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Monday evening I ordered a “Yumbo” brand burger from “Hungry Jacks”. Inside the restaurant there were about 10 delivery riders which got me thinking - how fucked up can your life be to order delivery Hungry Jacks on a Monday at 7:45 PM? $30 bags of fucking misery being shuttled out the door; like culinary nails in the miserable coffins of the lives of the biggest pieces of shit in inner Sydney? Further to this, I thought, who has the real power in this transaction? Miss fucked-up-her-life and her incoming quadruple hash brown baconator deluxe meal deal? Or some bloke who gets paid to ride around on his bike all day?? I say keep ordering your little UberEats you pathetic cunts - everyone loses, but the biggest loser, by far, is you.

So anyway, they called out my number and I grabbed my ““Yumbo”” (lol), and, I will say this, the guy in the kitchen who was manning the Yumbo station, I am 99% sure he was crying just a wee little bit. His red eyes had been kissed by a genuine sorrow, a solemn sadness gripped the lad from within - the weight of a thousand whoppers lay waste in that miserable minimum wage worker’s heart - which is totally understandable, as I would stick a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger if I had to make something called a “Yumbo” for someone like me.

Conceptually, the Yumbo itself does not make sense. Ham and cheese on a Hungry Jack’s burger bun. Like a small boy in a van at night, or George Christensen in the Philippines; it’s not technically illegal, but it really probably should be. The temperature of the ham itself was concerning, it wasn’t cold, nor hot - it was about the temperature of a semi erect cock. Similar texture as well. Actually the whole thing was very cock-like - the Yumbo really pays homage to the cock.

The saving grace is the $3 price point because scoring lunch in the $0-$5 range is some big tight arse energy. It’s up there with the Woolies tinned tuna / ham and bacon roll combo as a big fuck you middle finger to dining economic inequality. Life is somewhat of a non-linear journey on how much you are paying for lunch. $5-$10, meh, cheapish, but not very fun, the pork roll bracket - sort your fucking life out. $10-$20 range, mostly a good range, this is the pub special territory, enjoy these days, they’ll be some of the best of your life. The biggest shit cunts in the world spend $20-$35 on lunch - it’s the Kia Sorento range for people who shop at The Iconic. $35-$70 is good stuff - you’re either eating very well or getting quite pissed, or ordering a dessert - ordering a dessert after lunch is a proper flex. $70+ is a bit too much, things get a bit Liberal Party/ Woolloomooloo Wharf around this mark and the likelihood someone has a bag of yummy sniffies diminishes rapidly.

In conclusion, the Yumbo is absolutely disgusting and an insult to the mighty ham and cheese toastie. A McDonalds cheeseburger is lightyears ahead of this fucking question mark on a bun; Hungry Jacks should be fucking ashamed of themselves, and I award the Yumbo 0.25/10

Don’t cook when you can create” hmmm, you see, people praise the term “create” like it’s a positive word but it’s not. It carries weight - Hitler created the The Nazi party and , well, there was a bit of an incident in Europe as we know - and yet you and your shit friends go to your Tuesday night social painting class and create a series of derivative watercolours and think you’re any different ?

Stop creating. Stop broadcasting so much shit mediocre content, you and your little creations. Just go to mcdonalds, or the pub, or yum cha or whatever - stop making such a shit flex about everything, it’s 2020 everything that can be pickled has been pickled, ENOUGH!!! ALL THE POINTS HAVE BEEN MADE. Creating something exceptional, for example, Lana Del Rey’s last album or the pork roll from Alex n Rolls Marrickville, Sydney, is a very rare occurrence. Please stop doing shit things like bouldering, not eating bread, giving your newborn children mullets and playing mini golf at pretend bars.

