for a band that is probably going to sell out by selling tickets to musical plebs: like YOU, brah.

A group of nose-rings and denim-overall wearing chicks are looking at some artwork at a stall. Tyler runs his black-nail polished hand through his greasy moused off quaff and lets the force of facetiousness propel him over to them. “The only canvass I recognise is the brick wall behind the old 78 Records ay, babes”. Their red-lipsticked lips crack big grins: they have found a fellow artistic shit-muncher. “That is so true, are you in a band?” Tyler rolls his eyes, “siff, I play solo synth, girly”. Her undergarments flood with a tidal wave of moist cultural elitism: “totes”. Tyler gives her a nod and continues on his way. Swag.

Tyler is tired of making his presence noted at art stalls and Indie band sets. It’s time to really make the most of the street festival by camping at Clarences and getting fuck-eyed on cider. With each pint his opinions get louder and the hipsterism is so thick it could be scraped off the walls and sold as beard conditioner. “Anyone who wears cargo shorts should be quarantined for having fashion-Ebola, mahn”. Unlike the vast pockets of the offending garment, the pub is running out of room for his drunken arrogance. He is thrown out at 5pm.

Tyler staggers down Beaufort Street and decides to treat himself to feed from the El Publico stall. He crams his Mexican snack down his gullet while angrily staring at a guy in New Balance sneakers dancing to the Indie band from before. “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore”.

Fuck, someone pass him  a spaceship then.

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A Reflection on Instagram Models


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Ms Melbourne Cup


Today is a big day for Cheryce: it is Cup Day and it also marks the end of her suspended sentence for glassing a bitch in the Toucan Nightclub a couple of years ago. Without the threat of immediate imprisonment Cheryce believes she can fly, and just like R Kelly, she is going to piss on something that isn’t a toilet.
It’s 9:00am and Cheryce is sinking back Pink Sparklin’ with her gaggle of elegant looking friends. She is dressed in a striking lime green number by Supre. If we are being picky, we would say the dress is a little tight and combined with her vast array of faded amateur tattoos, she looks like a criminal Kermit the Frog who just washed up on the shore of the Swan River: bloated and drug-mule-esque. She is already unsteady in her high heels and is having a hard time keeping her fascinator hat on. The entire gaggle look the same: “the no undies crew”.
Cheryce’s behaviour in the maxi taxi is unbecoming to say the least. She loudly discusses her ambition to get some “bathroom dick” and then proceeds to ask the taxi driver whether or not he has become erect based on their sensual conversation, “you got a stiffy or what, Sanjay?”. In actual fact, his dick has retreated back into his body: an instinctual reaction to keep his manhood as far away from the thick musk of gonorrhea that is wafting through his taxi.
At the race track, Cheryce stumbles around while laughing in that hysterical and high pitched way that bogans do. She crudely flirts with a buzz-cutted security guard to try and gain entry into the VIP area. Access denied. She stumbles towards the toilet and is unimpressed with the line, “fuck that shit”. She finds a tree, squats and laughs during her entire piss. She locks eyes with a man in white-shoes and a Volcom belt. She now believes in love at first sight. She heads towards her prince charming but alas it is too late. He is already threatening to swing hooks and calling security guards “weak cunts”. This is what it feels like, when doves cry frown emoticon
Cheryce is shattered that she missed a great chance for a bathroom shag, so she starts swigging sparkling straight from the bottle. She is now so drunk that she can't see the screen on her mobile phone. High heels in hand and mascara running she heads towards the front gates. She takes a tumble and decides that she has come far enough. She wallows around on the floor while inadvertently treating the public her famous no undies show. She abuses her friends as they try to help her and completes her public display by power yakking all over herself. Class.
She is unlikely to appear in the social pages, but on the other hand, she is fairly sure that she didn’t glass anyone. We will chalk that up to a loss for horse racing but a win for society as a whole. Cheers Cheryce.

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The Human Zoo - Ms Armed Robbery



If Dhakota had a meth baggie for every fuck-brained scheme she came up with, she wouldn’t need to commit armed robberies. However, the rock isn’t going to shoot up itself, so she decides to roll a couple of restaurants that probably aren’t cashed up as it is a fucking Monday afternoon. Not one to let logic get in her way, she grabs her lucky knife and jumps in a vehicle registered in her own name. Move over Oceans 11, there is a new mastermind in town. 

She hoons to her first target and charges in fiercer than Lisa Scafiddi at BHP’s secret santa swap. She serenades the petrified staff with the song of the scumbag, “empty the farkin till ya doggg cuntttts”. She waves her trusty knife around like it was Hey Dad’s dick during a tour of the Neverland ranch. She fumbles the cash into her Everlast hoody and bolts out the door.

The minimal amount of cash she stole from the first restaurant has her afternoon looking disappointingly shardless. So, she forms the genius idea to drive to Leederville and replicate her tried and tested crime model. She careens down Oxford Street and picks her next target: an Italian eatery. Clearly, Dhakota is a few packets of Sudafed short of a cook-up and figures a restaurant brimming with staff and customers will be easy pickings.

“Give us all the fucking money of ill stick yas all ya mutts!” She should’ve spent less time being a desperate crackhead and more time surveying her area, as she is about to feel the heavy body slam of justice. In a scene resembling The Bourne Cuntpremacy, a number of brave staff tackle, disarm and pin her to the ground. The poor souls struggle with her meth-breath and B.O as she performs a verbally obtuse Opera of deadshit threats and frothing obscenities.
 
When unconvincing threats don't work, Dhakota tries the oldest trick in the book. She throws out an open offer of a gobby that would make Kalamunda Wet & Wild seem as dry as overcooked chicken. It is a tempting offer: allow an armed robber back on the streets and contract a beautiful rainbow of STDs and assorted goodies that come with intravenous fuckery. Accordingly, her offer is declined and she is hauled away by the boys in blue.

