Luke graduated from Notre Dame with a degree that was about as in demand as a babysitting priest.

Being gifted with Western Suburbs genetics he wasn’t about to work in some rural shithole, so he accepted substitute work at reputable private schools whenever his semi influential family could pull some strings.

His last big break was a month contract at an elite all-girls private school. On the first day, he swaggered through the school in his shorts like the Lynx effect personified. Yeh bitches, daddy is in the house.

During his first class he gained the trust of his year 12 class by swinging his chair around, mounting it backwards and sealing the deal by keeping it real, “I want you to look at me as your teacher, but if you’ve got shit going on in your life, I’d like to think you could come talk to me”.

Not only was he cool but he would treat his class to a daily gun show that would make an American want to exercise their 2nd amendment. He would also bang on and on about how he almost made it to the AFL but pulled a hammy playing on Nate Fyfe. Forget the child you left in your car to go gambling, this is who’s hot.

Capitalising on his rockstar status, he added numerous girls on Instagram in a move he said was to “monitor cyberbullying”, which may have been true if that bulk of that cyberbullying was happening on the girl’s beach photos Lukey boy.

See, the students weren’t just a number to Luke, he cared about them and was all about rolling up his sleeves and taking a hands-on approach to the girl’s educations.

Perhaps a little too handsy as it turns out, as Luke’s contract was terminated after giving a student a Happy Gilmoresque demonstration on proper softball technique. Unlucky for Luke, it wasn’t all in the hips.

Several months later Luke spots a group of girls he used to teach at a popular uni bar. He struts over with a tray full of shots, “Rachel, this must be your 18th, the 22 of Feb right?” Chloe, how’d you get in, 17th March am I right? Chuckles Don Burke-ishly

Wow, Luke, you said that your students weren’t just a number to you.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?

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