Tom isn’t dealing with the unpredictable Spring weather well. Like a packet of hate flavoured instant soup all that’s needed to set him off is the addition of a little water from the pitter-patter of a lacklustre 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 bullshit”. He is finding it difficult to calm down. “Seriously, be better off moving to Sydney at this rate, ay”.
He is struggling to deal with the increasingly mediocre weather during Perth spring. He turns down social invites until there are consecutive days of 30-degree stunners, ‘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”. Tom watches him suffer for longer than necessary while thinking, “maybe a crushed larynx will fix your attitude dickhead”.
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.
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 Clive Palmer staring at a High Court cost’s order.
It’s the final straw and like an obese Broome tourist, 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, “Tom where the hell are ya?” By this point, Tom has pulled over at a gas station outside of Cervantes, “lads I may’ve tried to drive to Exmouth, I just need some god damn sun, ay”.
Just breathe Tom, breathe
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?