#259 – Necks

30 01 2014

The neck has spent years out on the bogan frontier. It was only after sweet tribal sleeves, some mad calf tatts, and some sick chest and back pieces of dragons that the bogan would start nominating its neck as  prime real estate for the newest visual representation of its soul. Similarly, it has been willing to have any number of its orifices (orifii?) violated in preference to turning up somewhere with a plum-coloured hickey bruise on its neck. Yes, the bogan’s neck has always been sacred, save for being used as an occasional hanging place for shark teeth and Tiffany logos. Even Pandora and Livestrong were unable to colonise the space from their stronghold on the bogan’s wrist.

But that was then. In 2014, the bogan has mutated once more. It is currently unable to open either a liquor bottle or a social media platform without contemplating its neck, and nominating it. Like a smug giraffe, the bogan will marvel at its own neck, and declare that none of its friends have a neck quite so splendid. Which is to say: bogan is filmed swiftly consuming alcoholic beverage, and then nominates someone to do likewise. Being the creature of excellence that it is, the boganic spiral towards disaster commences.

Neck being used to full potentialJust as the bogan giddily embraced planking in 2011, a fad that led to an unfortunate death from a 7th floor Brisbane balcony, so it will presumably be with neknominating. In the case of planking, the slower mobile data speeds and smaller data caps of three years ago meant that the bogan was generally limited to merely posting a photo of itself planking on Facebook. But the arrival of 4G has allowed the bogan’s creativity to flourish. It’s not simply about consuming the beverage, the twenty seconds of footage is also a thrilling platform for a talent/stupidity contest. Can the bogan think of something fucking idiotic to do before/during/after having a drink? Yes it can.

Careful scriptwriting is now required, with intense pre-video deliberations occurring to determine the more theatrical components of the video. New footage from the field reveals an audacious neknominate effort that involves hanging off the bottom off an airborne helicopter without a harness, and smashing down a delicious 375ml of Victoria Bitter. In another, a bogan nails its scrotum to a wooden board, then consumes its drink. No female bogan has yet had the balls to emulate that feat, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that one will choose to give a bit of lip in return. And the Mexican wave of boganity continues.

Just as Australia’s rampant prosperity creates ever more bogans, it also taketh them away. Darwin is not only a city where bogans ride crocodiles and make the NT News Australia’s finest newspaper, it is also an –ism that will spare no corner of the continent. The Abbott Government’s plan to water down the National Broadband Network stands out as a beacon of hope to save the bogan from itself. With excessive data speed comes an uncontrollable deluge of bogan exhibitionist daredevil idiocy, which has the capacity send the bogan the way of the Tasmanian devil. So, next time you see the bogan risking its nek, nominate Tony Abbott to strangle its interwebs for its own good.





#256 – Superfluous Ingredient Descriptors

19 03 2013

It is just plain wrong to categorise the bogan as a straightforward, simple creature. There is nothing simple about naming a child “Mhadeziyn”, attempting to perch atop a revolving system of four different interest-free finance facilities, and clutching seventeen different mutually exclusive conspiracy theories about foreigners, allergies, and corporate fat cats.

That’s right, the modern bogan is a seven-sided Rubik’s cube of mystery. Gone are the days where it would happily lunch upon a humble beef burger, a packet of salt and vinegar chips, and a can of Sunkist. This caused much hand-wringing in snackfood and fast food boardrooms around the nation. “Had the bogan become less ravenous?” one asked. No, the bogan had not become less ravenous. “Had the bogan become more tasteful?” another well-intentioned staffer enquired. No, the bogan had not become more tasteful.

A Contiki Tour in three 200 gram boxes.

A Contiki Tour in three 200 gram boxes.

The boardroom clocks ticked loudly, and a few board members shuffled their papers to distract from the fact that the meeting had ground to a complete halt. Others in the room awkwardly looked out the window, wishing for an urgent reason to be elsewhere. Out the window, down in the car park, a bogan was doing doughnuts in a fluorescent ute. Attached to the ute was a trailer, on the trailer was a Jet-Ski, and on the Jet-Ski was the bogan’s friend, riding with no hands. Seconds later, the Jet-Ski rodeo bogan was thrown off the Jet-Ski, landing in a puddle of its own elbow cartilage. Clearing his throat, a board member addressed the room. “The bogan has become much more deluded”. Yes.

