JAMES HORNSBY / CHRONIC BONE SHOP
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The fuckwit expose continues!

I was all prepped to throw up a lil post about how I'm addicted to my phone but that's been done to death and is pretty fucking boring honestly. Instead I'm going to complain more about how I fucking hate everything. Right now I'm actually sat in the cuntiest, dickhole of a bar that Brisbane has to offer. It's called super whatnot and I've never had the urge to  slit my own throat with a shattered craft beer bottle but god help me this place is putting me there. Exactly the type of place where people wear exclusively polo shirts or those fitted button up shirts Myers sell. Fuckwits. Aaaand someone I work with just started crying. It's 7pm. Solid effort, mate. Sorry if this post is disjointed but I'm currently trying to force enough overpriced piss down my throat on the company dollar to forget I missed my girlfriends graduation to come hang out with these idiots all in celebration of the worst time of year. Anyways, I'm always amazed by the ability of any male who hangs around this type of esablishment to single out me (or any dude I'm likely to hang out with for that matter) and stare us  down like we're the cause of global warming. Fuck you, fuck you and the girl sitting next to you who talks like she's an extra in fucking mean girls. Honestly what's the deal with Brisbane city? I swear when you party somewhere in Melbourne or Sydney you're surrounded by absolute freaks who are dead set on having a good fucking time and getting loopy. Between watching a constant flow of white  girls in aaaaalmost enough clothing moving through the door and listening to the group next to me try and work out if they're going to stockies or some other bar I've never heard of, I'm completely ready to throw myself out the window and write Brisbane off.





 Fuck this place. never fucking go here. catch an uber to ric's


Okay, so I was pretty pissed (and pissed off) Friday night and didn't manage to get far on this topic before my braincells met beer and wiped themselves out at an impressive rate. For the sake of a tiny amount of continuity I'm going to try and keep this similar to my previous post about fuckwits except this time we're dealing with a slightly different beast: the city/valley fuckwit.

1. Being a fuckwit for these retards starts later in the evening than for their house party dwelling cousins, the garden variety city/valley fuckwit (CVF from here on out) doesn't need to pay much attention to what they're wearing, it's always the same bland generic shit. You start with some leather shoes (probably from roger david), some navy or black trousers (probably from roger david) followed by a shirt straight from Cambell Newman's wardrobe (probably from tarocash or if you're feeling fancy, myer's). Other than this I really have no idea hw these guys prepare for a night of being a complete fuckwit because I avoid them at all costs... maybe they gel their hair into that slimy, gay-porn star looking short mohawk they have?

2. The real prep work for a hardcore CVF comes with pre-drinks, also referred to as prinks or pre-loading. This part of their ritual I have unfortunately experienced first hand. It is a very strange ritual that these fuckwits have crafted and they execute it with military precision. You either arrive with a six pack of some relatively expensive foreign beer or some mid-level spirit that you tell everyone about in an attempt to sound sophisticated. My favorite is the smirnoff vodka with gold flakes in it, a drink that tastes exactly like you sprinkled cinnamon into paint thinners and costs about the same amount. Not alot says "I'm a complete fuckwit who knows nothing about alcohol" like booze with tacky marketing attatched to it. Generally speaking the CVF was never popular in school, so along with packing the shittest drinks line up you've seen outside a wiggles concert, they also manage to get completely shmashed off their bottle of contreu or they sip their peroni's so slowly they completely miss the point of 'pre-drinking' before a night out.

3. It's impossible to discuss the CVF without bringing up their complete inability to get anywhere unless mum drops them off. Once they've finished their bizzaro world version of pre-drinks they have to actually get from where they and their missus just polished off  1.3 beers between them to the venue the group has decided will start the night. If you've ever rolled past a house at 10pm on a saturday night and seen 8 taxis, 6 uber's and a 2010 honda accord (that's mum's car) out the front, chances are there's a large group of CVF's milling around inside, shouting eachother's names, hastily trying to smash the last quarter of your gold flake paint thinners or trying to convince Sarah to come out even though Trent just broke up with her (again).

4. You're a fuckwit. You're dressed like a tool. You managed to get into a maxi taxi that's taking you to a crappy venue. BUT! which venue are you headed to? Rounding out the full CVF maneuver is the venue selection. You want somewhere that is both already filled with other city and valley obsessed fuckwits and has a vibe that makes it seem almost exclusive except for the fact it's jam packed with little tarocash spec fuckwits. This is probably the saving grace of the city/valley fuckwit, they're easy to avoid.

Now, it's Monday morning, I'm deep in a coffee and I've scratched out a blog post. Time for a day of dealing with fuckwits and being a fuckwit. Fuck.


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