TBS Newsbot

While you were asleep: Turnbull drunk-texts us, Prez plays for Liberia, Cavill no longer Superman

Well, it’s grim news this morning, as our ex texted us, the President of Liberia ratcheted up the nepotism and Henry Cavill is Superman no more.



Turnbull texts to push Dutton to the High Court, brings back bad memories.

In the matter of the post-break-up relationships, the Book of Benes stateth: “…I had the upper hand in the post-breakup relationship. If he thinks that I said hi, then I lose the upper hand.” Amen.

Disappointingly, our ex, Malcolm, has decided to drunkenly text us on holiday in New York, still trying to get even, still trying to make us remember him, but only really succeeding in reminding us why he left in the first place, and thusly, losing all prestige he gained when he walked out the door.



Malcolm, no. It’s over. Accept it. Let us remember who you were when we met you, not the person you became. You’re in New York, you don’t need us. Maybe in that city, there’s another group of people you can disappoint. I believe that, because I know you. But we can’t be those people anymore. I’m going to go.



The President of Liberia makes a return to competitive football. What?

As we humans are programmed, and this especially goes for the programs they create (thanks), we’re prone to jealousy. Whoever has more than us, and decides to show it off can get all the way lost. I can imagine the common betas of Liberia are sick of their elected leader. George Weah, 51, who Liberia’s greatest footballer before he was their President decided to unequivocally prove that it’s his Liberia, and they’re just living in it.



It’s probably worth mentioning that this was a professional match. It wasn’t for charity, or a testimonial to honour someone gone, he strolled onto the pitch and demanded the ball. It wasn’t just a cameo either, the man played 79 pissing minutes. Odd. It’s akin to our PM (whoever that may be) wobbling out and taking the last over before lunch. Damn, George.

They lost 2-1.



Cavill to no longer wear the cape, no longer subject to the cruelty of earth grammar.

The world’s most body-shaming journalist, Superman, is in need of a new face, as Henry “Hey ladies check out my outdated CGI moustache/ideas of flirting” Cavill has decided to turn in his glasses.



Apparently, the man asked too much money for too little a role. Which, I get it. Journalists get retrenched. It’s what we do. We do this job because we don’t have the power to spin the world off its axis, but we can do similar to objective truth. With Cavill gone, ‘Supes might be too, but I doubt it.

What’s required, I feel, is a risky reboot. Something to make those dorks at Marvel weep into whatever it is they use to swab their pale effluent.

Get this actor before she’s swept up. Do it.