For years, the taxi industry courted the Perth public with all the romance of John Hopoate during a game of heads down, thumbs up. A take-it-or-leave-it regime of piss-poor service and exorbitant fares that struck horror into the hungover heart of the next-day net banker. Our unrequited-love affair quickly ended with the introduction of the big dicked player: Uber. Our collective prince charming that would pick us up wherever we were to fall. Now, shits getting real and the honk-from-the-street-artists of team Taxi are desperately trying to rip us from Uber’s warm embrace.
A travel-weary businesswoman hails Sanjay’s cab after waiting almost 45 minutes for a rival company’s driver to rock up. She jumps in the vehicle and is hit with the stench of a thousand sweaty passengers that came before her. Already in a heightened state of irritation, she sits in the back and glances at the meter: a seemingly random number generator that is already showing 5 dollars and 70 fucking cents. She grits her teeth and asks Sanjay to take her to her friend’s Mount Lawley abode.
Sanjay clumsily ham-thumbs the address into his GPS and over the course of 2 minutes has failed to produce a route. He mumbles to himself before leering into the rearview mirror, “do you know which way to go, miss?” Frustration washes over her face as she is forced to produce her phone and enter the simple address into her GPS. Nevertheless, Sanjay decides that the GPS is making the wrong call on a few instructions and rocks up at the house 25 minutes later. Her heart drops as she sees the reading: $35.70. Sanjay’s leering intensifies as he hits the “pissed-cunts” button and the fare magically jumps up to $38.45. What.
The following day, Sanjay happily hangs up his beaded seat rest. He won’t be needing it today, as the taxi fucklords have organised a protest in response to Uber’s domination. Severely overestimating their market influence, the Einsteins of modern-day fuckery drive thousands of pissed off customers into the gentlemanly arms of Uber drivers. Oblivious, Sanjay joins the chorus of the doomed and sings from the top of his lungs, “Uber drivers aren’t insured! Uber drivers could be dangerous!”
The protest was about as well conceived as the Kony 2012 CEO’s plan to endear himself to his donors via the medium of ferocious public masturbation. Thousands of drivers listen to impassioned speeches about overhauling the industry and the resurgence of the taxi man! Sanjay eagerly awaits the day the Government bans Uber, and he and his cronies can continue to provide horse-shit service via a new app that is as enjoyable to use as Troy Buswell’s fleshlight after a chair building segment on Better Homes & Gardens.
Suddenly, Sanjay feels like the herpe’d hooker at the brothel and can’t pick up a fare despite his best slow-creeping and hand gestures. Frustrated and fare-less, Sanjay decides to take matters into his own hands and confronts an Uber driver near his home. He froths and foams like an Eagles fan at the MCG as he dishes out some unasked advice to the passenger, “this guy could be a fucking psycho!” Sound advice, had Sanjay not accompanied it with an unhinged boot to the door.
Too little, too late buddy.
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