YOU sir are a true hero. Your mate has been eyeing up that fit bird behind the bar in PJ O’Brien’s for ages but never had the balls to go up to her because she’s always chatting to her right fucking minger of a mate.
Well, like the first rate wingman you are, you make a move on the ugly cow to give your mate an ‘in’ with the fit one. Do we hear wedding bells?
JUST like this week’s Aries, you’re an ace wingman with no less than 27 successful fugly missions notched onto your rather battered bedpost.
You’re so good that random people on Facebook get in touch asking for your legendary self-sacrificing services.
Alas, this week, it all begins to unravel. It starts as it always does, with you chatting to a hairy ugly backpacker from Eastern Europe with more armpit hair than the inhabitants of Taronga Zoo’s gorilla enclosure. Only this time, you start to get aroused.
Yes, your worst fears have come true. You’ve spent too long in the field. You’ve gone native.
We’re afraid there’s no way back from here friend. You’ll be porking beasts of the night for the rest of your life.
THE GHOST of deceased reality TV star Jade Goody takes control of your body on Thursday and you spend the rest of the week trying get in touch with Max Clifford to see if he can sell the story of your life in limbo to OK! Magazine.
YOU are beaten to death with a tennis racket by Marcos Baghdatis. It’s on the telly and everything.
On the bright side, the sub-editors of the Sydney Morning Herald have a field day with the headline ‘The butcher of Baghdatis’.
YOU are Punk’d by actor/idiot Ashton Kutcher who, hilariously, gets you consripted and sent to fight in Iraq.
After three months on the frontline, and still unaware it’s all a big prank, your legs are blown off during a brutal firefight with Al Qaeda insurgents.
It’s at this point Ashton springs his surprise with a yell of “you’ve been Punk’d dawg!” and hostilities temporarlily cease as the two forces fall to the floor laughing.
On the bright side, the sub-editors of the Sydney Morning Herald have a field day with the headline ‘The Kutcher of Baghdad’.
YOU know how your mum booted you out of the house when you were 16 because you kept spending all your pocket money on bongo mags and she yelled “you’ll never amount to anything you little wanker!”
Well the joke’s on her because all that hand-pumping has given you Paula Radcliffe style stamina in the sack and you land a lucrative role in porn soap opera ‘Up The Wrong ‘Un!’
AFTER a night on the Guinness followed by a rancid looking kebab you settle down for a relaxing 4.30am dump.
Being the gross bitch you are, you wipe your arse and check the sheet of loo paper to assess the current messy state of your behind – and are amazed to see the image of our Lord Jesus Christ!
You resolve to take the sheet back to the bedroom and sell your story to the papers the next morning. Unfortunately you roll onto it in the night and wake up with a load of foul-smelling half-digested kebab shit stuck to your face.
NEVER cross a hot but deranged German backpacker who has access to garden shears. That’s all we’re saying.
AGEING magic man Paul Daniels hypnotises you and forces you to commit a string of armed robberies up and down the east coast.
Your pleas of ‘Daniels made me do it!’ fall on deaf ears at your court hearing. You’ll never see daylight again.
IT’S six months since you arrived in Oz but, this week, you’re suddenly overwhelmed with a fear that you left the oven on in your flat in Britain.
You spend $2500 on a flight back home just to check and come back a week later, poorer in pocket but safer in mind… until you begin to have trouble remembering whether you checked or not.
Before you know it, you’re $5000 lighter in the pocket and back at Heathrow – which is when you realise you never had an oven in the first place, just a microwave and a toaster.
ANCIENT spirits of evil, transform this decayed form, into Mumm-Ra, the Ever, Livvviiiinnnngggggg!!!!
THE WEEK is going normally, everything seems fine – until Thursday when you pick up a carving knife and go on a kill-crazy rampage through town. Strangely, you only stab women who fancy gay blokes.
On the bright side, the sub-editors of the Sydney Morning Herald have a field day with the headline ‘The Butcher of fag hags’.