It’s Friday morning, so Damo rolls out of bed, checks an empty Emu can for leftovers and pontificates with his de facto, a woman that looks like the end result of Beetle Juice spraying his DNA over a lipstick-stained dart, “miss free plastic bags ay, yous never know how good yous got it, till you don’t got it no more, ya know?”
Damo was serving up McNuggets of profoundness and his de facto couldn’t wait for another dunk in the philosophical sauce. She doesn’t need to wait long as he shoves a handful of Burger Rings past the smouldering ciggy, “tell ya what angel tits, Burger Rings are a fucking ripper of a chip, ay”. They are.
It’s a back to back kind of dart day, so he reaches for his last, “aw Shit!”, he lights the wrong end of his dart and quickly stamps it out in an ashtray he flogged from the Swingin’ Pig in Rocko. Time for a Caltex supply run.
He slides into his oversized pluggers and hops in his VN Holden with E-Plates proudly displayed – the official car of a man who wants the freedom to punch on at a set of lights but is still burdened by the beast of occasional employment.
The attendant greets his regular customer, “hello Mr Damo, day off work?” Damo looks up from the drinks fridge, “yehnahhh, chucked a sickie mate, youse outta Powerade bottles?” Mr Caltex checks the fridge, “we have Vitamen Water, boss?”
Damo becomes flustered and starts rocking his head back and forth like a shard-chicken, “maaaate, weak as piss, wouldn’t be caught dead ripping a cone through that poofta bottle”. A bit rich coming from a guy who sleeps on a mattress he found on the side of the road. You know what they say, one man’s piss-stained hepatitis sponge is another man’s treasure
Damo rolls into his driveway and starts bogan-squawking from the driver’s seat, “they didn’t have Powerade bottles and only had fucking pasties left, darl!” Damo begrudgingly pulls a cone through a bucket that he has permanently set up in his laundry sink, “yehhhnahhhh not going down well luv, was really holding out for a billy ay”.
To ease his pain, Damo’s de facto comes out with a bowl of chips, Damo eats 4 at once before protesting “fucking Smiths Chicken? Who the fuck buys Smiths Chicken, what’s wrong with you woman?”.
This really hasn’t been Damo’s day. He is now as high as a jockey’s voice and in an effort to cheer himself up he waks on the 1994 Grand Final and smokes inside.
His de facto is desperate to win Damo’s affections back after the Smiths Chicken incident. She presents him with a plate of fish fingers swimming in tomato sauce, “phwoarrr, that’s a bit of alright ay, luv”.
The pair make passionate love under the understanding that Damo will pull out. He doesn’t, “yehnahh she’ll be right”.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?