The Human Zoo - The Perth P Plater




To Tyler, his newly acquired Nissan Skyline is the hottest car on the road and he’s going to light that bitch up like a Tibetan monk protesting high fuel prices.

To live out his fast and the furious fantasy he had to cop a hefty loan. The onerous repayments clashed against his McWage and insurance was a luxury he had to skip. What would possibly go wrong ay?

Well, loads of shit because when it comes to driving Tyler is about as experienced as a Freo Docker at a cup polishing competition. He forgets blind spots, brakes rapidly and most importantly he doesn’t double clutch like he should.

Now is not the the time to think about theoretical disaster, because as soon as he pulls out of the dealership he almost caused a very real disaster. He failed to see one of those pesky, inconspicuous busses that the driving schools warn you about. “Fucking watch it!” He arrogantly squeaks.

For the next half hour he rides so far up peoples arses that you’d think he was on a first date with a Mandurah girl. The only thing that stinks worse than his bravado is the burnt rubber every time he has to slam on the brakes to avoid making his bonnet look like a pug's face.

At the 45 minute mark he has hit a main road. It’s time to live his life one quarter cunt at a time. He hits 140 and starts swerving in and out of lane like a drunk backstroker.

His joyride is halted when an aggrieved tradesman hurls his 3rd can of Jack at Tyler's car, “learn to drive shit-for-brains”.

Still, everyone else is wrong and Tyler is right, because he has 50 hours of supervised driving experience and has a poster of Paul Walker in his bedroom. He exits the main road and enters a suburban driftopia of wide streets and quiet traffic.

At the one hour mark he spots an Asian girl taking an afternoon off from the family restaurant. Now, if his weekly Fast and the Furious marathons have taught him anything, it’s that Asian chicks love drifters.

He plans his peacockery and figures that if he comes around the corner again sideways he will have her undies so monsoonal that the UN will need to send aid.

He takes the corner at pace, jerks his wheel and hits the gas to attempts and straighten up. It is at this exact moment he realises he has absolutely no idea how to pull off this driving maneuver and careens towards a showcase rose garden.

He clutches his wheel like a meth-addled truckie with a dead hooker in the back and prepares for impact.

BOOM, he smashes right into the front of some cunt’s house… and you thought the bus was hard to spot.

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The Bell Tower Time's Guide to the Western Derby



1. Dickheads make ape noises (Odds: 2.45)
Now, no one is saying all Perth based fans are racist, it’s just sometimes the stands sound like a mass audition for toothless society’s production of Planet of the Apes.
At 2.45, this is a great pick to include in your multi. To make your punt on bigotry even juicer add the “didn’t mean it in a racist way but” bonus odds (Odds 2.00 total), if and when a fan is escorted out and questioned by police.

2. WAG pays no attention to the game (Odds: 1.10)
Imagine the yasss-pocalypse if the camera panned across the stands and her #blessed beauty was discovered and got offered a gig on a regional GWN Camping & Fishing show?
Accordingly, this is a safe bet, as at least all of them will be busy Snapchatting, checking make-up and saying shit, “if he doesn’t walk onto a premiership stage, then he ain't walking down my aisle" (figuratively and literally).

3. A Docker's Fan Hits a Female (Odds: 4.50)
This is a solid roughie. Don’t get us wrong, they will certainly WANT to do it, but after seeing the imprisonment of a member in 2015 they may think twice.
TAB is offering Double the odds if the victim is a cop again! At 9.00 it’d be as unwise as pushing in front of Michael Johnson in the kebab line (or in front of the coke fridge) to put this one in your multi.

4. An Old Boy tramples Women & Children to get to his Box (1.30)
He has been a Subiaco Oval member since before the legion of neck tattooed scum flocked to his beloved suburb every week. But like his Titanic silver spoonery, this is always a safe bet to go down.
You can guarantee he is the sort of wanker to wear a suit to a footy game and lowball you on a settlement offer after his son creams yours in a boating accident.