That’s why our dumb cunt grandparents have stopped cooking tea cakes and installing viruses on their internet browsers and now froth on Andrew Bolt and are scared of windmills. You’ve taught them how to do it, this is on all of us. They’re bored shitless with your dogshit internet presence and this is their version of listening to My Chemical Romance and smoking bongs. Go hang out with them and sort this shit out.

we’ve been locked down for 6 months to save the lives of these people how about you show us all some GODDAMN RESPECT

Have you ever briefly scanned back over the last, say, 6 months of your existence and realised how much fucking garbage you’ve put into your life? Absolute garbage. You wake up and you’re fucking tired as shit and you look like shit and you don’t have time for that delicious avocado on sourdough bullshit society negs you about for apparently having every day. Then you’re on some fucked train/tram sucking back some rancid ludicrously priced jo served by some chipper cunt of a barista, and it tastes like carpet and you’re fucking starving but didn’t have time to eat, or so you think (you do, no one cares if you’re late) and then you get to your dogshit job, and that is fine, I guess. I mean, you’re not going to kill yourself over it, not today anyway, and then you starve some more, then lunchtime comes and you’re too exhausted to leave your desk, not because you’re particularly busy but because your life is so shit and pointless that you figure you don’t deserve to eat and possibly be happy or anything, and then the afternoon comes and you start promising yourself you won’t fuck up your life again tomorrow (you will totally fuck it up again tomorrow) and then you finish work and you’re exhausted and you guzzle some rancid wine and watch a repeat of some increasingly culturally irrelevant television show and eat something delusional like this that a fucking psychopath would serve their impending victims to trick them into thinking they are a completely normal human person before he boils them alive in a fucking bathtub and consumes their flesh. P.S more than one bottle of the same soft drink is a cry for help

People spend a lot of their life coming to grips with who they are. Cause that's kind of life isn't it? Accepting yourself. Accepting your imperfections - internally repackaging your flaws and externally projecting them as quirks that define you. The simple fact of the matter is, you are disgusting. Everyone is just so inherently disgusting and your personality is simply an unwashed version of the person you wish you were but never become. Look in the mirror - you don’t like it do you? Something isn’t quite right - what could it be? Do you need a haircut? Go on, go get your haircut you miserable cunt. It’s not quite right is it? They took too much off - “I told them not to cut my fringe, I don’t like this” you will say, trying to blame the hairdresser. But it’s not their fault - because you know what? It’s not the fringe that’s right, it’s that they’ve exposed more of you and it’s YOU that is wrong. You fucking PIG. Shitting and eating and shitting and eating like a fucking animal. Everything you do, every natural instinct just makes you more and more incorrect and you will never be happy with what you will fail to become. fucking PIG!!!!

Review Huxtaburger - Redfern

When people talk about the neoliberal hellhole we live in right now, we can summarise it all quite nicely as the parasitic, uninspiring attributes that are now eternally apparent - casualisation of the workforce, fast fashion, fake dive bars, subscription based endless mini series, pointless news for woke people, dangerous politics for dumb people - we have the deflating hegemony of the tech boom - a subculture that spins the satire of films like RoboCop into eerie prophecy.

But neoliberalism’s most despicable culinary shit-stain on the world is burger culture. Embodying everything that is wrong with this fucked up world is the new Huxtaburger store in Redfern. Upon entering this store, you’re immediately confronted with imitation tagging on the feature wall [nb: i think it’s imitation, if it’s real it’s much worse] - it’s authenticity has been both appropriated and locked up behind perspex glass. Instead of hiring some fuckwit with white-dreadlocks to do some bullshit banksy-esque burger mural, they’ve just completely appropriated artwork synonymous with the class the store has displaces. It’s not that cutesy colourful horseshit “street art” that fuckwit couples in Randwick apartments love, it’s the street level variety, but don’t worry, it’s behind glass, incarcerated, like the Kings Cross police presence allows for Boomer authenticity (“Love the cross! Look at all the wacky junkies on heroin! this cafe used to be a brothel!”)

