Raft Up is Oliver’s annual opportunity to boost his social ranking. As it stands, he is about as popular as the discount bin at a second-hand fleshlight sale. So to mask his reptilian veneer, he commandeers his father’s brand-spankin’ Sea Ray Sundancer and cherry-picks his guest list, so the party looks like a silicone-bomb went off at a tribal tatt convention.
His attire is ranker than the list of health violations against a Perth Chinese eatery: Billionaire Boys Club hat, a torso-exposing “Pingas & Hoes” singlet and a pair of tanning shorts that expose his leg-day skipping chicken legs. He does the final checks on the rig while his rent-a-mates are on the deck getting stuck into some limed-up’d Coronas, the official beer of Instagram.
Oliver proudly glides the boat through the ocean like a seafaring extension of someone else’s penis. Finally anchored, Oliver struts through the party like king-dick. He is shooting winks and facilitating fist pumps like he was a pre-yok’d Sam Barnett at a Northbridge after party. It’s not long before he pulls out his GoPro to record a shit party video that will later be shared by him and watched by none.
Dimitri aka DJ iTunes drops some bangers while Oliver poses between the bikini-bums of social influencers. The peachy-sandwich has sent his ego into overdrive, so he gurns his way over to a group of promo-girls, “I could have anyone of you slutttts”. A bee-sting lipped lass does the maths and realises that summer on Oliver’s boat would do wonders for her ability to inspire on the ‘Gram. She smiles, “you sure could babe” before leading Oliver up to the Captain’s chair.
Now, what can be said about Oliver’s “erection” that hasn’t already been said about the line at Brera? Short and lifeless. After 20 minutes of condom-crinkling, dick-mashing failure, Oliver decides to pull a bold move. He clears the revellers off his boat and decides to pilot the love ship out to a discrete spot in a misguided region of romantic desperation.
Disaster strikes as he runs afoul of some submerged rocks. He Titanics the shit out of his dad’s pride and joy and sends his unpenetrated lover hurtling into the control panel. Her new $5000 nose is a mess, and she berates Oliver like she was Dustin Martin at a chopstick factory.
Nailed it, bud.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?