Six weeks later, the snackfood company re-released its salt and vinegar chips. As “Rock Salt and Balsamic Vinegar”. Salt from exotic rocks. Vinegar from exotic… balsams. The bogan didn’t mind that the price was 50% higher. After all… rock salt! Sales soared. The constantly mutating vagaries of the bogan mind had once again been skewered by nonsensical branding. Soon, no bogan wanted a beef burger unless it was an Angus Beef Burger. And “blood orange” flavoured soft drink was seen as both more maxtreme and more prestigious than stupid old plain orange. It was thrillingly irrelevant whether there was any discernable difference in ingredients or taste. This is because the bogan wants to remain deeply within the comfort zone of its palate, whilst still projecting the illusion of fashion and progress.

The bogan craves these superfluous ingredient descriptors, and consuming something pointlessly, functionlessly overwrought adds additional layers of meaning to its existence. An Ed Hardy t-shirt for the mouth. If Arnott’s releases a gourmet version of Shapes called “Cracked pepper, Mediterranean feta, French onion, crispy chicken, flame grilled steak, roasted garlic and peppercorn” (all of these terms have appeared in Shapes names in recent years), the bogan’s biscuit-purchasing fervour could  only be heightened further if the product was also dubbed “limited edition”.

The bogan is a moron.





#255 – Living Once

23 01 2013

The bogan understands the universe. From the big bang that started everything approximately 13.75 billion years ago, to The Big Bang Theory that started on Channel 9 on March 12, 2008, the bogan soars over space and time, like a golden, winged Jet Ski with the ability to transcend all of existence.

While we're at it, these Keep Calm posters can fuck right off tooContemplating its own constitutional right to eternity, the bogan intermittently sought refuge in the afterlife offered at its local megachurch. Returning to its McMansion, it would then ponder Buddhist reincarnation while focusing its eyes on the various pieces of Buddhist iconography that it had commandeered as domestic decoration. As the complexity of rebirth and multiple lives began to reveal itself to the bogan, it realised that it would need at least four of its child’s Ritalin tablets to complete this train of thought.

The bogan, it did not sleep that night. Pacing between its rumpus room, its family room, its lounge room, its formal living room, its theatre, its dining room, and its informal eating area, concepts flew like lonely comets in the vast expanses of inky black sky. Karma, immortality, birth, death, lifespans, heaven, purgatory, rebirth. The first light of dawn brought no more relief than the three massive cans it had gasped down since 4am. It would need to drive its car. Driving its car would bring freedom. The ability to speed away from its troubles.

But going 80km/h didn’t work. Paralysing thoughts of universe still present. 100km/h. A slight improvement in wellbeing. But the bogan did not aspire to a slight improvement in its wellbeing. It wanted maxtreme wellness. To be so well that it shat multivitamins. At that moment rays of sunlight scrambled over the Bunnings Warehouse on the horizon, and everything was illuminated in the bogan’s mind. All of these big ideas about reincarnation and eternal life could be completely scrapped. You Only Live Once.

“Fucken YOLO!!!”, the newly liberated bogan whooped, plunging its foot into the accelerator pedal. The subsequent 8 minutes between this moment and the flashing lights of the police car were pure existential bliss.

YOLO neatly distils boganity into a blunt, four letter weapon that the bogan can use to attack anything that has a passing resemblance to a good idea, and embrace anything that is profoundly idiotic. Angry Angus burger with 56.5 grams of fat? YOLO. Interest-free finance with an interest rate of 20%? YOLO. Saving a portion of its salary each month? Nah, YOLO. 150km/h therapeutic morning spin through the suburbs? YOLO. Back alley Thailand tetanus tattoo of YOLO in gothic font? Well… YOLO. The bogan only lives once, and is determined to make that once as brief as possible.

Temporarily deflated by its run-in with the local constabulary, the bogan rolled back to its McMansion at 5km/h below the speed limit. Still jittery from the heady mix of Ritalin, caffeine, guarana, adrenaline, and a $400 fine, it resolved to pull a sickie, and soothe itself by watching the hilarious adventures of Leonard, Sheldon, and the whole Big Bang Theory gang on its Blu-Ray 3D LED LCD HD HDMI USB 100HZ TV. There would be no more troublesome thinking that day.