Approaching the counter, I ask the guy if they do your standard “Meal” deal. The floor staff chugged along like your standard Maccas set up, so why not? They don’t? Of course they don’t, that would make sense. Okay I’ll get the “Huxtaburger” with “Chips” and a diet coke. $20 or so dollars, whatever, I don’t care. I was then met with some chipper little fuck directing me to the cola dispenser in this absurdly incompetent childlike way - these weren’t deluded yet passionate hipster employees going through a well disguised mid life crisis, these were children. Children being paid, I imagine, fuck all; being tasked with providing an experience that equated to something more than what they are capable of delivering. I call Bullshit Huxtaburger, at least McDonald's doesn’t have the fucking gall to attempt to pretend what they do is something more than what it is. Actually I lie, McDonald's now do this as well, they all do it (Red Rooster still holding out, carn the tropicana pack!) - authentic casual dining has been married with the most dumbshit food ever - burgers. Who are the losers here? You all are you greasy dogs, chatting away online about your stupid fucking different buns and sauces, feeding this disgusting greasy misery machine. And those at the top of this chain want a slice - everyone wants a slice, why wouldn’t you? Selling $20 burgers to miserable fucking idiots, what a time to be alive.

I sit down and am told about 7 times that my food will be there any minute: “relax” i end up saying, “no rush” - the poor fucker looked like she was one burnt chippie away from being fired. I approach the obligatory hot sauce stand and take one called “Shit the bed” because what’s a hot sauce without a foul reference to an inflamed burning anus and/or explosive diarrhea. Lovely. The burger comes out (quite quickly I will ad, so given the apologetic stance the waitstaff had taken earlier, their bread and butter clientele must be needy little grubs). It was a burger. It tasted just like a burger and I enjoyed the burger. I washed it down with my beverage of choice and enjoyed the chips. It wasn’t epic or on another level or any of that horseshit people think it is. It was just a nice burger. I rolled a cigarette at the table which seemed to terrify the patrons more than the abrasive cultural artifacts on display on the wall. I left the busy Huxtaburger which will be full of people forever and walked to the empty pub up the road for a beer.

Back home from a hard day at work doing fuck all at the fuckhead factory or wherever it is you work and it’s snack time is it? You thirsty, peckish little grub and your fucking garbage furniture on your toilet floor (or marrickville lounge room floor, same thing usually) - where’s are the plates? Where’s the bowls for the chips? Chippies go in bowls you fucking pig, you’ve stood up for your dumb photo - gotta make sure you get the red wine in there don’t you Bukowski!? I know EXACTLY what you did when you opened that half drunken bottle. You had a little sniff didn’t you? A little sniffy. New rule: if you do the sniff, you have to put it in a mug. Basically there are 3 outcomes of the sniff. The first is that warm, buttery “fuck, this is actually completely fine!” feeling of joy which never happens, there’s that slight shiver and mild pins and needles feeling where you sorta wince a bit and think “I can probably drink this” and decide how fucked your life is at that very moment in time before you make the plunge, then there’s the straight up dry reach where you throw it out, or you hold it up to the light and check for cigarette butts if you’re a total fuckup. Like a self conscious tubby kid at a public pool, the mug is a rashie for shit wine, and you, my friend, need a rashie, not a wine glass.

To give this dickhead credit, they’ve unintentionally illustrated a core problem with every single person on this fucking disgusting planet we live: what you think you’re worth and what you actually deserve, the distance between thee is vast. You think you live a life that warrants hors d'oeuvres and wine in wine glasses and happiness etc, but the reality is there are very few people who deserve this. Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner. That’s it. Want a snack? Have a fucking banana or a mintie or a peanut you fucking NOBODY. Who the fuck do you think you are? It’s Wednesday night, you’re not some celebrity at a fucking social mixer, you go to work every day. Throw that shit in the bin - you’ve got work in the morning - what are you doing? Have a (quick) shower, a glass of water and go to bed RIGHT NOW you fucking FRAUD.

gday plastic bag fans @ Coles and Woolworths (and wherever else, who fucking cares). a few tips, trix & 'life hacks' to get you through the current everest climb of inconvenience that is goin' down to the shops:

- construct a small fire under your trolley for a makeshift bbq grill and simply cook and consume your meals in the supermarket to get around the plastic bag ban

- simply don't go to the supermarket anymore. eat out every day - with the money you waste you won't be able to go on bullshit self indulgent overseas holidays every year further reducing your carbon footprint

- by eliminating household waste you will now be able to take your clean wheelie bin (AKA the people's trolley) to the shops and simply fill it up with more fresh fruit, veg and produce than any pissy little plastic bag (AKA the coward's sack) could ever dream of holding

