Toby longboards down Beaufort Street wearing a Street X shirt and a pair of “cack’d my dacks” saggy pants. He is on his way to grab a Burrito from Zambreros before heading to Highs & Lows to pick out a new pair of shoes to fashionably compliment his greasy top knot. His thin rat-face is burdened with a patchy and somewhat pubic beard. He snaps a photo of his new StampedLA sneakers and immediately uploads it to his Tumblr: a self-indulgent blog to show off his amazing fashion sense and interest in amateur photography.
Toby has blown most of his earnings from photographing a local high schools year 11 dinner dance; however he still has enough for a coffee at the Daily Planet. He swaggers into the Cafe with his ridiculous Ozzie Osbourne style glasses and orders a skinny soy macchiato. He fiddles around with his Nikon D5300 and waits for the hipster chicks in the cafe to appreciate his beauty, style and artistic flare. His topknot serves a sleazy billboard that alerts everybody in its vicinity to Toby’s perfect storm of unenviable personality traits that only seem to be appreciated by other assorted wankers who share the common theme of making your skin crawl.
Later that evening Toby longboards to The Bird in Northbridge to take photos of the patrons. Toby slimes his way to the bar to talk to some chick wearing a Nirvana singlet with denim hot pants, “in Aboriginal culture they say a photo steals your soul, but I totally think it’s the photographer and subjects soul merging for a beautiful moment”. Oh, blow it out your arse, you top-knotted fuckstain. The girl’s interest in Toby is about as genuine as her appreciation of Nirvana’s body of work; nevertheless, she really wants to climb the fashion food chain, one top knotted dick at a time.
The next day, Toby heads into the city to grab a toastie from Toastface Grillah. He is just passing through on his way to Dr Snippys in Subi to get a beard trim and a delicate snip of his beloved top knot. “If your dad doesn’t have a beard, then you have two mums hey mahn”, Toby smugishly remarks to the barber. Maybe a valid point if your own beard didn’t look like a full bush from a 1970s porno.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?