Dhakota has a serious case of the Mondays: impending prison time, national embarrassment and worst of all, she's almost definitely going to cop a parking fine! Ouch.

Fuel to Leederville: $7, lucky knife: $12.50, realising you’re too dumb to rob a restaurant: priceless.

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Mr MSN Messenger



Lets take it back to 2001, where army cargos and hoodies reigned supreme and the best way of chatting up your crush was getting her email from mIRC and adding her on the beloved MSN Messenger. We entered the world of online communication as jagged cut-outs of adolescent boners and attempted to smooth the edges via emoticons and desperately timed nudges. This is the story of the MSN generation.

Young Aquinas boy Ben signs up to MSN on a fateful spring morning, “Nookie_Bizkit69@hotmail.com”. He uses the profile name of Benny and ponders what his personalised message ought to be. “Onnne SteeeepPPpp CloseeerRrRrr to Tha EdddgeEEeE, IM bout to BREAK :P”. Bravo Ben, now every girl at Santa Maria will know that you love Linkin Park and are a complete seething ball of puberty and wank tissues. He gets to work adding his group at school (not the cool group, but the kids who still had their own parties) and all the Santa Maria girls who formed the off-shoots and leftovers of the main corpse of certified babes.

Ben sits on his family computer while contemplating his 7th wank for the day. It’s a Saturday morning and he sees his current crush log on, “Sara_Pie86@hotmail.com” aka “Sarz :)”. Ben stares at green icon of Sarz on the MSN friends list for 10 minutes while mentally battling his own urge to initiate conversation with her. Nah, play it cool Ben, switch your status to “offline” and then “online” to attract her attention. Ben does just that and waits a further 10 minutes before cracking under the pressures of excessive-wanking angst and sending the first message: “Hi babe lol x”.

It’s been 1 minute and 42 seconds and Sarz hasn’t responded to his message. In the interest of playing it cool, he nudges. The chat window shakes like the foundations of his own pick-up artistry. FINALLY, “Sarz is typing a message…” OK, Ben is getting anxious, she has been “typing a message” for about 2 minutes and 53 seconds. For the love of teenage desperation, just hit enter girl! Suddenly, it goes blank. Sarz is no longer typing a message and Nookie_Bizkit is left totally negged and unsatisfied.

Poor Ben spends the next 5 hours wanking while staring at his beloved crush’s contact which has been set to “away” for the last 4 hours. Day becomes night, and Ben flicks through the sordid filth that makes up his received files folder. A sort of Star Wars cantina of bad party photos, rookie porn and basically any other photo that Ben would otherwise be horrified if his poor mother was to take a gander at. A truly impressive collection of filth.

It now 3am and he stares at the same list of weirdos that never seem to log off. Contacts he’d never consider initiating contact with, really just filler for his contact list. Which during your high school year is more important than the size of your still growing shlong.

Finally, a message from Sarz on Sunday night, “could you ask Pete if he’d be keen to go to my dinner dance?” Ben smashes his keyboard and walks away. What a fucking disaster.

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Mr Royal Show


“Aw Cheryl, I’ve gone and bloody torn me good shorts”, Daryl laments as he hastily prepares for the event of the year: The IGA Perth Royal Show. Daryl quickly gets over his garment woes: it’s Royal Show time, and he has been putting $50 a month aside from his WorkSafe payments since January. He loads his large-eared and small-eyed brood in his step-mother's 1999 Torago and heads towards the Claremont Showgrounds. The herd is rolling towards greener pastures.

Daryl leads the charge, like a bloated King Leonardis. His wallet is brimming with a fat stack of pineapples. They haven’t been there 5 minutes before each of his 4 kids has a battered sausage in their hands. Daryl and Cheryl treat themselves to a top-shelf snack though: chicken satay burgers with a large chips each. Afterall, it’s a celebration. Daryl’s enthusiasm is higher than Cheryl’s cargo shorts: which are locked in a fierce battle with her gunt. His beard is covered in satay sauce, “saving it for later ay HA HA”.

Daryl’s offspring misbehave on the rides while Daryl laughs from the sidelines. Turns out all those years of Bathurst 1000 and Woodstocks have rendered him too “hefty” to participate in the rides. No biggie, Daryl’s flabby arm is primed to dominate the sideshows. He understands the mind of the carnie, he dominates a dart-based game, he wins Cheryl an oversized banana wearing a Rastafarian beanie. Fuck yeh. He reaches into his Piping Hot backpack and pulls out a Woodstock. The bourbon and coke that doesn’t reach his mouth cascades down his proud girth. He is the hero of the day.

The herd drifts through the Show, ever consuming, ever commenting on shit in that poetic bogan way, “check out that duck, fucking retarded bird ay”. Ah yes, an astute observation Daryl. Enough of the faggy animals, it’s time to hit the showbags. Dont kid yourself, Daryl and his herd are not amateurs, they have studied the showbag guide since it first came out, they know whats up. 48 Bertie Beetle bags, 10 Coke showbages, 5 Gag Magics, and a virtual rainbow of confectionary based bags. Enough sugar to fuel his delinquent children for months. Hey, they are going to be toothless like dad soon anyway, why not expedite the process.

Daryl hugs Cheryl while the herd watch the fireworks. It’s a family moment. “I am going to finger-bash the blue eye-shadow off you later sweet tits”, Cheryl hugs her oversized toy banana, smitten and reborn in the majesty of the moment.

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Mr Coward's Punch



Derryn’s mission in life is to prove that he doesn’t take it up the arse through the art of punching blokes in the back of the head. You dont know who you are fucking with, son - mostly because you never actually see his manly fist coming. One too many Jack fueled UFC pay-per-views have left Derryn thinking he is the leader of the pack, in reality he is just a feral dog that that needs the muzzle of incarceration to be applied swiftly.