- instead of being a fucking crybaby coward how about you patriotically take out your plastic bag ban anger by swimming out into the ocean and personally beating the shit out of members of the flourishing marine creature community now threatening our great nation's sovereignty ???

cheers,

tfw you move to the inner west of sydney and spend all morning talking to shit cunt lifestyle hobby farmers at the Marrickville markets sourcing bespoke ingredients followed by 6 hours of preparing pasta from scratch for the WOKEST meal based on the one time you went to northern Italy but yr only dinner guests are your dickhead mates who’ve turned up drunk with doritos, coles brand hommus and oyster bay sav blanc

I’m in two minds with international travel. growing up in rural Queensland all you desire is an exit from the misery that is country QLD. Something about old blokes smoking bongs at BMX parks makes you think “jeez maybe there’s more to this depressing world and I should perhaps leave this place”. Then you do your best and move to Sydney or whatever and you realise travel is sort of a yuck class thing, from deadshit jet ski Bali bros to educated shitheads who finger themselves over the various pissing contests that exist in Europe. Hey guess what? No one gives a shit how north or south or east you went. You’re as much of a basic cunt as old mate Tennile or whoever it was from school that did the perspective based photo at pisa. ... this isn’t a classist thing but I think overseas travel should be reserved for people who have to save up for like fuckin 5 years or something. How dare we go overseas? We can walk into so many buildings and just ask someone to make us a drink. Or cook us a bespoke meal, we can ask for ANYTHING. We can text some cunt driving a skyline and get a bag of drugs within 30 minutes, even the biggest moron can do this in 2018 - how sad are you that you need to go to India, on mum and dad’s dime, to find more from life?? you fucking loser!!! Fuck! Anyway this dish is a classic example of your standard ex mate from school who has come back from Italy who now does “spreads”

Sometimes I look at the Sydney Harbour Bridge and think “fuck that’s pretty good hey” and then think about all the sleepless nights whoever made it must have had prior to it’s inception, let alone its construction. Owning that shit - what a monumental feat! Engineering BDE. Today, a similar person who potentially could have built another great bridge/tunnel to fix this disaster of a city is firing off pics of this culinary BULLSHIT to strangers. walking through the city looking at those pruned little soft cocks in their suits and ties, looking good guys ! you look great, what the fuck are you actually doing though? Supposedly something we all hope, right? “maybe this fucking hero is perhaps working on the next great bridge?!” I’m thinking, but they aren’t, are they? They’re doing NOTHING! Dressed up like solutions but they’re just another problem - excited about their next pissy little night out or miserable about the last. Fucking around eating fried rice and honey chicken in shitty food courts. You fucking PIGS!!! You’re dressed like adults but living like CHILDREN!!!Spending all your big business CBD dollars on cocaine and natural wine and you’re supposed to have done all sorts of shit but you’ve done absolutely NOTHING!!! Most of you can’t even iron your fucking clothes properly

Sydney’s Best Smoking Areas

Bondi Icebergs Club

Stay away from the top floor dining room, a hot spot for Australian Top Model runners-up and blokes who pay $400 for cocaine, head down to the Icebergs Club room and out to the balcony away from the fake Guess Bag aunties. Get a $5.70 beer [use membership number 994] and enjoy the most sensational spot to punch a morning darb in Sydney. It’s usually pretty empty but sometimes you’ll cop a tirade of rambling nonsense from some bored old rich cunt from Dover Heights who’s been drunk for the last 14 years.

Lime Bar (upstairs City Tattersalls Club)

Sydney CBD is a fucking shithole, filled with morons in cheap jeans drinking expensive iced tea. Escape to the ‘rooftop’ of the City Tattersalls club: whilst an afterthought in modern construction, the smoking area of Lime Bar is a feat of engineering and an almost ostentatious architectural tobacco oasis, designed to cater for the most refined choofer of doobs. They do $3 wines til 7 but in my opinion a smoking area this regal calls for the ultimate toast-to-your-daughter-graduating-event-management-at-TAFE drink - the Crown Lager.

