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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The Human Zoo - 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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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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The Human Zoo - Mr Perth X-mas 2016



The ghost of yew-mas past visits Kody and whisks him away to the charred remains of his neighbour’s house. Three days before X-mas Kody had decided to do a little improvised electrical work on the property to ensure he had enough juice to power his hydro set up.

The ghost shows Kody that he caused the blaze and points out the total destruction of all his neighbour’s shit. “Nah git fucked, probably those Western Power drongos ay, I didn’t do nuffin”.

The ghost of yew-mas past looks Kody in the eyes, “see what a shitcunt you are?”

Next, Kody is visited by the ghost of yew-mas present and is taken back to Woolworths where he had done some “shopping” on Xmas eve. He is forced to relive the encounter with his neighbour Bobbo Cratchit:

“Times are tough mate, lil Timmy is devo all his presents got burned but at least we got the last chrissy ham! Lil Timmy’s favourite mate”

Kody waits for Bobbo to turn his back before grabbing the ham out of the trolley and stuffing it down his trackie and bolting through the self checkout.

The ghost of yew-mas present shakes his head, “mate, if this was the shit-cuntolympics you would be Cuntstain-Bolt.

Next the ghost of yew-mas yet to come visits Kody and fast forwards him through time to his Bali wedding. None of his best men have rocked up because Kody had honked a entire 8-ball he’d organised for his bucks and dished out Mandurah handshakes when asked for reimbursement.

To make matters worse, his brother took a pass because he wasn’t too keen on seeing his brother marry the mother of his own 3 illegitimate kids.

Kody pleads with the ghost of yew-mas yet to come, “please, does anyone rate me?” The ghost takes a breath, “people would rather play fetch with their pet at the Yulin dog eating festival than be your mate”.

Kody awakens on X-mas day in a shardish sweat and swears to change his ways. Accordingly, he drops off a 200g packet of Dorsogna tracksuit ham and a little bud in a pill baggie to the Cratchits.

Sadly it’s too late, lil Timmy is already feasting on Spam directly from the can.

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Mr Mandurah



Fucking Mandurah. A hard drinking marine environment that offers you a chance to catch crabs in the estuaries or from the slurry you rail at Chicken Treat while waiting for your rock dealer who also happens to be one of your babies mummas. A thriving ecosystem of big eared degenerates who delight in shoeless spitting and believe that when it comes to venereal disease, sharing is indeed caring

Brent is a hairy back, missing link-cunt who occasionally puts in a days work laying bricks. He wears the official uniform of the guy who smokes a crack pipe in public: Fox racing shirt, Unit boardies, no footwear and a Monster snapback. His E-plated VN Commodore is his pride and joy and the local children know to stay well clear as he suburban swerves his way to Halls Head to purchase alcohol from the only bottlo that doesn't display his image on the wall of shame. 6210 is proudly tattooed to his neck.

Having recently mated with the female equivalent of a commemorative ashtray, Brent must make his way to the Mandurah Forum to purchase baby formula. A shopping centre so ghastly it makes an Armadale meth lab feel like a McDonalds' playground. He charges through the car park like he was confronting his cheating ex on an episode of Jerry Springer. He is so busy sizing every bloke up that he forgets to purchase the baby formula. Instead, he scoots around like an irate crab shooting people the “I’ll glass you in the throat” stare. Clearly itching for a fight, he spots a bloke that supports the Freo dockers. That’ll do he reckons.

Brent roars the battle-cry of the Mandurah derro, “meet me at the farking traino, cunt!” The Dockers supporter shows some rare diplomacy, “oi cunt, we’ll grab a few pints at Murphys and then smash on in the car park orrright? Ya bloody pelican”. The men bond over stories of headbutting Maori bouncers and contemplate how a crab shell may be fashioned into a functional yewwwpipe.  Brent barely wants to cave this blokes skull in as they walk out to the car park. That is until he spots the bloke’s car. “Fucking, Rockingham Holden? I’ll fucking kill ya”. They smash on to the delight of a couple of long haired louts enjoying their fish and chips.

Despite severe facial lacerations and a concussion, Brent fancies a quick armed robbery at the local Jesters. He could use the extra spending money on some white Arnettes and has been craving a nutty chook pie since his meth wore off about 15 minutes ago. Crime pays when your expectations are low.

They really should just build a wall around Mandurah.