It’s Sunday afternoon and Derryn is dressed in the official clobber of the cunt who doesn’t like to be looked at: Tapout shirt, Unit boardies and a chunky silver chain. He rubs his freshly shaved head as he sits at the Old Bailey slamming back pints and looking staunch. He doesn’t see a bar, he sees an Octagaon cage filled with pusseys, faggots and cunts who dont wanna mess with him. “Oi, ‘nother pint” he barks at the bar tender.

It’s busy and some gentle bloke wearing glasses gets bumped into Lord Derryn. The man’s inherent weakness and small stature fills Derryn with the rage of a thousand steroid shrunken ball sacks whirling around in a meth tornado. Unreasonably, Derryn chooses to shove the man off him, “watch it faggot!” A smiley good bloke steps in and tries to defuse the situation, “he was bumped mate, no trouble, it’s all good”. Derryn mulls his options over: to cunt or not to cunt, that is the question: naturally, he rebutts the smiley man’s explanation with a swift chip to the side of his head. Derryn bravely flees the scene without checking on his defeated opponent.

This epic smash has left Derryn feeling like Floyd May-wanker and he heads to his mates house to brag and smoke gear. So much testosterone flies around as Derryn describes how he “dropped him” while giving a full re-enactment. He is marching around his mates backyard like Donkey Kong after he nailed Mario with a barrel of masculinity. “Mess with me, you’ll be eating through a fucking straw lad!” The moronic chorus of man-cheers fills the shed.

Later that night, Derryn is looping hard on the gear and sits at his mates computer commenting on the Facebook page, “Perth Fights”. He alternates between racial abuse and calling people out, “you fight like a fkn pussey fgt, wait till I see u”.

Wow… we were all wondering how much braver you could get today Derryn, you sure showed us you prehistoric dickbag!

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Mr Dexies


 
 
Charlie doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. It was the summer of ‘01 that he was described the holiest of holy prescriptions: 100 D5’s per month, but Charlie was always prescribed 3 bottles at a time. The doctors figured it’d save him multiple trips to the practice, and it wasn’t like dexies had any recreational value right? Fucking idiots.

Fast forward a few years and Charlie is your classic adult-ADD sufferer. Kind of bloke that can never chill. Has no concept of sitting still and watching the cricket. Oh no, as soon as the Test Match starts, Charlie needs to be zooming around the room like a dexamphetamine’d fueled blow fly, “nah, come on, lets go down to the nets to bowl a few overs”. For the rest of his mates that have sucked back a few brews and cones, the idea is outright ghastly. Nevertheless, Charlie was the gatekeeper of all things energy and confidence: the bottle of D5’s. Want one? Then get your stoned hole down to those nets to face steamers from a ever-charging Charlie.

You bring out a sick antipasto platter. You purchased every individual ingredient from Woolies and you are feeling like Heston at this BBQ. You offer Charlie a crack at the sun dried tomatoes and those mini toast biscuits that taste oh-so-divine with a bit of Tzatski, “no thanks mate”. As per usual, Charlie has rejected the prospect of putting anything solid down his gullet. You notice his jaw gnaw ever so discreetly. Cunt’s been dipping into that bottle of fuck yeh. So you ask, “mate, can i grab a couple of D-Bangers”. Charlie’s demeanour suddenly resembles Golemn from Lord of the Rings. you have just asked for a couple of his precioussssssssss. Trying not to feel like a total fuckng fiend, he chucks you 2. “$8 mate”. When the fuck did they climb to $4 a pop?

You pay. You always pay. They may as well be $10. You’ll pay. There is no better tether back to sobriety, no better magic pill for a night of guaranteed sobriety, and after those 5 cones, you were going to be useless as Clive Waterhouse at a motivational speaking course. You only bomb dexies on the weekend so you down them in the usual way: with a big sip of VB. Not Charlie though, the wired cunt needs to rack lines on one of your dinner plates and snort them up with a fucking $5 note. You can’t help to think that old mate Charlie ain’t exactly living the rockstar life. Nevertheless, you snort up a line. You are from Western Australia ain’t ya?

It’s 3:30am that night and you are still awake thanks to Charlie’s magic bottle of euphoria. You look at your beloved antipasto platter and realise why Charlie rejected it so many hours before. The thought of food literally disgusts you. You take solace in the fact you are shredding… as you take a sip of your 15th beer and a draw of our 23rd dart. Yeh mate healthy as. It’s not a total pig-fest though, you manage to send off an overly emotional text to your newly ex-girlfriend. Fuck it though right, she needed to be told she was an angel that made you hard, especially at 3:45am right?

You sleep like a Priest before a Royal Commission. Probably clocking up a total of 3 hours of real sleep. You swear off the D-Bangers as you witness Charlie up at 5am cleaning the house and sucking back darts. He gets right into your shattered soul, “mate, got any Xanax?”

What a fiend.

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The Perth Cyclist





The Tour de Poorcunt rolls along Mounts Bay Road on a crisp Sunday morning. The peloton of mid life crisis is filled like lycra clad men chatting incessantly about their ever important professional lives. Every motorist on the road is an agro bogan and every pedestrian on the footpath is an aimless zombie that better learn the sound of his bell. Fuck everyone, Dave has 24 gears of pure aerobic arrogance.

The peloton roll towards Atomic Cafe in South Perth. Mends St is a rich and fertile grazing pasture for the pot bellied men that have greased themselves up with smugness and squeezed into their racing lycra. The men navigate the tables while giving the cougars a hearty gander of their shriveled cocks poking out. Ah middle aged man chode, the perfect accompaniment to your eggs Benedict. They talk loudly about suggested road policy, “it’s bloody simple, 1m buffer zones and 5 second head starts from the traffic lights, bloody simple stuff lads".

The cycling circle jerk is compounding the hangover of a salty lad trying to find solace in his scrambled eggs, “how about you stop blocking the roads and use cycle paths?” Dave is so offended he almost takes off his Oakley polarized sunnies to respond, “it’s a disgrace that cars are even allowed on the road!” There we go, his true colours come out. The Pol Pot of road policy, under Dave’s regime, cars would be indiscriminately hunted down and destroyed, all in the name of the environment! If you were so keen on the environment, stop spewing so many verbal pollutants from your gob you Orica Green-cunt.

