Awkward Weed Dealer.
“How’s it goin mate,” he greets you as he takes you down to the back room that he rents at his brother in law’s house. As you gaze around his room, your eyes are assaulted by the dusty collection of Jack Daniel’s and Jim Beam shot glasses and other miscellaneous alcohol-related novelties that were probably 21st presents. He’s 43 now, and still didn’t have enough common sense to wrap up your shitty little tinnie between the time you texted him and the time you got here. As you watch him fumble about with his weed, you are a prisoner of unenlightening conversation. “Whatcha been up to?” you politely ask, impatiently willing him to hurry the fuck up so you can leave. “Oh not much,” he says. But the damage is done. He pauses sorting your pot, because he can’t concentrate on doing one thing with his hands while he uses his mouth to tell you about the time last week that he had a go at a parking officer. You wish you’d never asked, and wonder whether any high is worth enduring this.
You’d better believe that Damo (self-appointed nickname) is out to make a name for himself on the Dunedin circuit in his Mitsubishi Evo (which is really just his mum’s old Mitsubishi Lancer with an Evo body kit). He’s got himself a sick rev counter, to make sure he’s aware of the performance of his car around every turn, particularly the one out the back of the Meridian. Sticker tints provide discretion for the classy ladies sitting in the backseat munning into some Cody’s bogan and cokes. Damo’s pretty much Vin Diesel tonight. Bein’ fast, bein’ furious. Enjoy your endless years of financing stuff you can’t really afford, Damo.
Clothing Store Employees.
You walk into a store, and out of nowhere, a grinning sales employee appears. “Can I help you with anything in particular?” Hell, you’re not even sure what store you’re in - you need to get your bearings before interaction is forced upon you. Her plastic smile is as saccharine as her voice; she doesn’t want to be asking you this any more than you want to be asked. ‘Rescue me,’ her eyes plead. Middle management is the real villain here; the retail employees are slaves, forced to harass customers whenever their jumped-up manager is within earshot. They hate their lives, and you should feed them treats and reassure them gently whenever the prick of a manager isn’t looking.
David “Avocado” Wolfe.
Just stop it. Pick up a science book and learn a science instead. And shut the hell up.
Elderly Guy at Local Pub.
Uttering the rhetorical question, “ya winning, champ?” to literally anybody that approaches his Winnie Red and damp urine stench radius, this blokes thinks he is ‘Somebody Important’ at his local dive pub, because he goes there so fucking often. Constantly shuffling to and from the TAB self service machine, he loudly protests whenever a “bloody Chinese” wins the jackpot on the pokies, even though he only puts the odd twenty in himself. An ever-obnoxious fountain of sexual harassment, he leers at the poor female that has to pour his jugs of DB for him day in, day out, and constantly informs her that he “pays her wages”.
Fuck off and die already, “Gazza”.
An exquisite sight to behold.
Guy Who Tries to Play the Guitar at the Party.
James’s eyes light up as he spies someone’s guitar over there in the corner. He’s been hitting on an uninterested girl for several hours now, and he knows how to make her want him. Picking up the guitar, he loudly proclaims he can play, and proceeds to play the opening riff of Smoke on the Water, but only on the top string, horribly out of time, and invariably fucking up the 6th and 7th notes.
Good one James, you colossal dick.
Hilary Duff Films.
These can sneak up on you if you’re not keeping a careful lookout. Never approach a Hilary Duff film without a friend for safety.
“If You Can’t Handle Me at My Worst, You Don’t Deserve Me at My Best.”
After her fine secondary education at the ‘School of Hard Knocks’ and subsequent tertiary diploma from the ‘University of Life’, the natural progression for Mel was to become a full-time Facebook quote sharer. Marilyn Monroe quotes feature often, as do other pearls of wisdom urging others to live, laugh, and/or love. Mel’s pretty keen on Playboy Bunny merchandise, especially the car seat covers, and she can often be found perusing the selection of discount sunglasses at Art Fun Wear.
