Karl’s hate for Perth is like a Cunt-a-Soup that only needs the addition of water from the light pitter patter of a poor Spring performance.
Doing his best to stay positive he decides to meet some friends for lunch. On his way, Mother Nature decides to pop a squat and piss all over him like a nose-ringed slurry at the Ascot Races.
Each raindrop feels like a kick to the back of a Jetstar chair from a snot-nosed little kid. The dark cloud of Perth frustration builds as he stands there dripping like the loser of a particularly voluminous game of soggy biscuit.
“Where the fuck is spring ay boys?” he announces as he sits with his mates. No one has the answers he needs. “I’m getting so sick of this weather ay, it’s fucking bullshit”. He is finding it difficult to calm down. “Seriously going to move back to Sydney at this rate, ay”.
The days pass, and the weather remains cold and rainy. He turns down social invites like a Taxi driver turns down Lynx. ‘I’m not going out in this cold shit and paying $13 for a pint, fuck that”.
Luckily he finds some solace at the gym. While spotting his mate on the bench press as he takes a few more swipes at Perth. “Let’s be honest, the only thing really going for Perth is the weather, now it doesn’t even have that”.
His mate begins to struggle with the bar as he responds, “stop whining cunt, we’ll have 3 months of brutal temperatures soon enough, this ain’t so bad”. Karl watches him suffer for longer than necessary while thinking, “maybe a crushed larynx will fix your attitude dickhead”.
The cold snap is getting to Karl, and the cracks are beginning to show like the manky sole of a fat sex tourists foot.
He returns home to his abode that has become a cluttered shrine to the conveniences of Menulog. Shovelling delivered food while staring angrily at his rain covered window has become the norm.
After a curry dinner for 3, he hits the sack and hopes he awakens to a sunny day for his Birthday. Well, he awakens, but it sure as shit ain’t sunny. The red mist comes over him, and he stares out his front door like Tony Abbott would stare at his plebiscite voting paper.
It’s the final straw, and like an obese Saudi, it breaks the camel’s back. He slams and throws shit around like a raging cunt-nado as he grabs a pair of Jet Pilot boardies and hops in his car with no shoes on.
His mates are waiting at the Windsor and give him a call, “Karl where the hell are ya?” By this point, Karl has pulled over at a gas station outside of Cervantes, “lads I may’ve tried to drive to Broome, I just need some god damn sun, ay”.
Just breathe Karl, breath.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?