#251 – Gates

7 03 2012

The bogan has spent the last decade or so browsing for pornography via Microsoft operating systems, and the best part of five years lowering the general utility of social media via the very same platform. Its enthusiasm for Bill Gates’ recent endeavours to end Polio and AIDS has been far more muted, meaning that this is not the Gates that bogans love most. Bogan outrage towards the possible entry of non-bogans into Australia has often prompted the bogan to express desire for a gated fence to be installed 50km off the coast, but not even this is the bogan’s favourite gate. In those countless, fleeting moments where bogans are at their most agitated, they require a different gate altogether.

Your average, garden variety bogan knows and cares very little for the events that occurred in an American hotel in the early 1970s, which effectively caused the only resignation of a US President. Indeed, its first mental association towards the name “Deep Throat” came courtesy of aforementioned Gates’ operating system, and the bogan’s white-knuckled forays into digital adult entertainment. The other legacy of this American political scandal that did impact profoundly on the bogan’s lexicon was the realisation by journalists that things sound more notable when suffixed with “gate”.

Last week’s ill-advised but unremarkable babble about a soldier on daytime television was notable to the rest of us because it drew our attention to the fact that George Negus needs to sack whoever told him that this was the next leap forward in his career. But for the bogan, it became an exciting saga called Yumi-gate, where its initial rage at the sayer of inane rubbish spiraled into a week-long serial of drama, hatred, and eventual benevolent forgiveness.

Unsurprisingly for such a repetitious creature, this is not the first time that journalists have slammed the gate on an otherwise uninteresting story for the bogan. Countless other half-stories in years gone by have been made into complete stories by an ambitious journalist managing to paper over yawning chasms of relevance, significance, or rigour by stapling on this shithouse suffix. The fact that we can’t even list any of them is testament to how forgettable and tenuous this maneuvre truly is.

Ok, here’s one. In round 5 of the 2006 AFL season, a match went for 20 seconds too long because the siren wasn’t loud enough for the umpires to hear it. A goal was kicked during those 20 seconds, causing SIRENGATE, which journalists, football and non-football alike, trilled about giddily for the following 96 hours. No heads of state handed in their resignation, but for the bogan, Sirengate changed their lives forever. For a week.

One more. During the half time entertainment for the 2004 Super Bowl, Justin Timberlake tore off part of Janet Jackson’s costume, revealing parts of her breasts that had been seen before, along with a circular shield covering the part that was less well known. This created a furore known variously as Nipplegate, and Boobgate. Journalists couldn’t agree on what to call it, but knew that it had to end in gate. While uninterested in the Super Bowl, the bogan spent much time reviewing the footage online, as well as speculating in food courts, lunchrooms, and Irish-themed pubs nationwide about what “what this all means”, a phrase it borrowed from an earlier, more credible George Negus.

Do not show this entry to a bogan. It will trigger gategate, gategategate, gategategategate, and so on, a feedback loop that will exponentially gain enough idiotic mass to suck the universe into itself.





#250 – Donald Trump

20 12 2011

The bogan briefly enjoyed having a ranga in charge of Australia, but even bogans eventually became tired of jokes about red hair. Caught in a flurry of boats laden with carbon, live cattle, and something to do with Greek debt, the bogan needs a new leader. A strong, soundbite-savvy, one-dimensional aggressor to set everything right in the bogan’s suddenly flustered existence. Someone with enough Real Action potential to reverse any recent, highly distressing changes to Facebook’s layout. With a federal election still some time away, Tony Abbott is not in a position to save the bogan. So the bogan turns to someone with not only red hair, but funny-looking red hair. New (old) jokes become possible (unavoidable).

Donald Trump is everything that the bogan wants from being a bazillionaire: he started by investing in residential real estate, and then became max celeb. Eventually, he scored a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, walked past countless velvet ropes, and now co-owns the Miss Universe beauty pageant. The bogan is also inspired by the idea that Trump gets to be an arsehole to people without repercussions. The 65 year old New Yorker was in Australia recently to record a cameo appearance in Celebrity Apprentice, reminding the bogan that its reality television-driven admiration of Trump is based on solid bogan philosophy.

While the bogan will normally glass any cunt who even utters the term “layoffs”, there are few ways to make a bogan happier than showing it footage of Donald Trump arbitrarily firing people who are striving for reality television excellence. Aside from the TV cameo, and appearances at a glorified business lunch, Trump’s core message to Australia was bogan catnip. It was almost like he knew of the bogan male’s ongoing failings to screw hot Asian chicks in Australian bars. “Screw China”, Trump thundered, referring to the partial pricing power that Australia’s commodity producers currently enjoy over their exports to developing countries in Asia. Screwing a billion Chinese people is like… a billion times better than screwing just one.

