Den’eese wasn’t like the other girls growing up. Forget the Spice Girls, she admired her clan of missing-link brothers. The sort of men who couldn’t even visit Maccas without leaving the drive-through looking like an old boy’s jocks.
Sadly, the state of Western Australia no longer permit her father to drive due to crashing through the front of someone’s house while he was as sauced a long quality pie. So it’s up to her to continue the legacy of driving like a vehicular menace.
Den’eese’s car is the Sistine Chapel of tacky. Built from the humble beginnings of a stock VE SV6 Commodore with added backyard pink paint job, body kit and a spoiler so unnecessary that it makes humankind wish it’d never tried to play God with aerodynamics.
You probably needed a minute to digest that bowl of auto-slurry, but wait, like a late 1990’s infomercial, there’s more! Let’s not forget the rotten trimmings on this turd-roast of a car: pink seat covers, pink customised plates “SHESKIDZ” and a massive windscreen sticker stating “MINE NOT HIS”.
You’d be happier with the bonus steak knives, just to gouge out your eyes, so you never make ocular contact with this auto-transmitted-infection.
Now, owning such a car comes with an added responsibility: posing for icy bikini shots taken by a bloke who still flies the flag of silk boxer shorts and oversized skate shoes.
It’s difficult to pose seductively when your skin has more pricky dickies in it than a voodoo doll. Alas, her amateur modelling shots have gotten plenty of ex-cons through some lonely nights.
The other responsibility of owning this car is always to be seen in Rocko rolling down the street smoking pippos and sipping on goon and juice, seat laiiiiid back, with her mind on her durries and her durries on her mind.
To complete the look she puts on oversized fake Dior sunglasses with a resting face that would make the Queen look like the Wiggles at a nang party.
She hits the road and spots some rival that tried to glass her at Liquids the weekend before. She thinks to herself, “what would my father do?” In a real cats in the cradle moment she remembers her father’s advice – single peggers are always the answer.
She attempts to skid close enough to the sluzza to scare her but still look like a sickbiiitch in the process. Unfortunately, her tyres are balder than the Plenty of Fish dating pool, and she executes the manoeuvre with all the finesse of an aftersex piss.
Further channelling her father’s advice, she flees the scene while a local shop keeper tries to figure out why there is a smouldering pink pile of crap crashed through her shop front.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?