Ms “The Bachelor”

Susan’s love life has been marred by the knuckle-dragging greaseballs she meets on Tinder and slick-talking bum-thumbers she meets in inner city bars. Although her Leederville townhouse smells like cats and desperation, she lives in hope that all this is just a painful prelude to her inevitable fairy tale romance. For a few hours a week, she forgets about the critical shortage of shining-armour-cunts and watches the pop-cultural equivalent of a Passion Pop-fueled fingering in the back of a Playboy seated Barina.

Oh how she fawns over the smiley-headed, meal-prepping fuck that they pulled from the bowels of a regrettable gay porn set. A man with all the charms of a fat pinch test and who doesn’t mind pooning his way through some instamodels to land a sweet gig on Getaway or some other irrelevant Australian fuckery. In Susan’s mind, he is eHarmonised-gold: good looks and he believes in romance! She watches Sam's shallow display of emotion, and plunges her yearning fingers deeper into the moist cave of her own fantasy.

Susan is unclear when exactly she crossed the line from “ironic viewer” to “overly invested Bach-addict”. Perhaps it was when she joined the inexplicably angry circle-jerk over Sam’s rejection of crowd favourite Heather. She sobbed mercilessly and spilled her Lean Cuisine as she uploaded a screenshot of the TV moment and proceeded to make a fucking twat of herself, “lost so much respect for Sam!!! Seriously, how SHALLOW, Heather is the goods and any man would be LUCKY to have her#mosthatedmaninaustralia #thebachelor2015#teamheather #dude #man”.

She submerged herself in “articles” written by trash journalists that attacked Sam for being shallow. Susan almost loses her fucking shit during a phone conversation to her bestie, “seriously, the guy is a pig, who cares if she called him dude or man, does he think that this is his romance? Does he think this is about him? I fucking need this Karen, I neeeeeeeed this”. Susan has let the stiffy-driven desires of a random man make her angrier than Rolf Harris outside a cancelled Wiggles concert. This was no longer a garbage reality TV show, it was a the combined longing of a nation of disenfranchised romantics.

It's finale night, so Susan robes up and watches with a sleeve of Tim Tams. She is still livid at Sam for ditching Heather and is getting mighty sick of Andrew G not taking this show as seriously as she is. She types a Facebook update in pure hormonal confusion, “that intruder slut Lana better not win @feeling stressed”. She can barely breath as the winner is announced: Snezana! Forgiveness and joy washes through Susan and her ovaries practically pop from an overload of pre-packaged faux-mance.

She jumps back on Facebook, “faith in men restored, squeeeeeee #romance #realman#samisahunk #lovewins #marriageequality#happytogether #fairytale #princecharming”. The anti-Sam lynch mob changed its tune and they are now carrying the cunt on their figurative shoulders like an undeserving hero that society doesn’t need.

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Mr Clubba

Back in the day when we tuned in to cop a big load of Sandy’s eyebrows on the OC, there was only one place to go for Passion Pop fueled mayhem: Claremont’s infamous Club Bay View.

Did they sell Passion Pop? Probably not, but the venue was in many ways kind of a like a big bottle of the shit: tacky, cheap and brimming the effervescence of drunken mistakes and queasy regrets. Nevertheless, you popped the top off that bitch and drank it down every Thursday night.

Johnny is pre-drinking at a Uni friends granny flat behind their parents sprawling abode. He is kitted out in his Clubba-best: pink Ralph Lauren polo (collar popped), G-Star jeans, white Etnies and generous spray of Aqua di Gio on his neck and balls. 

He perpetually looks like he has just drunk driven into some old boys hedge and his father is on the scene smoothing things out with his cheque book: a smug feeling of invincibility fueled by intoxicated self worth.

They run onto the road, yell and try to pull down streets signs on their journey up Bay View Terrace. Not unlike a pack of silverspoon-baboons rampaging through a South African village in search of the perfect banter. “Ohhh did you see Toby throw that traffic cone onto that guys lawn? Soooooo good  man”.  Oh yeh, thats a story for the ages…

Johnny is pretty drunk while standing in the line. He sways from side to side. The bouncer takes a look at his ID and considers rejecting him. Now, for a venue that could be better described as a human-waste eco-system it is fairly remarkable that a punter is too drunk to enter.

 He gets waved in and makes his way past the vomit-swamp bar floor to the gushing river of piss in the bathroom to empty his Bacardi-bladder all over the urinal wall and surrounding surfaces. One of his Christchurch mates pops out of a cubicle, “Johnnnny boy, check it out, just stuck a pint glass in the shitter and laid a big turd”. Oh how the pair laugh. Classic Clubba.

The rest of the night is characterised by Jagerbombs, sprinkler-related dance moves and aggressive bravado on the smoking terrace. 

A night at Clubba wouldn’t be complete unless you got into a blue with some other cunt and challenged them to a biffo outside of Fresh Provisions. Some Hale rugby players go off to tangle with some Guildford water polo boys. The rivalries remain perfectly intact even 2 years after school has finished. 

By all accounts, there was no winner, just a massive loss for the reputation of the PSA system.

Johnny drunkenly buys a girl a Whopper with cheese, despite her constant protests. She is a vegetarian, but more importantly she finds Johnny to be a repulsive, over-entitled walking trust-fund. Johnny’s years of PSA elitism has failed to arm him with the ability to lose gracefully. He launches the Whopper at a table of Trinity boys, “povo cunts, you could use the free food”. It’s an all out war, but truth be told,  the Trinity boys can’t afford to throw their food, so they resort to fisty-cuffs.