5. A bogan will spend shit loads on food & drink and later whinge about it online (Odds: paid out)
Going to the Footy can be an expensive day out. Especially when someone appears to have a fucking gun to your head telling you to purchase 8 hotdogs, 5 large chips 10 beers and enough Coke to put the 2006 WCE locker room urinal tray to shame.
Sorry guys, the TAB is not taking anymore bets on this one, it’s a guarantee.

6. WCE Members leave at ¾ Time (Odds 3.00)
If West Coast are down by more than 30 points, fans will desert their boys like a Armadale inseminator demanding a paternity test. Will they go quietly? Heavens no. The stampede will be marched to the tune of empty trophy and “enjoy your grand final” remarks.
These odds will be a favourite amongst Docker’s fans, and may help them avoid looking for a job for another week and actually put food on their family’s tables for once.

7. Dockers Choke (Odds 3.00)
So often the Dockers come out strong, but finish the game resembling Clive Waterhouse practicing some auto-erotic asphyxiation in his mobile home.
An absolute must if you are a West Coast supporter.

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The Human Zoo - Ms & Mr ANZAC Day



1. Ms Dawn Service Selfie

Tash’s boyfie sits patiently outside her house at 5:15am waiting for her to apply her make-up to the requisite level of on-fleekness for her Dawn Service selfie.

Despite Tash acting like a Pest-We-Forget insta-hoe, they arrive at the service in the nick of time. Tash can barely contain her boredom as she waits to Snapchat the Bugle solo. She captions her snap, “LEAST WE FORGOT ;(“. Yikes.

After the service, she runs up and peppers the Soldiers with requests for selfies. While everyone wonders who left the gate open at the cunt farm, she is making tough decisions. Do I go with that gazillion year old war vet or one of the hot spunks?

Yeh, standing next to old mate will help her smile pop in the photo. She uploads the selfie with the reluctant RSL-battler to Instagram. “Today we remember #dawnservice #6am #upat5 #soldiers #ANZAC #blessed #meninuniform #yasss”.

245 likes yasss, “I’m so glad we came babe”. Yeh, don’t think anyone shares the sentiment about your presence Tash.

2. Mr ANZAC Nightclub Promoter

Antonio is an up & coming nightclub promoter that spends his day sending out unsolicited friend requests and inviting you to events that sound as appealing as being reincarnated as a loose sock in the perimeter of a 15 year old’s computer chair. .

“ANZAC Day Eve Shots & Awe Party - come dressed as a sexy commando for half priced entry. We’ll have KY jelly trench wrestling, $5 drinks and DJ PTSD dropping the wubbiest bombs all night!”

Well, that is about as tacky as an discounted ashtray from the Auschwitz gift shop, who guarantee they won’t holo-cost you an arm and a leg!

Profiteering of such a day is a bit like blackface: the majority of us know it’s wrong, but there is always some edge-lord that pulls it out for a party. Antonio can’t understand the backlash on social media and is forced to pull down the advertising for the night.  

Smelling like a Joop factory, Antonio confides in his mates, “we’re still going to have the KY Jelly Trench, it’s what the digger would’ve wanted”.

Nah, they would’ve wanted to use you as a human sandbag lad.

3. Ms Australia are War Criminals Slacktivist

A day where predominantly Australian men are honoured for their services fighting for Australia? Nup, not on her watch. Her “Invasion Day” campaign ended on the 27th of January and she desperately needs more approval from people who believe shitting on Australia is the new black:

‘While you are all getting disgusting and drunk, remember you are celebrating war criminals and a warmongering nation, this day is sick and you should all be ashamed of yourself, so instead let us remember the refugees we send away and like the Syrians”.  

Woah, easy brandishing that weapon of mass cuntstruction, or America’s invadey-sense might start tingling and they'll want some of that slacktivist oil that she uses to lube up the leftist circle jerk.