Hotel Steyne

Manly, aka the Cronulla of the North Shore - that main strip on a Friday night feels like a perpetual toolies; you’re surrounded by pissed 25 year old men whose Mum’s clearly make their lunches every day. The Steyne smoking area is fine I guess - ocean views and cidgereedoos and like all pubs close to the water on the East Coast (and the Valley in Brisbane), you get the thrill of the fairly likely possibility you could be glassed by a bloke with a misspelled chest tatt at any time.

Green Park Hotel, Darlinghurst

Avoid the art-school deadshits up the road at The Darlo because there’s no smoking area that has such a flagrant disregard for having to be “outside” than The Green Park Hotel’s fine little indoors puff den. It’s smack bang in the centre of the pub and feels like the early 00’s in here, before we went and fucked everything up and banned the sheer ecstasy that was smoking inside in bars. As @brocklesntch said, “when it comes to smoking areas the queers have you sorted” and that they do at Green Park.

Regent Hotel, Redfern

Redfern Street between Regent and Elizabeth is the The Wall Street of smoking areas. You have the westerly facing smoking mecca of Club Redfern, but the Regent Hotel (formerly called “Railz” which is a sensational name) goes one better - a pool table in the smoking area. That’s right, you can boof a doogan whilst playing some stick. Less than a minute from Redfern Station if you can avoid the fucking drug dogs false ID’ing you, simply head upstairs and out the back. Great crowd here, a lot of big cunts in CMFEU shirts exchanging handshakes and pineapples with low level Labor party members. If you want to organise a hit on a mining company CEO then come on up!

The Cricketers Arms Hotel

Who could forget The Crix courtyard - it stinks like piss, durries and unsigned skaters who stink like piss and durries but any other pub would have turned the area into some bullshit hip hop themed al fresco brunch hellhole for Surry Hills cowards to meet their girlfriend’s parents.

Market City Tavern, Haymarket

The scent of rancid tobacco smoke and the staccatic button slaps of people ruining their fucking lives - smoking and the pokies go together like milk and weetbix, which is what your kids will be having for dinner if you’re not careful here! It’s located on the top floor of the unofficial Haymarket Casino attached to a shopping centre and has the hallmark of a top notch shit pub - the sub $15 Tiger Jug.

The Marrickville Hardcourts Tennis Club

The best thing about inner western Sydney ethnic clubs is the big ol’ pat on the back you can give yourself for supporting a community that just wants you to fuck off. The second best thing is the potential to really burn your way through a deck of hot boys. It’s a great montage in the TC smoking area: a bunch of alcoholic 20 something year old’s huffing darbs and sinking piss wearing 80’s sportswear watching a bunch of ex-alcoholic 60 something year old’s wearing 80’s sportswear playing tennis.

Premix Kings is, from what I can gather - and this is difficult because when you operate on the fringes of what constitutes Responsible Service of Alcohol details a sketchy - a heavily discounted bottle store that markets and sells fucked up alcohol to fucked up people. They recently opened a store in Punchbowl, Sydney, so of course I went there on a Monday morning to check it out

Premix King is about a 10-15 minute stroll from Punchbowl station. It’s near a discount vacuum cleaner warehouse which is a great sign.

There’s something not quite right about walking around PMK - it’s like shopping for clothes at a supermarket. There’s heaps of colourful bottles of strong drinking alcohol duct taped to other colourful bottles of less strong drinking alcohol and the staff are dressed like clowns that work at regional motocross events.

We bought 6 Fruit Tingle and Coffee Liqueur shots, a $10 "vodka pack” (spirit and mixer), 4 pack of “Big Shots” and a bottle of “Jam Doughnut” and a can of “Absolut Botanik” as insurance

First drink was the Fruit tingles shots. Firstly the pros (or pro) - at 50 cents a shot this is about as much of a good time as you can have for 50 cents. The shit thing is, like all drinks from PMK, the terrible taste. It’s hard to describe what it is you’re actually drinking - it sort of smells like an airport (the part where the planes take off). The “fruit” part comes through as more an aftertaste and does absolutely nothing to nullify the sickly tannins of liquid airport juice.