 A couple of Aquinas bogans sitting nearby were itching for a fight all night and a rogue group of Como High kids are totally down for it. Hungry Jacks erupts in a flurry of weak punches and threats of father-initiated court action. Jokes on everyone though, a pack of Santa Maria girls salvage the free food that has hit the floor and tables: “tonight we eat ladies!” 

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The Human Zoo - Ms Dry July

As she forgets her reasons for running and the sun sets on a rainbow sky, Simone must mercilessly dry hump July’s new hashtag like her online relevance depended on it.

 #dryjuly presents a unique opportunity to marinade her ego in health superiority and then roast it in the red hot oven of clicktivism charity. The end result is a steaming pile of Instagrammable narcissism that is garnished ever so lightly with good intent.

Simone’s first #dryjuly post managed to say all the right things, “hey guys, this year I am doing Dry July to help adults living with cancer, eeep!#whatamigettingmyselfinto #dryjuly #cancer #sober#cleanliving #fitspo”. As the weeks rolled on it became apparent that Simone had spectacularly missed the point and never actually signed up to the competition. She then began to backtrack like Belle Gibson on a truth-hike, and clarified her pledge,

 “I failed at junk free June lol, so my Dry July challenge is here! Only 2 drinks when I go out #hermit #semidryjuly #dryjuly#2drinks #cancer”. 

Wow, her non-commitment to charity is more watered down than the spectators watching Iian Hewitson slide out of the Tunnel of Terror.

It’s the 30th of June, so Simone figures she deserves a night of liver-smashing overindulgence in honour of her upcoming month of semi-sauceless sacrifice. She teams up with her pinot noir-posse and the girls neck alcohol like a depressed booze-elephant at a poacher-less watering hole. She uploads a selfie of herself holding a glass of house red,

 “my last drink before starting Dry July! #whatsyourreason#sobersimone#braincancer #nosociallife”. She awakens the next morning feeling crustier than a stack of FHM’s in an outside toilet and uploads a selfie of herself with a coffee, “the only thing that will get my through Dry July  #dryjuly #coffee”.

Simone can't believe it, so far her #dryjuly has only netted her 1 extra follower on Instagram and a total of 245 likes on Facebook. To remedy this travesty, she decides to ignore Tropic Thunder and goes full cuntard, “#dryjuly has been tougher than I thought and given me perspective of just how difficult it must be to live with cancer #worthycause #dryjuly”. 

Oh yes, your one day of a donation-less pledge to limit yourself to a couple of wines a day is exactly like living with cancer. Someone hand her the Cuntble Peace Prize for amazing service in the field of shameless like-whoring. She ignores an email from a coworker asking her for the link so he can donate. “I'm raising awareness, not money, gosh”.

After lunch, Simone receives a text from a girlfriend asking her whether she is going to come to her engagement party. Simone is suddenly struck with a bolt of selfishness and can't fathom the idea of her half-arsed #dryjuly bullshit getting in the way of her social life. Luckily, she knows exactly how to navigate this prickly situation. 

She jumps on Facebook and pumps out a status, “friends, I need your help! Please sponsor me to have a night off #dryjuly to celebrate my good friend’s engagement! #worthycauses #cancer#engagement”. Presumably, Simone will be giving these donations directly to cancer herself.

If the charitable tree falls in the woods and there is no-one around to hashtag it, does it make a difference?

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Mr Perth Road Rage

Most folks would value their freedom over headbutting a stranger’s windscreen. Not Jaxsin though, he carries on like a cashless Pauline Hanson at a cardless Asian deli.

Much like the anti-Halal Ronald McCuntold, Jaxsin’s ranting and raving makes him look like a total clown.

He starts his day like any other: honking on his yewww pipe in the car park of Chicken Treat Mirrabooka.

Now, Jaxsin doesn't let the fact he got fired 2 weeks ago stop him from wearing his Hi-Vis shirt. His professional appearance is what separates him from the other shard smouldering shit-wits.

On his way to the Thirsty Camel he finds himself stuck behind an elderly lady. Her deceleration is directly proportional to the accelerating fury in Jaxsin’s soul.

She slows down to almost a crawl and Jaxsin explodes like Barry Hall getting blue shelled by Brent Staker in a mario kart tournament.

He beats his steering wheel like a demented fist-drummer while spit-wailing the song of the unhinged lunatic.

He manages to remain in his vehicle and overtakes her like a one man high speed pursuit.

He can't stop thinking about the minor 5 seconds of inconvenience he endured. Needless to say, he is fucking worked up when a hatchback has the audacity to pull out in front of him.

Nevermind the fact the hatchy was a clear 75m ahead of him. To a vehicular neanderthal, pulling out is pulling out and the driver is about to learn the ways of Jaxsin’s knuckledragging justice.

He follows the car all the way to the lights and bursts out of his car like the load his mother should've swallowed.

He staunches out the car like an amphetamined-Ape at an inbred safari park,  “think you can farken cut me off punk? Ill make you ya farken piss dog!” He rips off the antenna and jumps on the bonnet like a scaly savage from Mad Max.

The driver pulls out his phone and begins filming the panel beating fuckery. Perfect footage too, you can see every drop of rage-spittle fly from his ever-rambling gob.

Now no one ever accused Jaxsin of being a genius, but getting filmed pummeling a car in your ex-employer's work shirt probably isn't the perfect crime.

Cool your jets Jaxsin ya turbo charged dickhead.

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