Would she go down to the local RSL and announce her views to the blokes trying to wash the war from their memories? Of course not, she just leeches off the day to gain more respect from like-minded people and achieve less than an Italian plasterer who has decided to take 3 smokos before lunch.

Will she continue her war against Australian military policy tomorrow? Probably not, unless #ANZAC is still trending.

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Mr Waleed Aly



Waleed awakens in his ivory tower and peruses a room full of suits. He ponders today’s garbs as he tries to pick the suit that screams, “most successful Gold Logie winner, Islamic TV personality and ethnic trailblazer on a prime time slot, of all fucking time”. Navy blue, bingo. 

His left hand is itching to pull down Australia’s dacks and give it a good self righteous spank on itsignorant arse. Without his 3 minute summaries of obvious issues, the nation would go down the gurgler. He knows this, he needs this.

Sadly for Waleed, it’s his day off. So he agrees to spend time with some work colleagues in a bar setting. He knows he is needed to keep things P.C while his colleagues are having an infi-hell of a time.

One of Waleed’s work colleagues approaches the bar and orders a double Jack & Coke. An ominous feeling of unease overcomes him as he looks to his left, and spots Waleed staring at him like a Velociraptor peering through the underbrush , “gone for a double mate? OK”.

Satisfied with the social judgment he cast, Waleed returns to the table to interrupt another colleague’s Tinder story, “hey, hey, boys, easy, I’m sure we can do without the details of her breast size, yeh?”.

Everyone at the table feels as nervous as a losing horse around a glueless trainer at a Melbourne Cup arts & crafts party. To appease Waleed, the camera guy proposes a toast to positive, Islamic role models, but in the process knocks over a glass.

Waleed ocularly scorns him like a Woolworths’ vegan would look at a man trying to redeem a coupon for caged eggs. Everyone knows whats coming. They are about to be monologue’d. Waleed leans forward and like the soap boxer he is, and lands a left hook:

“Alcohol, we all drink it, but do we need it?” Waleed smugly states as he proceeds to tell everyone alcohol can be harmful for the next 3 minutes. He finishes his no-shit-Sherlock sermon by making a special request:

“so to prevent you from harming yourselves and others how about we all try something right now,#giveyourkeystoWaleed, seriously guys, keys, now”.

No one dares disobey the Minister of Monologues, the Sultan of Shit-eating Summaries, the Lord of Lowest Common Denominator “News” Segments. Even the sober drivers will be taking an Uber home because if Waleed said it, it must be true.

With a pocket full of car keys, Waleed heads home. On his way he spots a “Fuck Off We’re Full” sticker on an SS Ute. Not on Waleed’s watch. He forces the Ute off the road, and when the driver regains consciousness, all he sees is Waleed's angelic head hovering over him.

“Mate, racism, we all hear it, but do we need it?#givethestickertoWaleed

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Mr Cyclist 2017



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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The Human Zoo - Mr Perth FIFO


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

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The Human Zoo - Ms Perth Asian




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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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

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The Perth Italian (W*g)



Tony is the result of a bottle of Acqua Di Gio fucking a tub of hair gel and giving birth into a pile of trimmed pubic hair.

His priorities are simple: the sound system in his late model 3 series lowered BMW, his gains and his familia. The lowest of his priorities are fair quotes on his painting business and maintaining a civil volume of conversation.

You’ll never see him without a wallet full of cash, a gold crucifix around his neck and designer clothes tighter than Hey Dad’s clench while in the prison showers.

How does he afford such extravagances? Well, the “24 carat gold” is really just 12 carat plated and he lives in his parent’s granny flat at the ripe age of 31. His rent? Helping to bottle a year's worth of fucking pasta sauce every year.

When it comes to his familia he will “fooking kill ya mate” if you disrespect his sisters or mamma. However, if you are a “slut” walking on a foot path he will hound you like relapsing DMX from his vehicle. Note: this is the one and only time he will turn down his shit house music because he doesn’t turn down his woofers for nothing bro.

