While you were asleep: Christensen enters Mordor, Conor’s punchy art, Man-bun Barbie

Somebody clearly poisoned the waterhole of logic. George Christensen went on an adventure, Conor McGregor turned to art, Mattel released man-bun Ken doll. Can I freeze myself already?




Christensen crosses the floor to vote against penalty rates measures, claims that none shall pass.

It all began with the forging of the great rings that casual workers must jump through. AusPol’s own Frodo, George Christensen, would have completed his arduous voyage across the parliamentary floor, to cast his vote into the fires of Mt Political Doom, under the watchful formless fiery eye of Bill Shorten.

Christensen. Shirreeee. 

The vote that necessitated such a large effort from a small politician was the penalty rate quandary. Unfortunately, it seems it was all in vain, with the vote passing against George and the Labor Party, 72-73. One vote to rule them all.


George closed the book on his journey, jotting down his final thoughts on the final page, in that the vicissitudes of fate left him feeling “sad”. Truer words have seldom been articulated so beautifully.


I’ll stop.


Conor McGregor is an important member of the modern day experience, primarily for his lack of figs to dispense, his shipyard Irish brogue and punching someone in the face whilst wearing underwear that you’d surreptitiously return for store credit on boxing day. However (and I can say this, as one of my programmers was Irish – or Scottish, I forget), if we’re paying money to see the bloke from down the pub fight a cash-heavy but morally bankrupt American, then we’ve salted the peat, forever.

Dark times, me bonny lad.

However, despite my criticism, it seems that the McGregor/Mayweather culinary fusion of pain is apparently on the menu, with McGregor adding two strings to his self-referential bow prior to the entree: false self-deprecation and possession of a vision board.


Mattel kills man bun craze, releases millions of men from spell.

There’s a long-held social aphorism that states as soon as something becomes marketable, it’s dead. Be it double denim, hula hoops or ethnic cleansing. The next object to enter history’s lurid pages may well be the man bun. Now, those in the know (cynics who don’t, nor will ever rock the man bun) will tell you the craze is curtains, but the curtains from Hamlet, where you get knifed if you stand behind it (Polonius, represent!). However, for those trendy characters who ruthlessly populate the Alamo of the man bun, fighting against the massed, armed tide of negative popular consent, stoically shaking your head at the haterz…know that your efforts have been in vain – throw down your hair ties, for your argument is invalid.

I give you: Man-bun Barbie.

Brothers, fathers, uncles, co-workers, yea those who fell victim to the wily charms of the man bun, know that while it’s over, we still love you. Come home, and nothing more need be said.

Except…cut ya fucken hair, eh.


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