Just as Hugh Hefner has grown plump on mass-marketing trashy products carrying a logo that represents high end decadence, Trump is also unsatisfied with merely selling luxury to the very wealthy. $12 Trump cologne, “Trump Ice” bottled water, Trump vodka, Trump steaks (Trumprump?), Trump magazine, a forthcoming Trump online casino, Trump neckties, Trump home furniture, even short courses at the illegally named “Trump University” have followed. Trump sells the idea that looking rich is the pathway to immense wealth, an idea that appeals to bogans more than an interest-free, Hummer-branded Jet ski endorsed by David Guetta. Well, maybe not more than that. But, despite his periodic lawsuits, bankruptcies, and scandals, the Donald looks set to retain his hegemonic relationship over the bogan’s mind and wallet. Trump that, bogans.





#247 – Gig Photography

10 10 2011

We may have figured this out. For all the talk, posturing and driving down inner-urban streets with all four windows down and the sonic enema of David Guetta emitting at NASA-like frequencies, the bogan does not actually like music. It has an underdeveloped Morrissey gland. Sure, it responds, Pavlovian bivalve that it is, to rave whistles and sub-bass rumblings, but things like ‘rhythm’ and ‘melody’ may well do no more than cause the bogan confusion.

So, why? Why would the bogan so studiously be such a big music fan, to the point that it actually likes ‘Music on Facebook. Not an individual artist or band, but ‘Music’? Our thousand monkeys experts at the Boganomics Institute in Genève have, after several billion hours of rigorous testing, nutted this problem out. The bogan, knowing that everyone else ‘gets’ this music caper, must fit in. It must, on pain of social exclusion, give the appearance of enjoying the mundane bleatings of Michael Bublé and, by extension, encourage the musical abortion that is Human Nature. It must undergo the trauma of indie rock gigs to prove its bona fides. This, of course, explains why the bogan is incapable of attending these gigs without resorting to shouted conversations and the occasional punch-on.

However, these are bogans we’re talking about, and subtlety is not their strong suit. The bogan would not waste time listening to music simply to enjoy music, but to establish its street cred. So, beyond the aforementioned musical drive-bys and Facebook posturing, how can the bogan prove that it is a music fan? By taking photos, of course.

Having established that the bogan is unlikely to frequent live music performances for the pleasure of witnessing live music, it becomes easily understandable that the bogan’s true purpose for being there is to stand front and centre, raise their iPhone above the crowd, in order to get a blurry, diagonal capture of half of Kings of Leon’s lighting rig, and a flurry that could possibly be their bassist’s hand, and start snapping. And snapping.

In Phuket, the bogan is perfectly happy to enjoy the experience of getting smashed on buckets of beer and errantly identifying ladyboys while only taking the occasional snapshot. The experience of live music, however, is lost on it, so attempting to create a visual record of its attendance, and uploading it – post-haste – to Facebook becomes of paramount importance. Forward-thinking bogans may even upload a Twitpic or two while still at the gig, adding reams of bogan musical veracity to its already bulging resume of forgotten, but recorded, concerts.

The Facebook photo album ‘Kings of Leon Awsum!’ rapidly assumes equivalent importance to other albums demonstrating the bogan’s max clubbing skillz such as ‘Friday Night OMG!!!1!’, ‘Boutique Fridayz!!!’ and, of course, the unforgettable ‘Friday Night with the Girlz!!!’. The only real difference between these undifferentiated dark blobs of pixels is that three contain elevated images of poorly arranged cleavage, while the other (un)focuses on a brightly lit stage 40 metres away. The bogan now understands music.





#246 – Tax Refunds

29 09 2011

It has happened since the dawn of time. In 1854. Taxation issues caused ancestral bogans to attack police in an unsuccessful revolt on the Victorian goldfields. The tax paid on discovered gold was deemed by the miners to be excessive, and they wanted it back. They wanted a tax refund. They did not get a tax refund. The subsequent 16 decades have, in a large part, been dedicated to the bogan getting square.

In modern Australia, income tax is deducted from a worker’s salary at a rate that, all other things being equal, should result in the person neither underpaying or overpaying tax throughout the year. This system entitles the bogan to bark about the perpetual and limitless misuse of its taxpayer dollars. This very nearly makes sense, so it is not meaningful to the bogan.

