While you were asleep: Trump comes clean, Australia’s mortal wounding, Avril’s Beatle cover

Approx Reading Time-11This morning…is not my type of morning. Donald Trump gave us the reasons he abused our trust, we fell apart over a Bunnings sausage and Avril Lavigne became the sixth Beatle from beyond the grave. Kill me.




This may be the end, my newsie friends, the end. Well, if not the end, let’s call it the death of taste. Or at the very least, the wake of, where we regale the passing of taste with the grandest moments of a life snuffed out, while we eyefuck the mourners, hoping it may lead to the boudoir, and ultimately some confusing, but passionate post-mortem coital chicanery. Not with the deceased, obviously. Blergh.

But dress in black we shall, for, as the chap in Four Weddings espoused, bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Taste. 980AD – 2017. You will be missed.


Trump admits he cheated on Intelligence Community, but did it for the right reasons.

The grandest piece of monocle shattering bliss yesterday was The Washington Post report that claimed Trump shared ultra-classified material with the old jousting partners, Russia. The rest of the day was spent with us speculating, and the Trump administration denying it, before the man himself struck the top step of home, reeking of tractor fuel and conquest, blurting out that he, in fact, did do what we feared most, and yeah, so what? Whattya going to do? Kick me out? Thish ish mah house.

In the morning light, over breakfast, with the waffles of truth gone cold, the sharp edges of reality digging into our gums, Donald seeks to break the silence – jowls flapping, English running into the circuitry of nervous explanations, half-apologies, attaching blame to the victim, he was sorry, but he wasn’t. He did it, because he wanted to be better friends with the Russian neighbour. He doesn’t even like them.

It meant nothing.

Sure. Then why do I feel like this?



Commonwealth split in twain over spectacular abuse of this nation’s most enduring tradition, the Bunnings sausage sizzle.

For many reasons I don’t understand, some in jest, some in truthful servitude, the sausage sizzle outside the green and red weekend prison that is Bunnings is the closest thing local atheists have to God. And ye, God/Tim from Bunnings Marketing HQ spoketh: thy sausages shall be uniform, and purchased from the same outlet, made of the same animal; and ye shall be charged the same amount for the privilege of eating my burnt snag. Amen.

However, some heathens have decided to spit in the weathered eye of the lord, tearing down the constructs of DIY religion by integrating a vegan sausage to the oil-covered altar of old mate.

Suffice so say, these heretics should be brought under the steel-capped, leather-enclosed heel of the man upstairs.

As the crow flies, and I type, they should have been given the due punishment: casual employment at Bunnings, and shanghaied to appear in their ads for all eternity.



Avril Lavigne tries her hand at old Beatles cover, kills it.

Lastly, in this cavalcade of dredging the lowest of the absolute low, we close with Avril Lavigne and her apparent death. Yes, I know what you’re thinking immediately… Who? Well. She was a girl, haven’t you heard, now she’s left this mortal wwwooooorrrrllllddd. According to those in the know, fucking idiots, it seems that the Canadian singer actually died by her own hand in 2003, and has her longtime pal playing the part of the dearly departed sk8r girl.

But I call bullshit, because much like everyone new to a guitar and teen angst, the result is a crappy Beatles cover. The whole “imposter” angle was recorded by the Liverpudlians, after Paul McCartney was killed back in the early ’60s, replaced by a look-a-like dubbed “Faul” by Internet theorists. The lads did, however, leave clues to the switch through backward song lyrics and visual references in album cover art.



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