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The Human Zoo - Mr Perth Heatwave 2016


Daryl is an unflushed toilet bowl of a man: full of shit and stained with the unpalatable skiddies of one upmanship.
The Perth Heatwave has sent his toughen-up-princessery into overdrive and he spends his days atop his air conditioned throne, obnoxiously decreeing anyone other than himself to be a whining Perth pussy.
Like any good shit-stain, Daryl has lasted the test of time. He has retained a senior role with a mining company despite a disconcerting incompetence and penchant for 6 hours of solitaire per day. He begins his morning by maxing out the AC and logging onto the Mecca of morons: Perth Have a Whinge:
“heathwave!? perth office worker can get stufed!! try bein 60ft botom of hole in PILBARA HEAT ! thats 45 ya sooks!! then tell me bout heatwavelol... city of bloody soft girls, pull ya bloody skirts up ha ha ha… lol”
Oooo yeh. The only hole Daryl has been in lately is his depressing rut of a marriage with a wife who has suddenly become allergic to sucking dick. Nevertheless, Daryl’s terry-toughcuntery has him feeling as cool as the thermometer reading in his donga. It isn’t long before another i-Stauncher decides to contribute:
“ken oath!! this lot wuldnt no real heat, hahahHA weak priks ay mate”.
Daryl has no time to gently caress the balls of king dickmanship and decides to go full steam ahead:
“bloody weak mate.. tlkin bout global heating.. lol.. jus somthin office poofs say to justofy their WHINING. yous wanna tell me it getting hotter?!?.. back in 1993 i workd for 3 weeks straight out bush… mercury toppin 55 every day and 43 at night!! non of this “lunch break” shit either… 17 hour days… world not getting hotter, people getting softer lol”.
Ah yes, the blithering rambling of a washed up drunk. Irrefutable proof that global warming is a farce and the key to survival lies in our ability to simply “suck it up” and “have a glass of concrete (lol)”.
After a long day of unabashed fibbing, Daryl walks into the wet mess to see his workmates sweating like George Pell at a Royal Commission. The air conditioner is broken and the temperature is reaching 42 degrees inside the hall.
After 5 beers, Daryl is doing his best impersonation of a recently birthed Hippopotamus. His moist bulk is sweating like a bad cut of cheese and the shameful drippage is pooling on the table in front of him.
Half way through loud-mouthing about what he reckons Western Power should be doing, Daryl feels faint. His eyes begin to flutter and he passes out like he drunk the punch at Rolf Harris' sleep over party.
The mighty heat-warrior is carted off to the first aid room to seek treatment for the grueling 45 minutes he spent sitting on his fuckin arse.
C’arn Daz, toughen up princess.

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Mr Mandurah



Here we see the mating ritual of the southern derro.
Mr Mandurah is proposing to Ms Belmont over a crab feed with a ring that he acquired through the act of home invasion. It appears that MrMandurah believed he had successfully mated with the female and has inscribed the child's name on his arm to warn off potential rivals.
As life so commonly goes in the inharmonious south, Mr Rockingham has sprung the pair and has produced a birth certificate to lay claim to the child. He too proudly inscribes the boganling's name on his patriotic arm and storms in to defend his woman's honour while wielding a trolley pole like a poorcunt sword. The pair now lock horns and the winner of the rumble will be crowned Ms Belmont's king and have a hand in neglectfully raising the child with their own brand of ashtray parenting.
Remarkably, the romantic public-smash has been noticed by the Maori bouncer that Mr Mandurah coward punched the weekend before. The bouncer waits like a violent vulture to give Mr Mandurah a taste of his own back-of-the-head punching medicine.
Of course, justice in the southern jungle is never black and white, and MrMandurah adamantly defends the coward's punch as he had caught his princess fellating the bouncer in exchange for a bag of gear that he had stolen off Mr Rockingham who was rendered unconscious in a pool cue fight that was sparked because "some cunt keep looking" at him.
This is truly, the circle of life.
Art by Shakey

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The Human Zoo - Mr Kalamunda



Deklyn is a simple man, he likes dirt bikes, cones and paying his sister’s mates for gobbies down by Lesmurdie Falls. Modern fashion confuses and angers him, so he sticks to the basics: Fox Racing shirt, Metal Mulisha hoodie, Rusty jeans and a pair of Globe moonboots that are holding on for dear life. His underwear game is also pretty fucked, as he never saw a need to evolve past the pre-cummy sheen of a pair of silk boxers. To top it off, he sports the official goatee of the reckless furniture removalist who most definitely look through your shit.

Morning breaks and Deklyn rolls out of his fitted-sheetless bed. He takes a dribbly swig of the remains of last nights Wild Turkey can in a desperate bid to rid his mouth from the taste of the Pickering Brook slurry he rooted last night. In addition to the myriad of STD’s brewing inside of him, he feels rougher than Kim Duthie after a night in Ricky Nixon’s sleaze filled waterbed.