While British colonists in North America 350 years ago lobbied for political change (and led to the American Revolution) with the slogan “no taxation without representation”, the bogan, being the ambitious parasite it is, has higher aims. While the bogan will reluctantly have tax deducted from its monthly salary, it agrees solely on the condition that all of this money, and more, is returned to it at the end of the financial year. Also, it wants infinitely maxtreme levels of political clout at all times. “No taxation, yes representation”.

A recent survey reported that 89% of people expected to receive a tax refund from the 2010-11 financial year. From this, we can deduce that at least 11% of Australians are not bogans. The remainder comprises people who genuinely warrant refunds, people who have successfully defrauded a pathway to a refund, and a large horde of bogans who are smirking on borrowed time. In the weeks and months after June 30, Australia’s towns and cities rattle from the shrill cry of bogans opening their ATO envelopes. Birds flap from their perches on sandstone cathedrals. “Where’s the refuuuuund?!?”, complaineth the bogan, upon receiving a cheque for a mere $400 to offset unspecified and highly dubious expenses. The bogan knows that it paid thousands in tax over the year, and continues to ponder this injustice as it drives down the smooth, four lane road to chemist. A script for PBS-subsidised Ritalin is collected for little Thailaar, who is on her third warning at a private school mostly funded by the government.

An angry phone call to the creative accountant later that day involves a slew of incompatible accusations about the accountant’s level of ability, coupled with a demand that the tax return be filed again, getting it “right this time”. Because the bogan is acutely aware of its Bill of Rights, it therefore knows what is right, and that it has a right not to pay bills. Conceding that bogans (particularly those in marginal electorates) are indeed right, parties on both sides of the political fence are profoundly reluctant to reduce any tax deductibility loopholes frequently used by bogans. Furthermore, new ways to offset income tax miraculously appear near election time, confirming that, Eureka! – the bogan is right.





#245 – The Makers of ‘The Hangover’

9 09 2011

We know that the bogan likes sequels, and we know that the bogan likes remakes. Both of these things provide the bogan with a rich, nourishing bubble of security that – when it is enveloped by its Natuzzi™ couch, watching its Samsung™ 60” plasma – mitigates the risk that bogan lives in constant fear of. That it will buy something that reflects poorly upon it.

Most industries figured out the power of branding in appealing to the bogan long, long ago. Proto-bogans were encouraged to make their children happy little Vegemites™, or that nine out of ten doctors smoked Marlboros™. It has reached the point today that the marketing industry is engaged in a constant tailspin, like Keanu Reeves to the bogans’ Patrick Swayze, as they both hurtle to Earth, the bogan seeing no reason to pull the ripcord just yet.

The trouble in the modern day, however, is that branding’s easy with products that can be re-purchased. The bogan that is convinced to switch from Red Bull to Mother so it can be more maxtremely manly will continue to drink said massive cans once its loyalty is certain. When it comes to films, it is less simple. The bogan will, perhaps, pay money to see a movie in the cinemas, or most likely watch it at home on the screen it purchased on generous interest-free terms at Harvey Norman. Once it’s bought, or watched, it ain’t about to get bought again, no matter how strong the brand.

Now the moguls, as the movie types’ superlative tends to be, had a few fixes, namely making the same film again, and making n sequels of any popular film, turning it into that most appealing-sounding of film concepts, a ‘franchise’. Having bogans pay extra money for the sick-inducing experience of watching in the third dimension was also a brief fillip, before even bogans cottoned on to the inanity of Avatar (until Avatar II comes out, of course).

Trouble is, making a new movie is expensive. The cost associated with putting together even a lame remake masquerading as a sequel was discovered by the makers of The Hangover (Zack Galifinakis + baby), as they made the same movie again, chucked a ‘2’ in front (Zack Galifinakis + monkey) and made a metric fucktonne of money. Metric fucktonnes of cash notwithstanding, though, even a sequel is a gamble. So they figured out something even better. Apply the branding of entirely unrelated material to a new movie. Thus, even though Judd Apatow has directed a mere three feature films, there have been at least 370 lesser works tossed out to the slavering bogan horde with his name attached, to huge bank.

