Race Wars

Two more from Jaidyn Jaxxon up country. A masterpiece of didgeridoo salesmanship in Widgiemooltha, – and is the didge not just a step down from the saxophone as a musical instrument, particularly for buskers? Show me  saxophone and digereedoo buskers and I’ll show you two cunts. –  and surprise surprise, there’s race wars in Wyalkatchem. I’m from the wheatbelt, and it still amazes me how west australian country people are such morons. Are all country people around the world idiots, or do we have world’s best practice here?widgie_didgie


About The Lazy Aussie

Commended Haiku writer. A lover of The West's Worst. Perth stand-up comedian, photographer and writer.
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24 Responses to Race Wars

  1. Russell Wolfe's Lovechild says:

    Little known fact – most didgeridoo players are former Eurotrash backpackers called Sven who spent two weeks in Fremantle during the 1990s. The are also under the mistaken belief the the Sail & Anchor is a sacred site.


  2. Russell Wolfe's Lovechild says:

    Another little known fact – Smiths Crisps rejected didgeridoo after-taste flavoured chips after focus group testing. The only people that enjoyed them were a group of Fremantle backpackers who were actually only after a free meal.


  3. Russell Woolf's Lovechild says:

    The only time a Lamborghini was seen in Wyalkatchem was before Sophia Ulgiati showed Troy Barbagallo how to program the GPS and he thought he was going to a party at the Russians place.


  4. Misspent_yoof says:

    Speaking of race wars: http://au.news.yahoo.com/thewest/a/-/wa/16543465/police-chase-car-across-three-suburbs/ armed robber arrested in Coon Doola by Eog the german shepherd.


  5. NF#1 says:

    [i][b]Tighten yer Wheatbelts[/i][/b]

    Tighten yer wheatbelts ‘cause Racewars is here
    But not if you’re Arab or Abbo or queer
    For the only war here is man against self
    He thinks as he stares at the noose on the shelf
    Thinks of his daughter and then of his cock
    Which he touches while dagging his dying livestock
    Sometimes considers selling up to go urban
    Where it’s twenty bucks less for a bottle of bourbon
    Or so he’s been told by his mate up the road
    The same one who reckons he saw a cane toad
    Yet for men of the land there are issues more troubling
    Their fields lying fallow as the handouts keeps doubling
    Spreading like salt lakes their larrikin grins
    Are reflected in shiny new R. M. Williams
    He bought his today while in the big smoke
    His pretext in Northam a tank of four-stroke
    On the winding way back he cursed his V8
    Which two weeks ago he crashed into a gate
    Thought to fix it himself and no doubt he could
    Or smash any cunt who mocks his manhood
    At the Club he asserted that none but a man
    Can take the back seat without giving a damn
    But shakes himself now lest he start to unravel
    Pulls up by the house and kicks up the gravel
    Calls out down the hall but his wife will not answer
    Looks into the room where his Pop died of cancer
    He honours Pop’s hatred of Fords and Asians
    And now just as his Pop did on many occasions
    He ponders the shotgun behind the old desk
    And the letter he’d write to his son at Muresk
    Again shaking himself while doubting his head
    Though he would anyway to the liquor he sped
    Pours a shot for himself and a glass for his bride
    Gets on the blower after watching Statewide
    Cover band warned to play only Cold Chisel
    As the missus chops onions for the Club sausage sizzle
    He’ll screw her tonight after cleaning the kennel
    Hoping she’s pissed up enough to do anal
    Rolls off her right after and starts counting sheep
    Her snoring suggesting she’s long been asleep
    His pride is deflated but he’s too hard for sorrow
    And drifts into dreams of the big day tomorrow
    Amid petrol haze the eight-cylinders roar
    Everywhere teenage girls dressed up like whores
    Yet even their charms can’t compete with the thrum
    Of a well-tuned Holden nor cola and rum
    There were crashes ‘n’ burnouts ‘n’ plenty of thrills
    And not least an appearance by Julian Grylls
    Who went on for a bit ‘bout how Wyalkatchem’s beaut
    While shaking the paw of best dog in ute
    Hands out blank cheques so the town might continue
    Then in Landcruiser leaves with his loyal retinue
    The townsfolk adjourn to the Club to get pissed
    O those noble agriculturalists


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