After brunch the peloton rolls on through the City, down Hay Street and onto Underwood Ave. The City to Surf of motorist inconvenience. A frustrated Triton driver beeps his horn and decides to overtake the group. Dave is in a cycling trance and ignores the warning signs. He decides to break from the group and show his peloton a thing or two about sprinting. He pulls out right in front of the accelerating Triton, causing the man to slam the brakes and almost lose control. “Ya fucking idiot!” Where is Warney when you need him.

At City Beach, Dave is still fuming. He updates his Facebook status, “some agro bogan tried to run me off the road!! We need reforms and jail sentences for motorists!!!!” Nah Dave, we just need anti-fuckwit vaccines sold at bike stores

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Ms Rockingham



Rockingham is the suburban equivalent of getting glassed because you spat on a prostitute’s tramp stamp after she sprayed you with breast milk. Southern Crossed locals wake up to the soothing sounds of screeching tyres and police sirens as they add a cheeky splash of Jack Daniels to their morning soft drinks. You know what they say, you don’t have to be an aggressive wall-punching pisshead to live in Rocko, but it helps!

The way that Kaylah dresses would make an African priest want to wear a condom: pink Unit shorts, a Malibu stained singlet, faux-fur Bad Girl hoodie and a pair of Ugg boots. She only ever deviates from this “Chlamydia-chic” ensemble when she goes to Liquids (Liqos). She applies a healthy smear of tanning bronzer to her face and slaps a Roxy cap over her peroxided locks. She loads her children into her currently incarcerated husband’s VL Commodore and drops them off at school. In the school car park, a tear rolls down the eye of a dreadlocked deadshit as he salutes her “Up the Bum No Babies” bumper sticker, “fuck oath”.

She catches up with her girlfriends at the Rockingham Shops to pick out a new Supre dress for the evening. Her friend cautions her, “don't get black this time you slurry, remember that jizz stain last week?” In Kaylah’s defence, her little bathroom suckfest was a small price to pay for a bar card and a verbal guarantee they could skip the line next week. Nevertheless, as a Rocko fashionista she decides on a little understated number: bright pink and thigh tatt exposing. Yum.

She hasn’t been this excited about a night out since her current boyfriend took them on a holiday to Crown Casino last May. She looks up a cheap baby sitter on the Rockingham Buy & Sell FB page and checks her funds: “farken dogs at Centrelink haven’t paid me”. Not to worry, she jumps on Tinder and within 25 minutes she is having a drink with a Gardnen Island Navy man at the Swinging Pig. 7 free Jack & Cokes later, she ditches her dashing date and meets up with her girlfriends at the foreshore. They are doing damage to a cask of Fruity Lexia and hurling abuse at some Mandurah skrag that used to date Kaylah’s incarcerated hubbie. Kaylah barely spills her plastic cup of goon as she hair-slams the 6210 slut into the turf, “roc city bitch”.

Kaylah hails down a “towel headed pooftah” and instructs him to drive towards Liquids. The girls already have their heels off when the cab stops and execute a runner with precision. Not that they care too much, a man of ethnic descent wouldn’t be game to chase Rocko girls through the racist UFC cage-match they call a township. By this point, Kaylah is so sloshed that she manages to get half her Nick’s kebab on her new dress. “Fuck it”, she reckons, “the boys like a bitta meat anyway”. She straightens up a bit by munching a handful of her kid’s dexies. Sorted.

Inside Liquids, Kaylah grinds on men who steal sneakers and are probably living it up YOLO style because their impending court appearances could prove inconvenient for their future plans. A muscular shaved head guy gets Kaylah’s attention by holding up a Smirnoff Black and then spitting on his fingers: the mating call of the Rocko wildlife.

From that point the only thing stickier than the floor is the lad’s fingers: it’s love, 6168 style

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Ms Gluten Intolerance




In 2009 Celeste moved to the bohemian backstreets of South Fremantle. Her fiendish penchant for pingers and darts was replaced by Bikram Yoga and a new set of dietary guidelines. It’s a sad story, she grew up with gluten, went to school with gluten, but now she lives in the wrong neighbourhood and can't even been seen associating with gluten. Her stomach has no intolerance for gluten and proudly waves the flag of the new age dietary trend while saying , “fuck off i’m full”.

It’s Celeste’s 24th Birthday and in the world of mid-sized accounting firms that means she is expected to bring in some morning tea for her desperate cohorts. The fat directors resemble vultures as they circle the kitchen at 8am waiting for Celeste’s offerings. Celeste bounces in like a human pogo-stick with the self satisfied smile of the culinary terrorist . “Raw gluten free brownies!!!” The bulbous bellied men look shocked and betrayed. Does this bitch think this is a game? Morning tea is the only ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak world of Nescafe instant coffee and Croissant Express BLTs.

As is customary at Celeste’s workplace, the team goes out for a feed at lunch for a coworkers birthday. Celeste sends the group email out at 1030, “Raw Kitchen at 1 guys!”. She hits enter and within 10 seconds she hears a man punch a hole through his own keyboard. Celeste has deprived him of a sugary morning tea and now she has robbed him of his chance to get a parmy and chips for lunch. The aggrieved fat-o-saurus flails his disproportionately short arms around in a fit of prehistoric rage, “bloody moon unit ruining my bloody day”. Celeste perkily guides her team through the Raw Kitchen's menu. Her enthusiasm is contagious in the same way Ebola is: you are most likely to contract it from the shit spewing out of her mouth.

Not content with ruining her coworker's day, Celeste sets out to bust the balls of a dude she met the other weekend. Ignorant to her gluten free-chic fashion, he makes a reservation at the Mexican Kitchen. Oh you fucking arsehole, you should be hauled in front of the Hague and charged with crimes against Glutmanity. He looks on in disbelief as Celeste asks approximately 155 questions of the waitress about the exact genetic makeup of the menu items and proposing advanced alterations that even Heston would consider to be a sick joke. “Maybe I should’ve let you pick the restaurant”, he says. Yeh dickhead, this ain't some bread scoffing slurry, she is precious.

