Franco grinds up a few dank buds in his muller and whips a thumb-packed cone through his pristine glass pipe. He lays on his bed and looks up at his Trainspotting “Choose Life” poster: a manifesto of the disillusioned who refuse to believe that the sweetest Salmon swims upstream. The expectation of life presents like a ravenous bear, and Franco refuses to swim into the belly of the beast and be consumed like so many tax file numbers before him. He exhales the thick smoke of enlightenment and proceeds to cough his ring off.
Franco recently got fired from Video Ezy after losing his phone and forgetting about a weekend’s worth of shifts. The disgusting residue of routine has filtered through the large hoop earrings and blended seamlessly with his John Butler Trio dreadlocks. He feels a sense of freedom in unemployment, and he makes ends meet by selling “the best bushies you’ll ever smoke”. Franco refuses to bow down to the absurd notion that he is a toxic peddler of demotivation and apathy, but rather a provider of sticky inspiration and red-eyed creativity that has played prelude to the symphony of artistic achievement.
After a hearty bowl of Nutri-Grain, Franco slips into a pair of pants he picked up on an Indian Yoga retreat and rides barefooted to Joynt Venture in Freo. He flicks Captain Walkers a “bong on” hand gesture as he parks his bike up. He majestically floats into Joynt Venture to slap hands and talk turkey with the munged out staff who are rocking the Nimbim-chic look harder than Jay from Frenzhal Rhomb. Admittedly cooked, Franco asks, “like, I’m finding my current bong a little harsh ay, got any double chamber bongos man?”
Aw shit, you can’t say bong man! That’s right, Emperor Barnett in all his infinite wisdom has allowed the sale of bongs, under the ludicrous proviso, that both the bong shop and the stoner discuss the purchase in terms of an item that will be used to smoke tobacco. That’s like selling a man a top-knot haircut as long as he promises not to be a pretentious, greased up cock n balls. Never going to happen, Barnett, you Barney Rubble looking, Cottesloe living, shark murdering, boofhead. Hold up, let me quickly pull a cone of Starvo Classic. Prick.
Franco quickly realises his mistake and discretely purchases a double chambered water pipe that is guaranteed to take the harshness out of the “tobacco”. On his way home, he stops by a mates house in South Fremantle to smoke some DMT through the same “water pipe” that he promised was destined only to filter the ever lethal tar-y smoke of death. He trips balls on his mate’s couch while dealing with ethereal beings. The DMT only lasts 5 minutes but the effect is profound, he’s probably only a few more sessions away from breaking through.
Franco returns home to watch conspiracy theory documentaries of YouTube. His weird hobbies are only matched by his saturating desire to learn and absorb the information that grows abundantly on the fringes of culture, yet, escapes harvest on account of the grim fast foodification of modern life. Can I order an every-cunt meal with a bonus mortgage?
Pack us a Winnie Blue Colin, I need to dream.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?