Mr Holden Racing Jacket

Bert watches reruns of the V8 Supercars while sucking the last drops of Woodstock from his can like a low socio-economic vacuum cleaner. He angles his arse to trumpet out a grim requiem to his wife’s magazine time.

He pauses awkwardly in anticipation of his putrid release causing his mustard green grundies to resemble the ever-growing oil patch on his Rockingham driveway. “Close call darl, we better get going to the boy’s engagement party at Hogs Breath”.

Bert bogan-waddles into his pool room to retrieve his most beloved possession: his Holden racing team jacket that he wears rain, hail or shine: he never takes it off. It hangs up in the middle of a tacky shrine of commemorative ashtrays and signed pictures of Peter Brock.

The jacket perfectly complements his light denim jeans and Makita promotional polo shirt he acquired free with a set of drill bits at Bunnings.

He douses himself in Old Spice and slips into a pair of brown River’s shoes that he paid bottom dollar for. He is the king of the mountain that no one wants to climb.

Bert pulls into carpark in his beloved VN Commodore and scopes for a park. An unfortunate scene unfolds as a young buck in a Ford Xr6 does the dirty and nabs his intended spot.

Bert desperately puts into play the breathing exercises he was forced to learn after he jumped the barrier at Kwinana Motorplex and choked a Ford driver for winning the burnout competition in the snakepit.

Bert leans out of his window, “god made Ford’s, so nudgers had a place to bum, ya bloody pelican!”

Further drama unfolds in the toilet as Bert encounters the Ford driving parking thief. Bert stares at the urinating man, “does your car run on premium or unleaded tampons ya fruit?” The Xr6 driver rebuts, “no, Holdens are for fairies”.

Bert is now firing with the intensity of an Italian Nonna at a Big W clearance sale, “let’s settle this in the car park!”

Neither man washes his hands as they storm towards the car park. Bert’s family know the look in his eye: its a burnout-off.

Bert fires up his VN and smokes the hell out of his tyres while his bucket bong loving son hangs out the passenger window, “YEWWWWWWWW”.

The father and son moment is cut short when the son manages to fall out of the car and almost scrape his postcode tattoo right off his forearm.

The burnout-off ends abruptly on account of Bert’s inability to anticipate expected outcomes.

In the world of the car bogan its survival of the fuckwitted and a classic demonstration of Darwin’s theory of cuntolution.

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