Again, I simply couldn’t figure out what this “Adults Only” drink was - it kinda reminded me of those people you meet in city clubs wearing cheap suits and hair gel that can’t explain what their job is: “So.. you’re a consultant? In what exactly?” “Business, like a business consultant” “yeah but.. what is it you actually do, like what’s.. your job?” “Like I work for this consulting company” .. and it doesn’t really check out at all so you shrug your shoulders and give all your gal mates the heads up to not leave their drinks unattended. After my second 10% ABV “Big Shot” I had a strange, innate and mild to burning desire to coward punch a cop.

Calling this tepid swill “Jam Doughnut” like it’s some kind of cute cocktail is just so incredibly laughable considering it objectively tastes like rotten milk mixed with a tablespoon of white wine that’s been in a glove box for about 3 years blended with used chewing gum. The colour is truly heinous, like pureed sewerage, hence the opaque bottle. And finally:

They duct taped one of these “Trivoski” bottles to a bottle of Schweppes Raspberry and I’m going to put this down as the worst thing I have EVER tasted in my life, and I’ve drunken goon out of a fucking ashtray. We nicknamed this drink “Harambe here I come-be” because the narrative of a gorilla being shot dead with a bullet in his fucking skull is very close to the experience of consuming this fuckhead syrup. Again, not much information on the bottle as to what I’m drinking or where it was made - there’s an address on the side that’s clearly an empty office block somewhere in North Sydney.

Why do they duct tape it all together? What the fuck is wrong with us? What next, duct taping toothbrushes with toothpaste? Dune Rats records with Little Fat Lamb? How is this legal? If you walk into a store that’s premise is to get you fucked up, and you don’t actually know how to fuck yourself up, you shouldn’t be given ANY directions on how to do it more efficiently. Also the staff here treat you with way too much respect. You know when you buy cooking wine or some similar loneliness companion from a normal bottlo and the attendant gives you that “heh.. things aren’t going too well are they mate?” look, and you feel like a complete fucking loser? You’ve then gotta make up some bullshit lie about it being for a bolognaise or sangria? At PMK they scan everything through like you’re an actual proper person, they don’t bat an eyelid - gazing out the door as they hand you your bag - they almost give you a little nod towards the park outside: “over there mate,” they’re telling you, “good little spot over by the grandstand, you can watch the school kids play footy, you’ve had a tough morning mate, you’ve earned it; go fuck yourself up”

All in all a respectable, friendly, small local business doing a good honest trade of ruining the lives of the local community. After drinking everything I felt somewhat clear in my head but couldn’t stand up properly; I kept bumping into things at home and my eye has this weird twitch that hasn’t gone away since this morning - why, I wish PMK was around when I was 14 years old !!! Aside from a few rogue franchisees, I recommend everyone support their local Premix King.

Premix King 1484 Canterbury Rd 2194 Punchbowl, New South Wales, Australia

Toxic masculinity in its rawest form is the burning desire to fry the fuck out of the blood soaked flesh of a slain beast to combat the meekest celebration of anything that doesn’t have a cock. Go help your dear wife with the dishes you fucking pig. Also Great Northern cans in food pics are like cars in Facebook profiles - a photographic prop for human garbage with worthless opinions

love the concept of KFC - big dumb bucket full of chicken for a big dumb cunt, i.e me and everyone reading this. we're all stupid dumb cunts. just so fucking STUPID - think about all the smart things we've personally achieved. remembering to drink water, not pissing yourself, other things, there's sorta 3. maybe there’s a few more. why, i got my keys cut the other day so i'd have a spare set - that's smart - but not really cause that's to offset the dumb cunt act of losing them. then there's the plethora of dumb cunt things everyone does like replying to strangers on facebook comments or paying ATM fees. you need money moron, you need to have it in your wallet to pay for shit, it's important, so where's your money? you spent it all?? why didn’t you get more? you didn't think again did you? time to line up and pay money to get your money!! then off you go to KFC to get some disgusting clag-glue coated fried sadness bird. eating away in your car- greasy hands,greasy life - eating your ludicrously unnecessary large chips cause some dumb kid behind the counter up-sold you and you were too much of a coward to say no. in the parking lot, munching away, wasting your life - those bullshit ads with all those fun loving funboy fucks devouring chicken on some rooftop in bondi dancing away to some variation of that same ukulele + hand clapping + jovial whistling melody song they use in every small car commercial - it’s a bit different in practice isn’t it? this is 🍗Bucket Reality🍗

