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, “”. 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, “” 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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