Daryl is an unflushed toilet bowl of a man: full of shit and stained with the unpalatable skiddie of one-upmanship.

The recent heat has sent his toughen-up-princessery into overdrive, and he spends his days atop his air-conditioned throne, obnoxiously decreeing anyone other than himself to be a whining Perth pussayyy.

Like any good stain, Daryl has lasted the test of time. He has retained a senior role with a mining company despite disconcerting incompetence and penchant for 6 hours of solitaire per day. He begins his morning by maxing out the AC and posting to a series of community pages he’s involved in:

“heathwave!? perth office worker can get stufed!! try bein 60ft botom of hole in PILBARA HEAT ! thats 45 ya sooks!! then tell me bout heatwave lol… city of bloody soft girls, pull ya bloody skirts up ha ha ha… lol”

Oooo yeh. The only hole Daryl has been in lately is his depressing rut of a marriage with a wife who is sick of having her teeth flossed on her husband’s unkempt man-wilderness. Nevertheless, Daryl’s terry-toughcunnery has him feeling as cool as the thermometer reading in his donga. It isn’t long before another i-Stauncher decides to contribute:

“ken oath!! this lot wuldnt no real heat, hahahHA weak priks ay mate”.

Daryl has no time to gently caress the balls of king dickmanship and decides to go full steam ahead:

“bloody weak mate.. tlkin bout global heating.. lol.. jus somthin office poofs say to justofy their WHINING. yous wanna tell me it getting hotter?!?.. back in 1993 i workd for 3 weeks straight out bush… mercury toppin 55 every day (IN SHADE) and 43 at night!! non of this “lunch break” nonsense either… 17 hour days… world not getting hotter, people getting softer lol”.

Ah yes, the blithering rambling of a washed up drunk. Irrefutable proof that global warming is a farce and the key to survival lies in our ability to simply “suck it up” and “have a glass of concrete (lol)”.

After a long day of unabashed fibbing, Daryl walks into the wet mess to see his workmates dripping like cheap chunks of cheddar under the harsh grill of a West Australian summer. The air conditioner is broken, and the temperature is reaching 42 degrees inside the hall.

After 5 beers, Daryl is doing his best impersonation of a recently birthed Hippopotamus. His moist bulk is sweating like a celebrity chef at a Fair Work hearing and his sweaty shame pools on the table in front of him.

Halfway through loud-mouthing about what he reckons Western Power should be doing, Daryl feels faint. His eyes begin to flutter, and he goes down quicker than an Instagram model “negotiating” a free photoshoot.

The mighty heat-warrior is carted off to the first aid room to seek treatment for the ill effects of sitting on his arse for a gruelling 45 minutes.

C’arn Daz, toughen up princess.