Fuck off.

You genetic clone. You never swing as low. You’ll never be that man who did what it took to don the mid-life-crisis-kicks. The man that slipped into the footwear of manhood; the man who protected his feet with a little thing called responsibility. 

No, you are simply the poorly aimed creampie that unfortunately resulted in your existence, an existence that no one was thrilled about but ended your old boy’s freedom.

Dawn breaks. It’s Saturday morning. Dad is out watering his garden. Your hungover arse can’t imagine a greater ecstasy than the burning remnants in your piss-weak shit-hole, yet there is. In fact, when that ejaculation from the hose bursts from your dad’s hand, he is feeling the joy of at least 3 under budget services on his Holden Statesman. It’s like fentanyl to him.

After hydrating his garden like it was a pissed cunt on his 3rd Maximus, your old boy turns his mind to the next task of the day – cutting that grass like he was Gary Lyon at a Brownless family reunion. It’s a proven fact that while wearing a pair of New Balances your lawn mower kicks off after the first pull. Just like a virgin during his first massage in Patong Beach.

New Balances on, he cuts that lawn like it’s Edward’s Scissorhand’s dick on a meth-wank. It’s so perfect. He reflects on it. He knows it’s time to crack a 1150am “don’t tell the ol ball & chain” beer – and why would you? Mum is scrapbooking in a vain attempt to forget about how ugly you’ve become. So let it be. Let it fucking be. 

He sinks a few vessels like it’s Pearl Harbour and starts getting a familiar tint in his eye. One part of him wants to get the BBQ started, the other part of him wants to get the 1994 Grand Final going and solemnly reflect on the fact that you never slotted that goal in your under 15’s grand final.

Luckily, he opts for the BBQ and cooks up a fantastic batch of sausages that his mate down at the butcher shop recommended to him. Holy shit, they are even gluten free for your his son’s girlfriend. Your mum reassures him that there is a difference between gluten intolerance, gayness and actual retardation, but he’s not quite convinced.

Nevertheless, when he’s got the New Balances on, he’s a man of the fucking people.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?

$

or PayPal, if you like?