Every weekend is like a Night at the Cuntsbry. He loads up his BMW with his cousins and cruises down to Perth’s Roma: Freo. Before getting out of the car each cousin fist pumps the tiny pair of boxing gloves hanging from Tony’s rearview, “gonna get some pussy bros”.

Before hitting the strip for some coffees and pasta, they pose by the BMW for a gram pic looking like they’re about to drop the hottest Rohypnol pill of 2017 into someone's drink.

Next they are onto Ginos to sit on the terrace and whistle at girls walking past and maybe sell a few bags to people who like their drugs cut up like Edward Scissorhands dick after a 9 hour meth-wank.

After the coffees it’s time to smash out a few laps of the strip and head into Subiaco to tune some girlys at Gold Bar. Of course, the staff refuse to let him carry around a bottle of Grey Goose, so he does the woggiest thing he knows, he gives the bartender $20 to let him pose with the bottle for the gram, “popping bottles babies #theycanthandleus”.

Tony spends the majority of the night harassing the DJ to play some deep house before getting sprung selling a bag of white weakness to a “perthonality”. While being escorted to the club he resists while asking whether the bouncers know who he is?

They sure do, he’s the guy heading back to his parent’s granny flat to take photos in the mirror and send dick picks so hairy that the recipients call in bigfoot sightings.

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Mr Ambar Niteclub




Toby aka DJ Trap Kid, is eagerly awaiting tonights rinse at Ambar. He has already sent out “pump up” messages to his “squad”, “ready to get battered and bruised on the ones and twos BRAP BRAP. P.s. got pingers”. 

He adjusts the floppy rim on his bucket hat while updating his Soundcloud account with a new Trap track that he fumbled together on Fruity Loops. He has a pirated copy of Ableton but if he is being honest with himself, he finds the program baffling and beyond his “Trap Skillz”. But enough hating, DJ Trap Kid is superstar seedling that will grow to great heights once the dog of reality stops pissing on him.

Toby and his squad start pre-drinking at a mates house in Mount Lawley. The host has his Technics out and is mixing some god awful shit that he produced in collaboration with DJ Trap Kid. The entire squad pretend to enjoy the turnt out tunez and eagerly await their own 10 minute bash on the Technics. 

Toby is now in his full rinser attire: bucket Hat, Black Street X longsleeve, Nike Roshes and the pockets of his jeans are stuffed with Vicks Inhalers and pingers. He gets behind the Technics and drops the unofficial hottest track of November 2014: it sounds like a Skrillex song if played through a blender full of talentless Ibiza fuckboy jizz.

Toby and the squad arrive at Ambar already 2 pingers down. Toby runs into every other aspiring Soundcloud DJ in Perth in the alleyway and chain smokes Pete Stuyvesants like a Carhartt sponsorship depended on it. 

Hours pass and Toby is still dribbling furious shit into the ears of anyone who will listen in the alleyway. Forcing people to take down the link to his Soundcloud in their mobile phones. One of the members of his squad comes and finds him, “brah, we’re rinsing, you gotta come down”. Oh Toby certainly will come down, when the euphoric high of his 5 pingers ends and the morning sunrise of cold hard dopamine deficiency dawns on him.

Inside Ambar, Toby starts “rinsing”: a chaotic dance craze characterised by violent two stepping in the style of a methamphetamine induced rabbit that is humping the shit out of some sluttier rabbit. Sweat is dripping from his face as he slams back bottles of water and poses for endless photos with his squad. 

Toby is not concerned with the potential consequences of having hundreds of gurn-shots plastered over the internet. He is way too turnt for that. After 30 minutes of rinsing Toby needs some oxygen. It’s back to the alleyway for another 10 cigarettes and as many nangs as he can get down.

Toby eventually ends up back at the Mount Lawley house for a hearty session of bongs and loved up banter. They all assure each other that they will be big time traplords and express their sincere love for each other. 4 hours later they will awake and resent each other for even speaking: the gift of ecstasy.

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