Damo always goes out straighter than a haemorrhoid afflicted homophobe in a public toilet. A few years ago he made the decision to stop drinking and thus ascended into smug-cunt heaven. He proudly brandishes his glass of Fanta at the pub and silently judges everyone’s alcohol intake like a boring religious aunt at Easter lunch.
It’s 9am on Easter Sunday, and Damo’s housemates are lazing around on the couches like a terrarium of hungover lizards waiting for the others to leave so they can rub out a cheeky couch wank. Damo strolls in wearing Nike running shorts, an Under Armour shirt and sweating like a drug mule being questioned by a large-handed guard. “Geez, you boys were so fucked, do you even remember getting kicked out?” – Of course, they don’t you smug jizz-flinger.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and Damo is attempting to smug the pants right off a delicious girl at the Subi Hotel. “Few blokes in here will be feeling sorry for themselves, drinking is such an ugly look hey babe, I don’t need to drink to have fun, ay”. She flicks her friends the “anyone got a toilet brush to get this skid mark off me” look, and sips on her vodka tonic. “Anyway, I’m driving, so if you need a lift, let me know”. He walks away as if he was Jesus Christ who just turned the wine back to water. Healthy liver cunt.
It’s getting late in the afternoon, and Damo can’t fathom why every babe in the place isn’t basking in his sober glow. It’s time to dig into his little baggie of coke. He snorts up a thick line that is chock full of ingredients you can find under your sink or in various nooks and crannies of a bombed out automobile. His nose burns with healthy righteousness, as he storms back into the bar like the smuginator 2000 – ready to blast every alcohol swigging Sarah Conor with his judgmental shotgun.
Damo spot one of his mates chatting up the girl he liked. Time to pull the cockblock parachute and glide smoothly into his mate’s zone, “oh this one! This one, do you remember yaking on yourself last night haha! Oh, Jez was such a mess! HAHA”. Oh, Damo, we may be a bunch of washed up drunks, but at least we’re not you.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?