Honest to God, I think I have solved the issue of hooning in Victoria.
I have a bit of a soft spot for tradies. In reality, I just like anybody that knows the meaning of a hard days work. But a sun-kissed, sushi-eating tradie in work boots is for me, the male equivalant of Megan Fox eating a Cyclone Paddlepop in a wet tshirt competition. (Hot Megan, not fat Megan).
That and utes. I adore utes. You can take a girl out of Keysborough but you can't take etc etc etc.
The only thing I don't like about guys with fast cars and egos that can crack a diamond from 40metres away, not to mention dicks for brains, is the hooning. Motherfucker, it's 60 for a reason.
We have the same egotism in kitchens. We call it the Cock Competition. If you hear a chef say "Put your cock out on the bench" it roughly translates to "Prepare to be destroyed in battle." Who can bone a quail the fastest, who can bone the maître d' blah blah the competition is endless.
But I must say, walking to the train station every morning is a petrifying task with Maloos flying down at a million miles an hour. If Superman wore purple and did a few more weights, he'd resemble an R8 with a dickhead behind the wheel.
I have however, found a way to resolve this matter.
Running.
On our usual "Holy shit I smashed an entire packet of Starbursts in front of Masterchef last night, quickly break out the dust covered Nikes" jog, my friend (who is baben beyond belief) and I discovered that if it's a hot day and we're really hauling out a sweat and therefore wearing very little...
Suddenly the cunts do 20.
My 71 year old Grandma doesn't drive down a main road that slow.
So lets have less horny hoons and more hot girls running around in sports bras.
Genius I tell you. Fucking genius.
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