Mr Origin

Each factory-manufactured rip on Tyler’s fuckboy shorts represents a gaping void where something useful used to go. Dignity, serotonin levels and the slim chance of future employment once photos of his gurned out death mask of a face surface online.

Origin 2016 babehhhh, drugs, bitches and the desperate hope that A$AP Rocky will acknowledge the dab he worked so hard on. So much in fact, that he left school less competent than a 1990’s Claremont detective playing a game of “Guess Who?”

The most important part of his outfit is an overly long singlet that exposes the majority of his torso. The utility of this garb cannot be understated.

Firstly, it shows off the every-cunt tribal tatts he got in Bali. Secondly, it gives him the freedom to rinse like a Kalgoorlie hooker’s poon-pit in a servo sink after a redundancy bomb had been detonated at the local mine.

By 9pm Tyler already has a face that would cause a newborn to retreat back into the womb. See, the beauty about smashing 6 MDMA caps is not only will you not remember the artists you spent a fortune to see, but in every photo you will be sweating like the Masterchef judges going Brokeback style in a sauna.

He watches a gaggle of scantily clad chickybabes dance to Pendulum. Actually, “watches” is a polite term for leering in a gacked out haze like a meth’d up truck driver going past the Sunday netball on Leach Highway.

He decides to make his move by busting a powerfully erotic interpretative dance. What is he interpreting? Perhaps an Energiser bunny doing the most hectic version of the hokey pokey you are likely to see. Unfortunately, his clinically diagnosable moves get him no closer to the sweet embrace of a d-floor grind.

Later on, Tyler runs afoul of some hardcore A$AP fans by rinsing into them. Now, ordinarily such a rinse-aster could be solved with a quick apology, but no one has more to prove that white rap fans are trying to appropriate black culture in front of actual black people.

Accordingly, they G up. Take the situation gangster wild and staunch Tyler like he was a defenceless security guard on the ground at an underage dance festival. The kind of 8 on 1 that would make Asa Akira proud.

Luckily for Tyler, he remembers little of the punch-up and proceeds to the kick-ons to show everyone how many cones he can punch while everyone catches up on the sets they missed by watching the recordings on their phones.

Not Tyler, however. The SS-shitstain had gone off course, and in the pursuing drug-wreck, he had lost his iPhone and wallet. Not to worry, he joins the other thousand shit-for-brains on the Origin page the next begging for the return of their cracked screened babies.

Needless to say, it was “lit”.

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