Mr Gender Reveal Burnout

Cambo wasn’t going to lie, he had mixed emotions about the announcement he’d knocked up his misso up. In the shit-togetherness stakes, he was sitting at about volcanic diarrhoea, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to give up his backyard party lifestyle.

On his way to buy the misso a 7th preggo kit, he noticed a bogan ripping cones in the carpark on the IGA. There was just something about the way the morning light hit the weed smoke that gave it a pinkish tint.

It was beautiful, and in those few seconds, before the bogan coughed up a lung oyster and slagged down the side of his Ford Falcon, Cambo was inspired. He realised why the stork had visited his misso – he was destined to perform the sickest gender reveal burnout in all the land.

Cambo soon found out that pregnancy was expensive. Balancing the cost of specialist appointments, baby classes and ute upgrades was pretty tough. Nevertheless, Cambo never hesitated to man up and tell his wife that she’d have to hit up her parents for money again because he’d spent $800 on a new set of tyres. It’s called stepping up, try it some time, dog.

While his wife sat around doing nothing he prepared for fatherhood. He discarded all the parenting books his mum had desperately asked him to read and opted for on-the-job training in the TAFE technical college of life. Nothing in those books was going to help the kid under Cambo’s care, so he practised burnouts at least twice a day – he wasn’t going to leave anything to chance.

Magic was in the air on Tuesday afternoon when Cambo’s misso called him, “FARKEN GET ME TO THE HOSPITAL NOW”. Clearly hysterical with preggo-itis, Cambo calmly explained that this was the only day he could get his clutch repaired, “call a taxi, your folks will fix you up later”. Cambo was defiantly unapologetic, he had a little thing called priorities.

He still remembers the moment he received a blunt text message from his mother-in-law, “it’s a girl, thanks for coming…” Cambo shrugs, ungrateful old hag seems to forget that she wouldn’t even have a grandkid if Cambo wasn’t the best at cummin’. He arrives 4 hours late to the hospital with a brand new tattoo, “Cambo Jnr”.

Now, Cambo isn’t Dr Phil, but he could sense that his misso wasn’t stoked with some of the decisions he’d made during this pregnancy, not least of all, making a captain’s call to name their daughter Cambo Jnr. Nevertheless, Cambo got down on one knee, “I’ve got something that will make this all better”.

A few days later, Cambo drives his new family home and shocks his exhausted wife with a surprise party. All his dead shit mates are on the front lawn 2 cartons of Jim Beam deep, “go grab a drink, and don’t show em the baby just yet”.

As she gets out, Cambo locks his wheel and plants his foot, his hectic circle work fills the street with blue smoke until it resembles the grisly scene of a Smurfville concentration-camp. It takes several minutes for the smoke to clear, “yeah, it’s actually a girl, but, just bought the tyres before we knew”.

God damn, that’s romantic.

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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