Bogans are sweet -
G’day-mate-howya-goain?
I’ve got to stand up and face the facts, bogans are growing on me. There’s nothing like driving to uni, visting the shops or sitting on the balcony and ‘BOGAN SPOTTING’.
But, I’m worried that the luxuries I now enjoy might not be available for future generations. So much so that I’m thinking of applying to council to have vk commodores, mullets, winni blues, crazy little psycho kids with rats tails and fluro t-shirts, and sheilas with high pants jeans, seedy crop tops and rolls of skin around a pierced tummy, listed as heritage items and protected for all time.
In a similar vein, some friends of ours held a small party on the weekend to warm their new abode. The invite was to the point, “This is an NQ party, bring ya sheila and some booze, preferably XXXX”.
We went to the local lifeline shop on saturday morning to hunt for that perfect piece to set off our bogan outfits for that night. Whilst Zoe was unable to find anything, I grabbed a beauty of a cowboy shirt with “Tropical Cattle” printed on the back with a setting sun and a silohette of a braman bull.
I tore the sleves off, added some short shorts, thongs, a rats tail and a tat of a skull with a snake coming out of the eye sockets and I was away.
Other party goers had gone to similar extremes. There was a deadly Irikangi jellyfish (that I thought was one of those little tents that people use to keep flies off bread), a parkie (homeless person) with a trolley, and my personal favourite CAPTAIN XXXX with a cape, t-shirt and mask.
Despite these efforts several demographic groups were conspicuously under-represented. There weren’t any Port Douglas yuppies, tuxedo clad theatre goers or obnoxious uni-students. Wait, there were a few of those.
LONG LIVE THE BOGAN!!!
Also: there were several home improvements made this weekend, including an outdoor setting for $10 and 2 gal. Al shelving units.