I met my first Australians while attending college at San Diego State University. The guys were muscle-bound, chill dudes—similar to the laid-back surfer bros of southern California. Whereas the ladies were snappy and straight to the point—sarcasm, idle chit-chat—nope, never.
In 2017, four years after college, I’m out in the Marina District of San Francisco (SF) with my buddy Gabe. SF is always hit or miss, and tonight has been shaping up to be a 1-2-3 strikeout. But then, while finishing my drink at The Tipsy Pig, I hear the familiar flat, nasal utterances of a group of guys standing behind me. I turn around to four, roughly 6’ 2” guys; discussing the paucity of pussy.
Usually, I’d follow the advice given to me by a Las Vegas promoter during my twenty-first birthday weekend, “You can’t show up to the club with eight hard dicks swinging.” Sound advice for sure, but Gabe and I weren’t having any luck anyways, and SF is used to predominately male ratios, so fuck it, I break the ice, and learn that they’re here for holiday (spring break); from Perth.
The blond-haired leader of the group asks, “Where the fuck are the women at?”
“Not here,” I reply, “but I know another spot we can check out.”
The curly-brown-haired bloke leans over to me, “Check out that spida’ ova’ there.”
“What the fuck is a spider?”
“You wouldn’t wanta’ fuck a spida’ wouldya?”