Tennile blew her pay on cocaine on the weekend because she’s a fucking child so she’s been eating leftover pasta and supermarket cheese all week, but not today! Her team leader Reggie is taking the team out for burgers at some shithouse pretend pub in the inner city of Sydney, filled with highly educated, upper-middle class young professionals who have recently watched the film "Wake in Fright" and now base their entire identity around a fucking pathetic appropriation of Australian working class culture. Pretending to be a dumb cunt, drinking tinnies and listening to the Dune Rats or Courtney Barnett for some reason - hey that’s pretty cool! Wish I was a pretend dead shit as well, sounds just great! Anyway they’re sitting at the pub enjoying a $9 beer and Reggie’s in his fake yeezys ordering for everyone: "Yo these burgers are legit - you see, they are exactly like delicious McDonald's burgers, but they're heaps better because the person making it listens to shit house music and has a stick and poke of an owl or a pine cone or something on his dick” Tennile wonders how the fuck she completely fucked up her life like this, sitting here with all these morons, ironic “Pressure Down” by John Farnham blaring offensively on the stereo, wishing she killed herself yesterday on Sui Tuey, when she hears an approaching sound… Rubbing her eyes and staring out the window, she is suddenly filled with elation - that flaming bus filled with the happiest 48 people she has ever seen has comes to a stop right outside the pub, inside the bus everyone is dancing, big smiles, HUGE smiles - fuck, there's some cunt with a big trombone, playing along to "Pressure Down" Everyone on the bus is clapping and singing to the beat, and the LEGEND who is driving is composing the orchestra like he’s in the fucking opera house - he's laughing, oh how happy he is! Old mate Trombone is going off, he's hitting all the notes and then fades away in crescendo "Sorry guys! I'm out! Ha Ha" as he collapses and fucking dies - the other passengers laugh and clap and join him in salvation in the glorious tempest of flames. Just before the bus explodes the driver, the LEGEND, hits Tennile up on Tinder (it's suddenly 11:32PM Wednesday night) "hey sorry for the late reply, haha been so busy with work, wanna grab a drink on friday??" (... to be continued #tennilesawakening part 2 of whenever-i-end-this-red-wine-bender)

*shit iPhone alarm sound* 📱Tennile's eyes dart open. Rusted and grating, obnoxious and irritating, like a Tim Winton or Johnathon Franzen novel introducing an indigenous or female character respectively. She stares at her phone on about 6% charge - fuck - it's monday! The Garfield Day!! Grrrr! Tennile hates Monday's coz that's the day she has to go to work at her shit cunt job. She rolls from her non-koala brand mattress and has a shower and cries hysterically for a bit cause she's heaps alone and, look, this situation isn't changing anytime soon so crying and having extremely negative thoughts is probably the best way to deal with it. Leaving her sharehouse she realises she can't even be comfortably miserable alone with, I dunno, one of those fuck off Instagram friendly poodles at best (fuck, some shit cat would be fine). Instead it’s just Tennile and her toy ass devil's ivy and totally real sadness with a bunch of emotionally undeveloped morons in a decaying terrace house cause she lives in sydney. She orders a cup of tepid coffee flavoured drinking water from some dumb cafe called the dog and dick or something like that,,, but just before she starts her second monday morning cry... out the corner of her eye... some fucking LEGEND driving a bus/human misery wagon carrying 48 passengers drives straight into oncoming traffic!!! The immediate explosion is deafening and before Tenille has time to bite her banana bread everyone around her breaks into raucous applause. "Bravo!” Says some dickhead “they reckon sydney public transport is no good but look at this, order of australia i reckon" he continues "What a good cunt!" says another fella "about bloody time!" Tennile stares at the flaming wreckage and starts weeping.. but not for herself or her shit life. She weeps for hope. This is the beginning of something new. ... (to be continued this week,#tennilesawakening , an internet serial by CookSuck)

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