Joint Facebook Account Couples.
Can someone please tell Julie and Richard that Facebook is a free service? You guys could both have … your own identities on the internet. But $100 says that Richard has cheated on Julie in the past and as, a result of her no-longer-existent trust in him, she’s got him on a Level 5 Technological Lockdown. Richard wishes he could leave, but they made poor mortgage and lifestyle choices and he knows he’d be financially ruined if he tried. Richard and Julie hate their lives and often argue in hushed tones in the hallway at family Christmases, which is really awkward for everyone else.
Kayla is having her 19th birthday party tonight and all her best galfrands are out in force to help her celebrate! The pre-drinks have nearly taken her out, but Kayla is one determined motherfucker. Determined to have an AMAZEBALLS TIME, that is!
You don’t need to go looking for Kayla – she’ll come to you, and it will be invariably in the bathroom as you are washing your hands. Kayla’s all about girl power and sisterly support and she’s waiting with toilet paper to dry your tears, or to gush about “how beautiful you are and if that guy doesn’t see it then fuck him!” She’s going to be a little bit embarrassed about her blackout behaviour when she’s sitting at her insurance call-centre desk on Monday. But give it a few days, the shame will fade and before you know it, it’s TGIF time again.
We have all been Kayla. She’s alright.
Long-Lost Kardashian Sister.
Yep, you’d better believe this one has an alarming array of bodycon dresses in every shade of brown and off-white. Sucking back a gallon of vodka-soda-with-fresh-lime, she arms herself with several thousand Lip Kits (not to worry, her handbag is as big as she is) before hitting the dance floor. Can be seen at 3am pouting at her phone in the queue at Maccas, heels in hand.
Shona’s had a fucking gutsful. She’s supposed to be visiting Steve in the Milton Hilton, but the guards have told her that she’s not on the list. Enraged, she glues her hand to a denim-encrusted hip and gives them an earful.
“Oi’ve told Kaidun, Shaidun, Braidun and Jaidun they’re gunna see theer fathah toduy,” she seethes. “Oi’m suck of thus shut!” Marching out, she lights up a dart. “Come on kuds,” she snaps, as she piles them into the Ford Falcon. “Let’s goiye to the supermarkut.” Allowing her children to scream loudly and run loose in a public place is the only thing that will cheer old Shones up today.
A photo of a baby wearing a headband with a flower pops up on your Facebook feed. Lying on the ground next to the baby is a small Kmart chalkboard, with “25 weeks” written on it. You wonder what the difference is between 25 weeks and 6 months, and whether someone who cannot round weeks into months should even be breeding. Your hand twitches. You want to type a comment telling them that 25 weeks is actually 6 months, and also everyone’s getting real fucking sick of seeing weekly photos of their hideous baby wearing doilies and shit, lying next to a chalkboard. You refrain though, because they used to be a real person with their own personality, and maybe one day they will be again. Until such time, however, the Unfollow button will be employed by most.
Outraged White Woman in Her 40s.
“Excuse me,” Angela’s clipped tone pierces the ears of all nearby shoppers. “Excuse me, but I need to return this item?” She brandishes a pink diamante-coated phone case, which houses an iPhone 3 with a cracked screen. The poor customer service guy braces himself and replies, “Sure. That model hasn’t been available for eight years though, so it could be out of warranty. Have you got a receipt?”
He’s done it. The portal to hell opens wide. Everyone in the near vicinity retreats quietly, avoiding eye contact with Angela. She’s hulking out of her floral kaftan, white capris and chunky necklace. The array of orange-to-camel foil-dyed chunks in her hair begin to glow. Her hair is long and straight at the front, and neatly bobbed at the back. It’s irate.
As everyone runs for their lives, all they can her is Angela’s nasal tone booming. “Can I speak to the manager!?” They speed up.
Pyramid Scheme Enthusiast.
