Carnarvon, WA:
Max Hermin, 28, is beaming with pride this week after making a tree change to Carnarvon and discovering he is no longer the worst person within 100 kilometres.
A fairly useless citizen of Perth, Max is the lazy son of a wealthy businessman in the golden triangle. As is often the case with children that grow up in Peppy Grove with an unearned sense of self entitlement, Max is a big piece of shit.
He is loud, obnoxious, stubborn and never knows when to shut the fuck up. He has made several trips to the Magistrates for reprobate activities like public urination, disorderly behaviour and failing to comply with a move-on notice after a big night on the drink at the Claremont Hotel.
Even Max’s closest friends admit that he is probably the worst person they have ever met. After brief conversations with our reporter, terms like “selfish wanker” and “ungodly chode” were raised regularly, with one friend saying definitively, “I have never seen Max pay for a bag.”
In the days that followed Max securing new employment up in Carnarvon thanks to his Dad’s business connections, he was amazed to discover that he was actually now the best, smartest and most thoughtful person in town.
900km north of Perth, Carnarvon or ‘Gateway to the Ningaloo’ as it is often referred to by the town’s devoted, albeit misguided residents, is a quaint shit-hole.
The sleepy coastal town with a population of around 5,000 regularly makes the news for the unruly actions of locals and a general lawlessness that speaks to the recent decline in tourism and visitors.
Rolling down the window in his new BMW that was leased in his Dad’s name, Max took a deep breath of the sultry, country air and took in his surroundings.
“Look, over there!” he shouted with glee.
“There’s a man with no pants on punching a public telephone box as hard as he can. Even I’m not dumb enough to do something like that!”
He was overjoyed with his newfound promotion up the societal heirarchy.
“I just went to the local Chicken Treat and all the lights were off. It was open, but the idiots just didn’t think to switch the fucking lights on in the place.”
“I can see why Colin Barnett sent his fuckwit son up here after his Mrs put a VRO on him, that’s a redeemable quality around here.”
“If I play my cards right, I might be mayor of this dump in six months!”
Upon overhearing Mr Hermin boasting about his updated social status to a barista at the 6701 Waterfront Café, long-time Carnarvon resident Mick Bogg took exception to the claims that Carnarvon is a destitute shit-heap.
“Mate, she’s not all that bad,” the retired station hand pleaded.
“Sure, there’s cattle rustling, child abductions and dilapidated shacks preventing the development of our only tourism asset, but that’s just regional WA.”
“We have been trying to merge the Gascoyne with the Pilbara for years, but the snobs just won’t have us.”
The Shire of Carnarvon celebrated the arrival of Mr Hermin by holding a special ceremony for the hedge-fund man-child, gifting him an honorary key to the City for ‘displaying outstanding qualities and possessing a work ethic that results in getting out of bed before 10am.’
As the nine people who drive up to Carnarvon for windsurfing each year had yet to arrive in town, Mr Hermin was instead given an a4 print-out of a picture of a key as a placeholder until the budget would allow a City team member to get one cut at the local locksmith.
