Brittany’s Facebook looks like an attention-seeking bomb went off in the middle of a failed Supre model’s party. Naturally, she is “married” to her bff Carla, and all her profile photos look like they were taken in the Fremantle Timezone’s photo booth. Every one of her status updates uses more emoticons than Rolf Harris’ e-invite to a pool party at the Neverland Ranch. When she’s not posting vague updates about other juvie skanks talking shit, she is pulling out the big guns, “lyke for an inbox 😛 xx”. Simply put, it is a grammatically abhorrent ride down the river juvi-Nile that will leave you feeling sicker than Kerser at the front of the Centrelink line.
It’s Friday, so Brittany decides to be really cool and wag school. Diligently pursuing an education is “gay” and pales in comparison to the dizzying highs of smoking some loser 19-year-old’s darts outside of Carousel shopping centre. She is dressed like her father’s heart attack: buttocks-revealing denim shorts, a muffin-top exposing Valley Girl singlet and an Obey hat. She smells strongly of Impulse body spray and has turned her face into an off-putting collage of shoplifted make-up and misguided youth.
While waiting for the bus, she regales the other commuters with an obnoxious conversation about how she plans to sneak into Gilkinsons on the weekend and go mad skitz on bickies. She loves the fact that upstanding citizens are giving her funny looks and she storms her way down to the back seat of the bus to be reunited with her fuckwit brigade. Their loud conversation blends perfectly with the Tyler the Creator bullshit blaring from her portable iPod speakers. Halfway through a rant about the various boys she is going to hook up with, a suited man turns around, “show some bloody respect and turn that music off”. Brittany doesn’t miss the chance to prove her mum should’ve swallowed her and responds, “fuck off, ya paedddd”.
Brittany and her crew meet up with a group of older boys who have less going for them than a Collingwood fan at a tooth modelling audition. She immediately starts suffering through a Winnie Blue and blames her juvie-coughing on a lingering chest infection. As luck would have it, a couple of Nike Air-clad degenerates have decided to have a public smash to be filmed and uploaded to Perth Fights. Brittany films the sloppy melee and cheers on the neanderthal-ic combatants who are competing for the title of King Oxygen Thief. The only real winner is Darwin’s theory of cunt-olution.
Smoking ciggies, filming smashes and wagging school. Brittany is feeling so fly that she overloaded her carry-on swag, and will have to pay the excess. Of course, the price she pays is a shameful public display of her dad successfully tracking her down and demanding she gets in the faded red Camry and returns home for some much-needed discipline.
Swaggering to the max, Brit.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?