In the relative Apatow-silence since Knocked Up (no one liked Funny People), there needed to be a new brand to bring the bogans in. Luckily, The Hangover, with its references to maxtreme partying and Las Vegas, hooked bogans the world over good and proper. Thus, we have been treated to the likes of Due Date (Zack Galifinakis + puppy) and The Change-Up, in which other movies are remade at low cost, then branded ‘Hangover’. We’re confident that they will make a metric fucktonne of money.





#244 – Low Interest Rates

5 09 2011

The bogan understands economics. With a level of understanding akin to James Cameron’s grasp of screenplays, the bogan will frequently invoke its right to free speech to opine vociferously on the performance of the economy, thus the performance of the government of the moment. And the bogan knows that there is only one true measure of economic performance: interest rates.

Interest rates are the Reserve Bank’s sole means of regulating an overinflating economy, or spurring on sluggish consumer and business spending by discouraging or encouraging bank lending. However, unlike the ‘conventional’ economic wisdom, which the bogan is assured by News Ltd is spurious, the bogan knows that a truly strong economy exists only when interest rates are at all-time record lows. The bogan approaches interest rates much like a climatologically paranoid beaver. Should it rain heavily, the beaver’s dam could well be fucked. The bogan, loaded up with $500,000 of borrowed money to pay off the McMansion, views rising interest rates much like as incoming inclement weather; that is, a clear signal of impending economic doom.

Thus, every month, there is a near-pornographic obsession in the trashmedia with the upcoming announcements on interest rates, as ‘journalists’ rapidly calculate the monthly cost facing overleveraged bogans’ average mortgage repayments. Accordingly, bogans will express outrage when the banks have the temerity to ‘pass on the rate rise’. National politicians will then fuel the flame of righteous bogan fury, claiming that the banks have a responsibility to bogans everywhere, and that their behaviour (making a profit) is un-Australian.

Once the dust has settled, the bogan will begin complaining to everyone about how the rising interest rates are the government’s and the banks’ fault, and that they are now in ‘mortgage stress’, because that it a term they heard Kochie use once. This is despite the fact that mortgage rates are still about half the level of 1991. This is also despite the fact that the bogan has happily loaded up the credit card at 20% for a new bookshelf from IKEA, a 0.25% increase in the interest rate is enough to send the bogan into a seething rage.

The bogan, under the extraordinary levels of mortgage stress it inherited due to the policies of a government that has no control over interest rates, will approach the bank, asking to fix its exchange rate. It understands economics, but not fixed or variable mortgages. It resigns itself to watching the monthly announcement on the increase in interest rates, and will then exercise its right to free speech to opine vociferously about how unaffordable housing is in Australia.





#243 – Perspective-Based Photography at Famous Landmarks

25 08 2011

“Wait…move your left hand over a bit…that’s it…nah, wait, you missed it. Fuck. Try again.”

Travel to any part of the world with any landmark that has appeared in a James Bond movie or a Contiki catalogue, and you will undoubtedly hear words to this effect. With a strong Australian dollar, cheap flights, and internet accommodation bookings, the newly internationalised bogan has embraced overseas trips/tours/drinking with a previously unseen fervour. They then decide, in their uncommonly belated manner, that it would be totally bitchin’ if they posed alongside a famous landmark, employing their unparalleled grasp of telephoto perspective to create the impression they’re, you know, holding it up! While the bogan has precious little perspective on life, empathy, culture, and modesty, it has an unlimited desire for perspective in its photography.

How artistic and clever it makes the bogan feel to have come up with such a devastatingly effective photo. The several hundred other travelling bogans undertaking the same process within a 50 metre radius are clearly ripping off what is an original idea. It is inconceivable that anyone other than that one particular bogan could have realised how extreme it would be if a photo made the Eiffel Tower look really small, with the tip being squeezed by the oily pincers of the bogan.

After the magic of the digital camera allows the bogan to make the requisite 300 attempts to place the photo’s two subjects in harmonious alignment, it can be taken home, enlarged 100 times and placed on the wall of the formal living room. The roaring success of the photo is enough to induce the bogan to tell its friends that it’s thinking of becoming a pro photographer. Indeed, the possibility to take more perspective-based photos (along with V Australia now flying to North America) may lure the bogan to journey to NYC to create a sidesplittingly unprecedented scene where the Statue of Liberty gets sodomised from behind. An alternative, and equally appealing option is to kiss the Sphinx, and then make a joke about getting older pussy. Or, or, what about one where it looks like the ruins of the Acropolis are getting stomped on?!?!

The bogan will never, ever, ever tire of this.








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