He was foolish to think he was going to land his baguette in her bread bin with amatuer plays like that. They part way and Celeste heads home to post circle jerk comments on Gluten Free Facebook websites while snacking on something that looks like a potato chip but is actual fact is made out of kale: kind of like cabbage, if cabbage tasted like a recycling bin.

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Mr Freo Dockers


For decades, Ray has kneeled at the altar of the Church of Dockerology. His knees are getting weak but he still gobbles the throbbing cock of Docker's fandom like a gay turkey at a City Farmer’s glory hole. Alas, Freo is a selfish lover and pursuant to a disrespectful blast, Ray is partially blinded to the harsh reality of an empty trophy cabinet. Nevertheless, we must all endure his purple sermons which are as convincing as a virgin giving a seminar on the Kunta Sutra.

As day breaks, Ray’s bare-feet make a sombre path towards his shed-bar. It has been 2 long years since he painted a premature tribute to the Dockers' 2013 premiership. That fateful day in September isn’t spoken about in polite company as the distant memory of Ray trying to sandpaper off his Anchor tattoo is burnt into his Dockerling’s young purple minds. He slugs down a bitter sip of lukewarm VB as he updates his art, “Dockers 2015 Premiership”. Ray clears some foam from his goatee as he grins like Ryan Crowley at a Chemist Warehouse sale.

Ray’s cubicle is a sickening shrine to purple pride: flags, banner, Newspaper cut-outs and of course a Matty Pavlich bobble head that overlooks his every move. If Ray is being honest, he would dissolve Pavlich into water and then bath in his Adonic glory. He would then dry off with a towel made out of Ross Lyon aka Jesus’ supposed genius. If Ross is indeed Jesus, then his only miracle is turning premierships into losses or draws. Or if you ask Ray, “he is the greatest couch to ever exist in the history of fucking SPORT”.

 


Bored, Ray decides to post a picture of the AFL premiership ladder and then tag all his Eagles mates, “oh whats that? Top of the ladder, and oh wow, didn’t need any meth!” Predictably, his friends bite as he is being more of a shit stirrer than that Bell Tower Times cunt. A workmate responds with some light banter, “Freo were just lucky with injuries, the luck will run out, no way will they win the prem”. Ray chooses to respond in that heavy handed way that has become typical of a Dockers’ supporter, “Turn it up mate, 1. We have FYFEEE!! (best player in the AFL - um better than Ablett lol) 2. our brand of DEFINISVE footy can SHUT down any team…, 3. Melbourne CANT handle the purple horde!,,, 4. Um hello? We have the super coach lol”.

A close mate who is sick of Ray’s shit decides to land the deathblow: he posts a meme of an empty trophy cabinet. The meme hits him harder than Jeff Farmer hit…. ah… that car side mirror outside of Crown Casino in 2007. Ray freezes, the repressed memories of the Docker’s bleak years come rushing back like a river of purple pain. He responds in the only way he knows how, he posts a Benny Cousins meme. The meme is instantly liked by 15 other members of the purple army. He then responds, “Fuck off Meth Coast Eagles!!!!, 2015 is a GUARANTEE, jealousy is a shit colour on yous!!!”

Ray’s wife has already made plans for this weekend. She fears Ray’s intensity on the biggest day of his calendar: the Western Derby aka the Dockers Grand Final. She simply cant handle seeing Ray strut around like a coked up Tim Gossage at a poorcunt parade, or alternatively, see a grown man cry in the shower (again).

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Mr Perth Maori




Temuera is a powerful man. 6 foot 2 and 125kg of pure Rotorua rawness. He sits around his Padbury duplex with his cousins slamming down cans of 6% Woodstocks and arguing about whether Richie McCaw or Sonny Bill is New Zealand's finest rugby player. “Ow! et ah cuz, Sonny Bill is mean, but Ritchie is the man G”. His cousin Jake politely disagrees by belting Temuerain in the face. A flurry of tight rugby shorts, tribal tattoos and Maori-giggling erupts as the two men rumble. After the smash, they sit around their destroyed outdoor setting giggling and sharing the last can of Woodstock, “churrrr boi, thats the second outdoor setting this year!”

Feeling reborn in violent after-birth, the men decide to go and have a munch down at The Saint in Innaloo. Temuera compliments his tight rugby shorts with a black singlet and his pair of Blundstone work boots. He jumps in his filthy Triton and cranks 50 Cent on his drive down to The Saint. In the car park he smokes a poorly rolled and roachless doobie with Jake. Temuera pats his rumbling stomach, “I could hard out eat a horse G”. Jake shoots him a Muss-look, “etah bay, are you Tongan or something G?” Yikes, another minor disagreement, so the pair contemplate a good old fashioned car park scrap but decide to postpone until after their fish feed. “Lets scarpo bro, I’m starving as”.

Jake pulls out his phone and turns to Temuera, “suss out some menus bro, I’m texting this bird, she is tu meke”. Temuera walks off to find some menus and bumps into a busty female, “sorry I am wasted as sis, but choice knockers, those things are mean as”. She flicks him back a smile. Temuera continues his dance of smoothness, “show me your tits, bitch”. She declines his chivalrous invitation. Temuera is confused, in Rotorua, he used the exact same line on Jake’s cousin and banged her in his uncle’s car out outside the dairy. Oh well, he orders four servings of fish and chips to ease the blow.

The men drink heavily while trying to solicit their scaffolding services to anyone that comes within ears-reach. “Going with any other scaffies would be stooooopid bro”, Temuera says while handing a crusty Australian drongo a hand-written business card that manages to spell his own name wrong. Temuera’s scaffolding success has little to do with his marketing techniques and much more to do with his passion for stealing other cunt’s scaffolding kit and thus saving him thousands on overheads.

