Mr High Wycombe

After enjoying a traditional hills breakfast of buckets & eggs, Donophen is struck by a yew-bolt of inspiration. He rescues his favourite boardies from the dirty wash basket and proceeds shirtless to his beloved orange Xr6 Ute.

According to Perth Revenue Raisers, there is a speed camera around the corner and today is the day he obscures his plates and speeds past while leaning out the window like a meth-dog driving past the Chum factory.

Dono spots the speed camera and gets ready to prove whatever point it is he’s making. He turns up the Aussie hip hop blaring from his speakers, slides on his white speed dealers and prepares to engage his target like the top gun Jet Pilot he is.

Approaching the camera, he leverages half his torso out his window, positions his southern crossed arm and unleashes the battle-cry of the deadshit, “YEEEOWWWWWW”. The camera serenades his despicable display of deroism with a series of flashes.

“Suck shit”, Dono thinks as he is safe in the knowledge that he has stuck the cardboard from a carton of Emu over his plates. However, his celebration is short-lived, as he careens off the road and writes off his car.

He quickly bails from the scene and runs home, all the while brandishing a ridiculous facial expression that makes you think he may be a few milligrams short of a point. He lies about the morning’s events to his Gosnell’s woman. She is less than impressed that Dono has wrecked his car.

“How are you going to get to work now ya mongrel? This is bad timing, cos, I’ve been wanting to tell you, I’m knocked up, Dono!” All the paternal instincts that Dono’s father’s ashtray parenting instilled in him come flooding out, “farrrk that, yous know I’ve been pulling out, deffs not mine”.

Dono breaks up with his missus on the spot and decides to enjoy a little sesh to celebrate dodging the parental bullet like Kecunto Reeves in the Matrix.

Dono assembles his shirtless crew get higher than the tip of a Mount Everest climber’s rigor mortis donger and the sesh quickly deteriorates into that special brand of Eastern suburban filth.

They communicate in primate-ish grunts and Dono explains he is now single, childless and unemployed, “living the dream lads”. The room erupts into a neanderthalic chorus of Yewws and shaka hand gestures, “you’re the farken man bro!”

To celebrate the celebration they decide to go and donate some hot rubber to the Zig Zags track in Kalamunda. A tradition in these parts. 

When you live your life one yewww at a time, you will never be struck down by the trials and trib-yew-lations that blossom from your own spectacularly ill-advised behaviour.

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