No stranger to life threatening hangovers, Deklyn has the remedy. He shuffles his hobbit-feet towards his laundry that has a permanent bucket bong set up. He sucks down a cone and proceeds to serenade his household with the song of his people: donkey-coughing with elements of spluttering and cursing. Feeling stoned as a woman trying to vote in Saudi Arabia, he goes about the business of cooking up some breakfast: a handful of his youngest brother’s dexies washed down with a fresh can of Beam Devil’s Cut.

He jumps on his 250cc Atomik Fury and catches up with his mates for a session in the back country. The smell of petrol mixes with the thick green haze that the boys spend their life in. Being men of few words, the banter is drier than Dawn Fraser on multicultural day. Nevertheless, Deklyn has something to contribute, “me old boy called, apparently theres some girls willing to put out down at the pub, reckon I’ll check that out ay”.

Deklyn liberally douses himself in Lynx Africa and chooses to be wilfully ignorant of that fact it has not masked his pig-hunter’s body odour. He walks into the High Wycombe Tav while rolling a cigarette and spots his dad slumped at the bar. “Where these sluzzas dad?” His dad mumbles out incoherencies like a piss-stained cobber in the depths of a booze bus. Deklyn’s dad point at the unimpressed bar-chick, “bahh, son, this ones up for it”. Deklyn turns his bloodshot eyes to the young philly behind the bar, “yeh? This true?”

Unwilling to participate in an episode of Family Feud - Sexual Harassment Edition, the young girl politely requests Deklyn remove his inebriated father from the bar. The reasonable request causes the men to share a touching bonding moment, as they chuck pint glasses against walls and bust into enraged outbursts about being the kings of Kalamunda or someshit.

Outside the bar, Deklyn suggests the pair head to his dads place for a few drinks, “aw shit son, the old lady kicked me out, i’m sleeping in a swag in a hole done dug”. Deklyn fails to comprehend the problem, “yeh orright, can we drink in the hole?”. His dad grins, “sure, boy, would love to have ya”.

Whether it’s your sister’s mate, or your dad’s swag, home is where the hole is.

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Mr Polo in the City



Bradford’s (real name Bradley) Chinos are so tight that Brazzers tried to contact them for an exclusive porn shoot. To complete the M.J Bale trust fund look he adorns himself with a blue blazer and brown loafers.

Although he looks like the sort of prick that would hit & run you in the Claremont Quarter car park and then later sue you for the damage, he is in fact of moderate means. The mundane depths to which his bank account dives is grotesque to this polo crowd. His aura of affluence must be protected at all costs.

Bradford jumps into his 2007 Hyundai Getz and drives to the Wilsons’ car park at the Old Swan Brewery. Why does he park 3.7km away from Langley Park? To minimise the chances of a Polo socialite spotting his low socio-economic whip.

Bradford burns straight down to the basement level and activates full Jason Bourne mode. He sinks into his chair and checks all available mirrors to ensure the coast is clear. He crouch-power walks towards the stairs. There is an unacceptable albeit small risk that a fellow Polo socialite will be in the lift. So he legs it up the stairs. He exits the car park without being spotted and flags a taxi. Smooth Bradford, smooth.

He has purchased the Somersby Polo Lounge ticket for $95. He would’ve loved to be in the one of the more exclusive Marquees but he spent a fortune on his get up and had to save some money so he could parade around with a bottle of the second cheapest Champagne.

He looks around Langley Park, the event reeks of the always unimpressive pong of “perthonality”. For every Adam Gilchrist there is at least 5 “reality TV stars” who would push their own mother down the stairs for a guest hosting spot on Getaway.

The atmosphere is seemingly pleasant yet has an overwhelming aura of resentment that could only be likened to the Rhinehart family Christmas after the children deny Gina the gravy pot until she signs over the trust fund.

Each well dressed socialite stares into the wallet of the next and wonders to themselves, “am I richer than that pleb?” Unfortunately for Bradford, none of the WAG-wannabe babes feel he is worth an Instagram selfie with.

Events like these are like a giant game of snakes and ladders. For example, a photo with Basil Zempilas is a social ladder which one can ascend status. However Bradford is the snake, and a photo with him will see you slithering around with the other bottom feeders.  

Bradford tries to network and talk turkey with Perth’s elite. He manages to score an invite to the Cottesloe Golf Club the following weekend. He is now riddled by anxiety: he can blow his next pay on the St Andrew’s look, but the 3km walk from his Hyundai Getz to the golf club is going to be nothing short of murder.

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