On their way out Jake is momentarily angered by his reflection, which he thinks is some fulla staring at him, he turns to Temuera, “you munched way more tartare sauce then me, you poaka momona” . Temuara responds, “hoihoi you taka tapuhi, I’m gonna give you a crack ay”. The pair finish their lovely afternoon with a brotherly scrap in The Saints car park, which will go down in history as the messiest exchange of haymaker swings you are ever likely to witness. Go hard or go home ay G?

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Mr Perth Now Commenter




Perth Now forums are barren wastelands of caps locked fury that are polluted by the willful ignorance of fuddy-duddied fuckwits. Australian media is facing a brave new world of misinformation, and it needs a hero equally as misinformed: Mal is that hero and he proudly wears his crusty mustard jocks on the outside.

Mal fancies himself a straight shootin’, tough as nails realist that is blessed with the infallible genius of the revered baby boomer. In reality, he is an outdated pack of cheese that has grown the various moulds of phobic and uncompassionate beliefs. No punishment is severe enough, no change is necessary enough and no member of Gen Y has any bloody sense. He paid a modest $50K for his dwelling in ‘83 but rubs it’s current market value in your face like a dog owner rubbing it’s pet’s snout in a puddle of fiscal irresponsibility.

Luckily for the disenfranchised, Mal is a self professed PhD-cunt in the field of methamphetamine. He cleans the fish finger crumbs off his Laz-e-Boy, whips out his Dell laptop and logs on to his beloved Perth Now. According to the quasi-journalistic clickbait of Newscorp, Perth is facing an ice epidemic of ad-revenue raising proportions. Mal decides to educate the nation, “CRACK is taken over… so many mindless moronic IMBERCILES taking CRACK which is on the brink of indemic SAturation. Deadshit DRUGGIEs, lock em up and throw away the KEY SIMPLE…”. Well said.

While he sits back and waits for unpatriotic lefties to challenge him, he remembers fondly his top comment from yester-month where he called for the Bali 9 ringleaders to be shot twice, “just to make sure the DRUGGIE SCUM are dead”. Despite never having been wronged by heroin traffickers he copped a fierce retribution-stiffy from his “bloody logical” opinion. Drugs are always wrong, unless of course in the case of Mal shoving dexies down the red cordial stained mouths of his now delinquent children. "Different kind of amphetamine, mate".

While ruthlessly mind-fucking himself to the fantasy of his own brilliance, he also remembers his bold call to introduce mandatory sentencing to any hoon found guilty of being under 25 years old. His own E-Plates are of course a different story, given that he isn’t a leftarded bludger and knows what a real days work feels like.

During a Today Tonight ad break, he stumbles upon an article discussing the proposed footbridge to link East Perth to the new stadium. The bridge is not only wavy and homosexual, but the pure audacity of the Government to spend millions of dollars on infrastructure has Mal foaming like the 7th can of domestic beer he has cracked this evening. “Arty FARTY BULLSHIT, $54M! yous are got to be kidding me! TAXPAYERS getting rip offed again... surprise surprise... try again COLIN, we don't even need a bloody bridge”. He argues with “Tony of Subiaco” before laying his famous death blow, “mate try moving out of your PARENTS house and get a bloody clue, son”.

Mal retires to bed, tomorrow he will tackle Islam, refugees and the road works near his local bottle shop. The job of an obnoxious poor cunt is never done.

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Mr "P Plate"



No one could’ve prepared young Billy for the merciless leer of the tradie into his P-Plated Barina. Men with grizzly stubble desperate to sexually harass some cute chickybabe. The look of frustrated disappointment in the sun-weathered plumbers face will haunt young Billy for life. What did he do to cause the plumber to punch his steering wheel and mouth the words, “fuck off”? Little more than being a teenage boy in the most leered at car on the planet: the P Plated Barina.

Billy shanked his driving test 3 times. “Why do I even need to parallel park?” He laments to his gold-framed glasses wearing Pakistani driving instructor. The slick Pakistani shoots him back a look: “why do you even need your testicles, dickworm”. When Billy finally got his P Plates he was forced to sport the red plates for a period and then the green ones. If you are like most people who weren't born into the YOLO generation, you probably have made no effort to learn the difference between the two colours. Let us explain, the red plates demonstrate you will dangerously merge because you almost missed your Freeway turn off. The green plates demonstrate that you will try to drag race any cunt from the traffic lights.

Billy picks up a couple of mates from Bicton and excitedly squeaks, “Maccas run!” He gets stuck behind some bloke trying to turn off onto Preston Point Road. He obnoxiously honks his horn and flips the bird at the old boy. “Old cunts can’t drive ay”, he announces to his carload of bird-flipping motoring experts. Oh yeh, heaven forbid a motorist make the cardinal sin of waiting to turn safely onto their street!

Billy aka Peter Brock, pulls into the Maccas drive through. They immaturely goof around at the order box and order a large coke. Billy has been gagging for a chance to execute a “fire in the hole” for ages. The Maccas chick hands him the drink, he yells “FIRE IN THE HOLE” and attempt to launch it back through the window. It hits his window frame and explodes all over his own car and covers him in sticky failure. Shamed, he tries to burn it out of the drive through but experience gets the best of him and he stalls magnificently. The Macca’s chick looks at Billy desperately try to restart his car. “Nice Barina dude”.

Billy attempts to update his Facebook status while navigating out of the car park. He is spinning his moment of vehicular impotence as a great lark in the fine tradition of CKY and Jackass. Turns out, old mate Brocky is too experienced to type and drive at the same time: he slams into the back of some methbogan’s rapey-Hi-Lux. He is almost in tears as the methbogan goes troppo and angrily vents his frustration at the bingle. Billy is desperately trying to get in touch with his dad to find out the insurance details. When the methbogan leaves, he turns to his friend, “why was the cunt just stopped?”

