Life truly began for John when he realised he had so much more potential than being a garden variety shitbloke. He had gorged himself at the scummy corporate buffet and now it was time to shit all over the society that gave him so much. East Freo style.

Like King cock-head, he lives high above the people overlooking the majesty of the suburb. It is important that he can both literally and figuratively look down on his neighbours. It wasn’t a cheap property but you can’t put a price on realty elitism.

He begins each day by joining the peloton of semi-retired men that serenade the streets with the sounds of discourtesy at 6 am. He makes sure to really ramp up the power talk when he rides past a neighbour who doesn’t maintain his lawn to John’s personal standards. Sure, he needs a mobility scooter but a disability is no excuse for John having to look at it though.

After his morning workout, he heads into the office for a few hours to make sure the poorly paid and underappreciated millennial workforce is showing sufficient gratitude for the opportunity. He takes a perverse delight in telling all the plebs about the expensive renovations and holidays he is planning. Enjoy your rental property and weekender in Albany, shitmunchers.

He leaves around midday for a long lunch and on the drive home, he swings by a local store to grab some affluent-meat. His favourite part of these half-pissed expeditions is parking his G-Class however the hell he wants.

The fine vintage he was sipping on has made him especially villainous today so he decides to reverse in and box in a car with a “baby on board” sticker. As he walks off, the wild mother appears and objects, “how am I meant to get my baby in my car with you parked so close?” John doesn’t miss a beat, “I’ll just be a minute, sweetheart”.

5 minutes later he emerges with his groceries and sees the lady still awkwardly trying to navigate the tight space. Like a true gentleman, he offers some words of advice, “if you scratch my car, you’ll be paying for it darling”. His smirk could curdle the milk in the kid’s bottle. Owned.

John enters his house and sounds the death knell of chivalry, “dinner about 6”, before giving his trophy wife a decent grab on the buttocks. He sucks back some more sauce before taking his labrador for a walk.

Now, “walk” is a fairly generous term for releasing his hound in a strictly “leash” area while he ogles the activewear clad chicky-babes. Naturally, he hasn’t bothered to train his dog and if he’s being honest, gets a bit of a stiffy when his “real dog” runs over and stirs up lesser beasts in his domain.

A woman with a handbag dog barks at him, “put your dog on a leash, my fur baby is terrified of other dogs!” John momentarily wonders who gave this cretin permission to speak to him, before deciding on a little diplomacy, “Oh shut up you old mole, my dog is fine”. There’s that award-winning charm again.

Alas, the old mole in question does not hesitate to call the ranger. Of course, the act of threatening John with a fine doesn’t create much harmony in the suburb. Rather than leash his dog, John opts for the name-dropping every bureaucrat he knows and vowing to salt the ranger’s earth and ensuring his firstborn will never know the sweetness of his mother’s milk.

A completely normal reaction after a cheeky 2 bottles of vino before 3 pm.

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

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