F*ck Off Kathryn Wicks: now, tomorrow and forever

11 Jan

We don’t often get angry.  Sometimes we get a little shirty about the prices of 4-litre casks in bottle shops but that’s par for the course when you’re a drunk and your habit depends on it.  What really makes us rage, though, is a person like Kathryn Wicks having a public forum to open her rear faucet to say petty, intolerant things about the kindest creatures on this planet.

You know, the ones who couldn’t judge us if they tried.  The ones who love you so hard we can’t remotely understand it.  And, yes, the ones – possibly the only ones – who would still want to snuggle their warm heads on the likes of Kathryn Wicks, even after reading her septic sphincter of an article.

The following is our version.

*

It’s 7.45am on Saturday. Twenty-two teenage boys are gathering at the local cricket ground ready for the morning’s match. They busy themselves getting organised and catching up with their mates. The dads – because it’s impossible a woman would be doing this, right Kathryn? – are figuring out the bowling order, banging in stumps and measuring the required 50-metre boundary.

Meanwhile, Kathryn is covering her hands in disposable latex gloves, doubling plastic bags and making sure the hand sanitiser is in reach.

Why?  Because she’s a dog-hating asshole.

She’s pissed about the possibility of dog turd you see.  ‘No one else is going to pick it up and I am not digging it out of kids’ shoes!’ she bleats to her ocean of friends who are tired of her bullshit and have crossed the oval to get away from her.

That people don’t always pick up their dog’s shit infuriates Kathryn. And so there she is, zoned-in on the rectum of every dog in sight lest a stray Mr Whippy make its way into her son’s Reeboks.

One only hopes she’s as vigilant when her son drops his Twix wrapper or leaves a smear of Hubba Bubba on the floor of the local Westfield.

According to Kathryn, it’s easy for her to hate the people who leave the dump to steam in the Saturday morning sunshine, but it’s WAY easier for her to hate the animals who got cursed with the Call of Nature. All of which makes me think that however much I hate Kathryn, I should probably hate her parents too.  I mean, they had unprotected sex and birthed her and word on the street is that all the lights in the hospital went out and dogs howled as far away as Iceland.

To say she shouldn’t be around normal people is like saying hood cheese has no place at the dinner table, but there you have it.

According to Kathryn, her first ‘freak-out moment’ happened when she was 10 and a large dog jumped up at her in the street.  Both Kathryn and the dog were off lead at the time so it was fortunate that at least the dog’s owner was on hand to rescue her animal from a child who would grow up to one day wish it actual bodily pain.

As a young adult living in a share house, Kathryn had next-door neighbours who probably hung bulbs of garlic whenever her car pulled into the driveway.  They also had barking dogs who were lucky to see another dawn, considering Kathryn had access to water, a kettle and fantasies of burned flesh melting from canine bone.

Later on she lived in a flat where a lone vigilante used to terrorise her walkways with dog excrement.  Her solution?  Security gates.  But only because the tenants association vetoed her original proposal of nuking the perpetrator from orbit.

All of which culminated in the suburb of Lilyfield, where the council had the gall not only to allow dogs in the park, but also at the local cafe.  Finding herself in the white-hot embrace of Hell on Earth, poor Kathryn had no choice but to hoick up her bloomers and take her perpetual sneer-face to a different cafe – one who hadn’t yet joined the dots and realised a dog license was the key to its salvation.

According to long-suffering Kathryn, these dogs are part of a Grand Conspiracy.  Said dogs and their brown squeeze don’t just happen to appear in public places, they have followed her from her tender years as a rogue child in the street, all the way to the cricket grounds of Epping Boys High – which she kindly took the time to name because what could be better for your enrolments then a shout-out from the least relatable human since Gable Tostee.

Still, all is not lost.  Kathryn’s son will soon be too old for turd-infested Junior cricket and that means she’ll be passing on the ceremonial latex to another mum, AKA She Who Has Been Foretold.

Or she can just sod off the grounds and let people watch their kids play fucking cricket.

Here’s a tip for you Kathryn:  if you don’t like still-warm bowel off-cuts, best keep your opposable thumbs off the keyboard.

Oh and also, have a fucking word with yourself.

xo Flawless

Note:  The original dog-loathing piece of swamp floater that inspired our rage is here.  Read it if you must, but then go hug your dog.  That’s an order.

 

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