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Mr Bush Doof

Simon is a rudderless psy-trance hippie that believes the path to spiritual enlightenment is paved with psychedelic drug binges in an open field.

His new found lust for shoe-less forest stomping is at odds with his luxurious Nedlands upbringing, and his attempts to reach zen have consistently been thwarted by uncontrollable acid-induced bowel movements.

He is the spiritual Kelvin Krump and society is the ruthless Hermes Endakis, forever trying to pull his free-spirited ship to the shores of corporate conformity.

When Simon isn’t being unbearably smug about his recent attendance at a Bush Doof, he is smoking billies and reassuring his father that he will, in fact, finish his agriculture degree.

If his father were to discover that Simon actually tells people he wants to be a DMT smoking shaman, he would probably kick him out of their South Perth rental property and force him to pay for his own Sea Shepherd membership and monthly sessions to keep his grotty white-boy dreads looking sufficiently poserific.

It’s Doof Day and the first rule of Bush Doof club, is talk ambiguously but endlessly about Bush Doofing, so he logs onto his Facebook profile, “Psymon Moondog” and updates his status, “going to break through, peace my brothers and sisters xxx”.

He then dresses up like a discount-bin John Butler. His pants are made from Nepalese hemp, and the strings around his ankles were purchased from a French surfer selling beads on a rug in Fremantle. He decides against shoes or a t-shirt in favour of body paint and a Rasta beanie made out of mung beans or someshit.

At the Doof, Simon spends 3 hours smoking DMT with a bloke called Earth Unit, who figured out the system was keeping him down and hasn’t worked a day since ‘96. They experience ethereal beings and bang on about how the Perth club scene is full of meth.

While the Bill & Ted of faux-spirituality experience their excellent adventure, the Doof is in full swing. It is a vibrant sea of jobless trust fund babies with looks of bewildered euphoria that can be attributed to an overindulgence of shrooms.

As history repeats itself, Simon lets a slurry of enlightenment flow freely down the leg of his hemp pants. He madly rushes to a nearby river to try and clean some of the spirituality off his legs but concedes that his grundies are looking chunkier than a Yogo Dirt Dessert.

Luckily, given the incredible collection of B.O and ganky feet, no one seems to notice or care that Psymon Moondog has taken on the aura of a steaming pile of manure… and to think, he could be partying in Perth like some kind of spiritual peasant.