Well Billy, thats what happens when you park your car, mate.

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Ms Dickhead Mother



Sandra angrily storms into Dome dressed in the official uniform of the wife that hasn’t sucked a dick in 8 years: loose denim carpi pants, a plain shirt and a super practical pair of New Balance sneakers. Sandra has no time for MILF’y fashion pursuits, she is the CEO of the hardest job in the fucking world: raising kids who are more spoiled than the carton of milk that Kyle Sandilands bought in anticipation for a Cleo Bachelor of the Year nomination.

Within minutes, Sandra is berating a staff member at full volume, “what do you mean I have to pay for a babycino? Look my daughter is crying now! My daughter is crying, my daughter is crying!!!” The poor girl cops the narcissistic rage of a dickhead that believes the passing of a placenta gives her the right to stamp out the cigarette of entitlement on the face of society. “FedUp Perth will be hearing about this! Come on darlings we’re going!”.

She refuses to concede any footpath space as she forces a young couple to step onto the grass to avoid her precious entourage. She shoots them an early-menopausal bitch-stare that conveys her sinister thoughts, “how dare you find it inconvenient to move FOR MY DARLING CHILDREN!”. She continues to stampede away from Dome like a bull-dyke that just spotted a Spaniard wielding a raging boner like a spear.

She walks to her Tarago which is parked in a busy car park. She spends 5 minutes loading her screaming brats into her car and then makes an obnoxious phone call to her day-time television cunt of a friend. A lad who had been waiting patiently for her finally honks his horn. She boils over like a hormonal pot of pasta and storms towards the man like a tampon-tornado. “HOW DARE YOU!!! Now my babies are crying!! You pig!!!”

Hours later, Sandra is having lunch with her bestie. She talks endlessly about her precious little George while he demonstrates just how special he is by running around the eatery and destroying the serenity. A suited man leans over, “sorry lady, could you look after your kid? We’re trying to have a business chat?” Uh-oh…

Needless to say, the eatery is treated to a full blown bitch-Opera followed up an un-requested psychotic-encore by the mayor of dickheadsville.

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The Human Zoo - Ms #Feminist



Miss #Feminist woke up angry. This was in part due to the trauma of white supremacist patriarchal injustice, but it was mostly because sleep has been hard to come by since she checked her own privilege and started sleeping on the wooden floor of her bedroom. She looked around the sparsely furnished expanse, at grey walls once adorned with posters of bands, and Kardashians. Sometimes she missed music; but she knew that listening to the music of people from other cultures was appropriation, and that music made by white men was problematic, and that the objectification of white female performers directly contributed to patriarchy, so that left her with few options. Burning those posters and CDs was the right thing to do. Besides, it wasn’t like she had to sit in silence – she had Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble on audiobook, which she felt she was really coming to understand after the 47th listen.

She reached for the glass of water and the two small white pills that she had thoughtfully placed next to her sleeping space the night before. It used to be one pill, but her doctor had increased the dose of her anti-anxiety medication a month earlier, after she scored a humiliating 94% on an English exam and had a panic attack. The Oppressor had found her in the corner of her room, shaking and saying “people who don’t score perfect marks can’t create a perfect world” over and over again. She still had not forgiven him for entering her safe space without knocking; there was just no end to male entitlement. 
 
Remembering that today was free dress day at the private school she attended, her mood brightened. She skipped across the room to her wardrobe and threw open the doors, eagerly hunting for the pair of white capris that she had bought especially for this occasion. She was due to get her period today, and with any luck she would have an opportunity to raise awareness about menstruation all over the crotch of her pants. If she was doubly lucky it would happen while she was sitting in The Oppressor’s car on the drive to school. She resented having to rely on a man to take her to her school, which was six blocks away from her palatial Mt. Lawley home, but statistics clearly showed that there was a 9/10 chance that she would be assaulted if she walked herself there. 

As she entered the dining room, where her family were already seated for breakfast, a hush fell on the table when they noticed her arrival. 

“Good morning…erm…Ollen,” her mother nervously stammered. Ollen was the gender-neutral first name that she now went by. After what had happened the last time her mother had forgotten, and called her Meg by mistake, the family had learned to be more careful.
 
“Good morning, family,” Ollen beamed. “What were you all talking about before I entered,” she asked, with a hint of threat in her eye.

“Tony Abbot!” said her mother, The Oppressor, and Oppressor Jr., in unison. 

“Yes, he is a cretinous pig, isn’t he,” said Ollen. “And what are we all eating this morning?” 

“Toast,” said Oppressor Jr. Ollen shot her mother a glare.

“The bread?”

“Gluten free, dear.”

“Good. What of the milk?”

“Organic Soy, dear.”

“Excellent,” said Ollen, and began to take a seat at the table. However, before she had sat down fully, she noticed the mug in the hand of The Oppressor, and a thought troubled her. 

“What of the coffee?”

Her father and mother exchanged a worried look.

“Sorry, dear?” The Oppressor said, his voice trembling.

“I said: What. Of. The. Coffee,” Ollen repeated, emphasizing each word. 

“I’m sorry, dear, but we ran out of the fair-trade stuff, and I thought it would be ok if I just had the Nescafe this one time.”

“I see,” said Ollen. She paused for a moment, looking ponderous. Then with terrifying speed she grabbed the knife that was laying nearby, with avocado flesh smeared across the blade, and stabbed it through the resting hand of The Oppressor, pinning him to the table. She ignored his scream of agony; people who perpetuated injustice had no right to feelings. One day he would thank her for checking his privilege and calling him out so thoroughly. 

“Well, it looks like I don’t have time for breakfast after all,” she said loudly, so as to be heard over the shrieking Oppressor.

