Whether he’s mining FIFO or bare-backing a slurry, Braelon stays in the hole until the job is done. His hole-orientated philosophy has blessed him with a plasma in every room and led to the birthing of the apples of his non-pulling out eye: young Billee and Calais. He named his son after his love of cones, and he named his daughter after his ex-girlfriend, not out of respect for her, but because it would be cheaper than having his “CALAIS 4EVA” forearm tattoo removed.
The cigarette of child rearing has slowly smouldered in Braelon’s paternal ashtray for 6 years. Now of age, Billee is ready to strap up his boots and play his first game of Auskick. Braelon’s outfit is an exciting clash of Motoplex-noir and work wear-chic. His cleanest HRT racing jacket flaps proudly in the wind, as his dusty work shorts and Blundstones cop a fair splash of the tomato sauce dripping from his sausage sizzle. As the game kicks off, Braelon leans down to his wheeled esky bag and produces a refreshing can of Beam Devil’s Cut. Magic.
The serenity of Braelon’s father bliss is suddenly shattered when Billee lands a tackle, “fuckinggggg ballllll you white maggggottttttttttt”. Drops of saliva fly from Braelon’s foaming mouth as he carries on like a total cats-in-the-cradle-cunt. The umpire doesn’t pay the free kick, and the absence of the whistle’s shriek is deafening to the raging Braelon. Bourbon sloshes as Braelon crab-hustles his way around the sideline while going apeshit at the volunteer umpire. Unable to satisfy the burning rage in his heart, Braelon launches his can at the umpire, whips his jacket off and chest-parades like a meth-addled rooster that broke into the hen’s cage.
Having narrowly avoided fisticuffs of the most shameful variety, Braelon pulls his son from the field and announces to the relieved spectators that he’s leaving. “That was fucking ball son, absolutely bullshit, fucking pelicans”. Braelon passionately swears about the rules of AFL as he flicks a cigarette out the window and rudely gestures at the various motorists who are aggrieved by his vehicular habits. He spots a Hungry Jacks and makes a last-second decision to slam the brakes and pull in for a couple of Whoppers.
Braelon crams 8 chips at a time into his mouth and anger-scoffs his Whopper. Lost in the madness of his half-cut feed, he loses track of his son. Suddenly, a kerfuffle is heard from the playground, and Braelon spots his beloved Billee chucking a slash down the slide. Braelon casually walks over and stands next to the shocked onlookers, “like father like son ay ha ha get ya dick out son!” To the pure disgust of all involved, Braelon derro-cackles like an unemployed cretin watching Australia’s Funniest Home Videos.
Braelon is enjoying his bonding session with Billee so much that he almost forgets about Calais. “Aw shit, we left ya sister at the footy oval!” Some suburban swerving later, Braelon dickhead-marches towards the match he previously abandoned and collects his perplexed daughter. Unconcerned by the judgment and shame of his neglect, he takes a final potshot at his long-socked enemy: “maybe yas should’ve gone to specsavers ya gutless dog ha ha ha ha”.
Sadly, an apple can never fall too far from the tree if the winds of obnoxious juvenility are blowing too strongly.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?