Mr Taxiiiiii

Simmo has decided to mix things up and is spending another Saturday drinking with “the boys” from his footy club. He hides his crippling fear of widening his social circle with binge drinking, obnoxious behaviour and giving 110% to the boys.

He decides to kick off the arvo by pulling his balls through his zipper and interrupting two of his mates having a conversation. He keeps a stupid grin plastered across his face until one of his mate’s notices the discount meat and does his best to pretend this isn’t the 80th time he’s seen old mate’s nuts, “good one, Simmo“.

God damn right it was a good one, Simmo thinks as he yells directly into his mates ear, “get your laughing gear around that!”. The thought of another man looking at his lollybags has caused Simmo laughing and flailing around like a clown having a seizure.

He has well and truly lost control and walks straight back into an innocent bystander causing the man to drop his pint onto the floor. Simmo looks on, the world is going in slow motion, he is in the bad-call Matrix. It hits the floor and smashes. Without missing a beat Simmo booms: “TAAAAAXIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!”

For a split second, the bar goes quiet. All eyes are on an extremely self-satisfied Simmo who is madly searching for hands to slap while grinning like a drunk uncle after reading a Christmas cracker joke. The rest of the bar is in shock after the cringe-bomb was dropped. A group of girls decide to relocate to avoid inhaling too much second-hand douchery.

2 hours pass and Simmo is still beaming after his Taxi zinger. He’s opted to split a bucket of 4 beers with a mate but he has ulterior motives. In true Simmo form, he uses the base of his bottle to firmly smack the top of his mate’s bottle while his mate is trying to chat to a couple of girls.

He has executed the infuriating technique perfectly, and the beer froths over and begins to cascade out like an unnecessary waterfall. The party terrorist has struck again, “it’s a boy!!!”. Words can’t describe the joy he feels when his mate has to put his mouth over the top to stop the flow.

He turns his attention to the girls who are looking at him like he’s a few deskwanks short of a liberal party. Spittle then flies out of his mouth when he says to the girls, “I think he does that a bit too well ay!!!” They recoil in disgust.

Simmo has done what he does best and has alienated himself from every female in the bar. He is now completely fuckeyed and can no longer rely on his tried and tested taxi call. He decides to go nuclear on the situation. He pulls together an odd squad of drunk cretins and decides to show everyone he has a wasted private school education by chanting, “show us where ya piss from!”

It seems the chanting was the final straw for Simmo and a bouncer swoops over to give him his marching orders. He argues with the bouncers while periodically checking to see if any girls are watching and think he’s cool. Sadly, this isn’t the case and even his best barbs about what he reckons the bouncer’s earn in a year don’t land him any kudos.

Alas, it’s just another evening where the only box Simmo will be getting near is one covered in BBQ, chilli and garlic sauce before waking up on a mattress covered in piss once again. La dolce vita.

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