 She picked up her bag and sauntered around the table until she was standing behind the Oppressor’s chair. She bent forward, so that the right side of her face was almost touching the left cheek of The Oppressor, who cowered at her approach, and lowered his howling to a whimper. She reached into the pocket of his jacket, which was hanging from the back of his chair, and groped around until she felt the keys to his car. Slipping her finger through the loop of the keyring, she gently lifted them from the pocket, and as her hand brushed near his right leg, she gave him a playful squeeze on his upper thigh. She then brought her mouth close to his ear, so close that her lips dared to kiss the downy little hairs that were now standing to attention on his outer lobe. Removing her hand from his leg, she brought it up to the side of his face, jangled the keys in his ear, and whispered into the other, “I think I’ll drive myself to school from now on, Daddy.”

With that she walked out of the room, leaving the bloody mess behind her. As she entered the garage, pointed the keys at her dad’s BMW, and pressed the button to unlock the doors, she knew that today was going to be an incredibly empowering day.

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Ms Perth Gold Digger



Ever since Nat caught her year 11 teacher having a forbidden stare, she knew she would never be shackled to the world of gainful employment. In her world, smelling like coconut butter and smiling at the right big bellied businessman is the ticket to living lavish in a vodka-infused world of superficiality.

Early on, Nat made some masterful moves on the hoe-chessboard. She landed a Mining & Gas Executive who had all the charms of a forced redundancy email and the sexual allure of a Liberal frontbencher’s bukake party. She spent her days shopping for dresses that would boost his ego at official shindigs and he made her his. Of course, when one marries for proprietary interest rather than love, shit is going to get greasy. Long story short, Nat is now divorced and has a beautiful little Applecross apartment. Cupid’s arrow penetrated his balls and when it came out through his back pocket it pinned his wallet to the wall of wilful naivety.

It’s Thursday, so Nat slips into her sexiest Victoria’s Secret and drapes a back revealing Balenciaga dress over her fake tanned body. Her large Prada glasses pair effortlessly with her bright red botoxed lips, that only a viagra’d peen will ever know. She invites her best friend Cindy over for some Pol Roger and to discuses their Raffles game plan. Her friend can be described as a Yves Saint Laurent smelling Malaysian honeypot that manages to pout her lips like an unimpressed catfish.

Tonight, the girls are simply after their drinks paid for, a meal and a future invite to a large-arsed property developer’s boat. They sit at a table and order a bottle of Prosecco to share. It doesn’t take long for a sweat-patched knight in sleazy armour to ride over on his credit carded horse, “aren’t you girlies just gorgeous, why are you drinking that crap?” He turns his booze-reddened face towards the bar, “Krug, now!”. He invites his mate over and the pair of Jabba the Cunts start trying to impress their hot young delights.

Nat invites Cindy to the bathroom to discuss whether to catch & release the cashed up man-whales. “Oh my god Cindy, did you see his Patek Phillipe?” Cindy shrugs in conceited jealousy, “uh, my dirty old man only has a TAG, how disappointing”. After the skank-conference, Cindy decides to call it a night and Nat decides to let Mr Patek rest his man-gunt on her back while he gives her a forgettable chode-pump in his penthouse apartment. The nights passion is crooker than the underlying bestality themes in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast.

The next morning, the love birds merrily chirp over breakfast. Nat notices that her new man has a Hublot on now. “Wow you have such good taste in watches baby”. Scrambled eggs come snorting out of his mouth, “ha ha thanks darling, nah between us, just fakies my mate brings back from Thailand, thats whose apartment we made love in too”. The blood drains from Nat’s face, “what, you don't own that penthouse and your watches are fake?” His nod of agreeance sends her into a napkin chucking rage and she storms off, “ew gross! Delete my number you pig”.

Jabba leans back, rests his hands on his belly and smiles, “girls like that are just too easy”.

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The Human Zoo - Mr Yewww Part 2 - A Series of Unfortunate Yewwws


After enjoying a traditional Northern breakfest of buckets & eggs, Koby is struck by a yew-bolt of inspiration. He rescues his favourite Unit  boardies from the dirty wash basket and proceeds shirtless to his beloved orange Xr6 Ute. According to Perth Revenue Raisers there is a speed camera around the corner and today is the day he obscures his plates and speeds past while yewww’ing out the window like a shard-smoking dog on Centrelink day.

Koby spots the speed camera while burning it down Marmion Avenue. He turns up the Aussie hip hop blaring from his speakers, slides on his white Arnettes and prepares to engage his target like a top-cunt Jet Pilot. Approaching the camera, he leverages half his torso out his window, positions his souther crossed arm and unleashes the battlecry of the deadshit, “YEEEOWWWWWW”. The camera serenades his despicable display of deroism with a series of flashes.

“Suck shit”, Koby thinks as he is safe in the knowledge that he has stuck the cardboard from a carton of Tooheys Extra Dry over his plates. However, his celebrations are short lived, as he careens off the road and writes off the mobile racial-intolerance billboard he calls his car. He quickly bails from the scene and runs home, all the while brandishing a ridiculous  facial expression that makes you think he may be two-shards short of a point. He bullshits the mornings events to his Gosnell’s girlfriend who is less than impressed that Koby has wrecked his car.

“How are you going to get to work now dickhead? This is bad timing, cos, I’v been wanting to tell you,  I’m fucking pregnant Koby!” All the paternal instincts that Koby’s father’s ashtray parenting instilled in him come flooding out of his lip-ringed mouth, “preggers, farrrk that, yous farking know I’v been pulling out, deffs not mine”. Koby breaks up with his missus on the spot and decides to enjoy a few yewww-pipes to celebrate dodging the parental bullet like Kecunto Reeves in the Matrix.

Koby assembles his shirtless crew and sucks down more meth than you’d find on the barbershop floor after a 2006 Eagles premiership team haircut session. They communicate in primate-ish grunts and Koby explains he is now single, childless and unemployed, “living the dream lads, YEWWWW”. The room erupts into a neanderthalic chorus of Yewws and shakka hand gestures, “you’re the fucking man bro!”

When you live your life one yewww at a time, you will never be struck down by the trials and trib-yew-lations that blossom from your own spectacularly ill-advised behaviour.

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