“I’ve never felt more fit and healthy! Since starting my new nutritional supplement plan, I’ve lost 8kg in 3 hours! I recommend this to EVERYONE.” - A typical Facebook post from the dreaded pyramid scheme sucker, who replies to everyone’s comments of interest, “have PMed you”. This person will suddenly start referring to themselves as a “wellness coach”, “nutritional coach” or a “life coach” (they did a weekend course), and they will only make an effort with you because they think you are a business lead. You have been warned.
Quentin Tarantino Enthusiast.
He’s seen it all. Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill, Kill Bill II, and Pulp Fiction. He’s got the Pulp Fiction poster. You know the poster. Your second date with him will be him eagerly forcing you to watch Pulp Fiction while he talks along with the script. For this, he thinks he deserves a beej. He doesn’t.
Right Wing Commenter on Stuff.co.nz Articles.
Cracking his knuckles with a flourish, Dave, a 41-year-old avid jerk, is ready to strike. An article about NZ’s wealth gap has just popped up, and he’s here to set the record straight. “People need 2 stop whinging and just do some bloody work 4 a change. Sitting at hm on the dole is just robbing hard wrking taxpayers, every1 has the same opportunities in life so quit ya whining and change ur circumstances. I work hard 4 my money, and have a house and boat. People are just lazy and not willing to put in the work.”
Releasing his chode from his beige chinos, he absentmindedly tugs away as he smugly watches the likes stream in from fellow self-righteous masturbating white men.
This rooster’s never to be seen without a relaxed fit blue denim teamed up with an entry-level white New Balance trainer. Move over mate, your uncle here knows a thing or two about cooking a good steak on the barbie. Let him regale you with the stories of his latest TAB sports bet win, as your eyes are blinded by the white of his sneakers. He pauses his story only to take an “urgent phone call” from the phone clipped securely to his belt. The phone call isn’t urgent at all; it’s the video store asking him to return the DVDs that he rented (because he still rents DVDs). If David Brent had a baby with a less-angry Begbie from Trainspotting, this smooth criminal would be the outcome.
The Story Topper.
You can spot a Story Topper just by throwing out a sentence, i.e. “my uncle is a sheep farmer in Gore,” to which he will reply, “My uncle is the CEO of the world’s largest sheep factory”. Settle down mate, it’s not a competition. Well actually for the Story Topper, it IS. Don’t ever bring up the following subjects with this guy: car accidents (his are always way more dangerous and mangled), workload (he is always busier/more stressed than you), unusual sleep patterns (he’s an insomniac, in fact he is a case study for doctors all over the world, because they have never seen anyone with such a bad case of insomnia). In fact, it’s best to just steer clear of this piss-stain.
One of the worst things about the workforce is the possibility of an unprofessional boss. Ugh. They want to be your friend, they want to have drinks with you, they want to then use your secrets against you and gleefully laugh at the power they have over you, as they send unsolicited dick pics to poor victims in their lunch hour.
To my knowledge, many of these are in prison.
Women’s Soccer Coach.
Rhonda beams with pride as her team scores a goal. Noticing a female spectator cheering, she sidles up to the young lass and earnestly inquires whether she’s ever considered joining the team herself, to which the girl replies that she’s not very good. “All we ask is that you show up and give it your best go!” Rhonda spouts encouragingly, always hoping to increase numbers for the women’s team. After the match, she lovingly totes a large net bag full of soccer balls to the clubrooms, to have a cheeky raspberry coke and maybe a packet of ready salted crisps.
They’re polite, deft, and always ready to jam.
Your Parents’ Friends on Facebook.
Persistently creating Facebook status updates such as, “Thanks Jill, how are Brian and the kids? Love from us here in Brisbane,” your parents’ friends on Facebook are like your flatmate’s girlfriend - you’ve accepted the friend request out of polite obligation, but why?? Apart from anxiously warning you not to accept a friend request from Jayden K. Smith, the parents’ friend is usually harmless, and is only really here for Farmville.
Always shortish middle-aged women, who probably go more for that sisterhood feeling than for the workout. Bless.