Suspicious! Mitchell Johnson Enrols As UQ Law Student Day Before Suri Ratnapala Cup

In a move that can only be described as ‘suspicious,’ and ‘borderline dangerous,’ ex-Australian fast bowler, Mitchell Johnson, has enrolled in UQ Law mere days before the Suri Ratnapala Cup.

Johnson has described the decision to enrol as ‘academic enrichment,’ whereas the staff who will be taking the field to play the students in Sunday’s Suri Cup match have used the phrase ‘fucking terrifying.’

One of Australia’s premier quicks, Johnson retired from competitive cricket in May 2018, and has since focused on his burgeoning business career. At his best, Johnson could sling down left-arm thunderbolts, causing batsmen to be afraid for their lives as well as their wickets.

And as he is now technically a Law student, looks like he’ll be taking the field for the student team on Sunday! Nice, Mitch!

Middle-order batsman and medium-pacer for the Student XI, Lachlan Glaves, was reached for comment. He indicated that the team was ‘excited, but confused’ about Johnson’s willingness to play in a friendly match between students and professionals.

‘Obviously great that Mitch is getting around the team, but we all feel like there are better things he could be doing. He has a child. Why is he walking around UQ, muttering that Graham Orr better get ready for a broken fucking arm? I’m pretty sure that Graeme Orr is umpiring.’

In the nets, Johnson has been cranking it up in preparation for Sunday, already injuring two student batsman, before declaring them ‘weak,’ and deciding he will open the batting. Some strange aggression coming from a ‘fellow student.’

A member of the Staff/Professionals XI, Lewis Radford, expressed excitement about the chance to test his skills against one of Australia’s great fast bowlers.

‘Obviously, to be the best, you have to beat the best, and that’s what I’ll be doing on Sunday.’

A pause followed, as we saw glints of fear flash across Mr. Radford’s eyes.

‘Who am I kidding, I just want to live. I’m praying for Cyclone Oma to hit so I don’t have to face a ball.’

In response to these comments, Johnson declared, whilst twirling his comically long moustache that is hanging down to at least stomach-height, ‘Cyclone Oma? They’d better get ready for bloody Cyclone Johnson. Yew! I love cricket!’

Intriguing stuff from a first-year. We wonder how Johnson will do in Contracts, given Australian cricketers famously hate the seminar system of teaching, and would really appreciate a move back to tutorial-and-lecture.

Plenty more where that came from, champ.

‘Married At Last Sight’: Inside Channel 9’s Misguided Attempt To Merge Reality TV & Euthanasia

By the time you are reading this, a lot will have been written about what has already been described as ‘the single most deranged decision in the history of commercial television.’

Channel 9 are no strangers to controversy; in fact, they’ve often invited it. However, the intrigue of conflict that has so often fuelled ratings for the network dynasty has backfired spectacularly this week after their announcement of a spin-off of their hit social experiment ‘Married At First Sight.’

‘After the roaring success of MAFS,’ a statement from Channel 9 read, ‘we have decided to expand the scope of the experiment. It is in that spirit that we are excited to announce ‘Married At Last Sight.’

Inviting applicants aged between 87 – 104, Channel 9 explained that the show would revolve around the final weeks of contestants’ lives.

The contestants would be coerced by Channel 9 into deciding to discontinue life support before being introduced to their spouse. Reportedly, the spouses will be local celebrities who will sign 45-minute contracts for their involvement. At press time, Nick Kyrgios, Julia Morris and Joel Creasey had already jumped on board.

‘The idea is basically that they meet the love of their life at the end of their life,’ producer Gareth Peen told The Obiter.

‘To be honest, I don’t really have a justification but we just reckon old people getting married is a bit funny. We hope viewers agree!’

Viewers did not.

In the hours following the release, QLD Health and aged care facilities across the nation announced their livid disapproval of the proposed program.

‘So, what, they just consent to euthanasia, and then Channel 9 rush a spouse in and marrying them off just in time?’ asked Federal Health Minister Greg Hunt in a press conference, where he seemed less angry about the concept than he was genuinely baffled about the logistics.

‘It’s just so fucked.’

Channel 9 have not backed down and will push ahead with the idea. Initial ratings predictions have forecasted an average nightly audience of 2.01 million.

So, so much more to come.

UQU Expresses Concern Over Hiring Ja Rule To Manage Market Day

Market Day is the biggest day of the UQ Union calendar. With thousands of new students flooding the St Lucia campus, the student body is tasked with the mammoth effort of coordinating the stalls, entertainment and logistics of the iconic orientation event.

This year, in an effort to reduce the strain on UQU executives, Union President Georgia Milroy decided to hire an external project manager to externally manage the project.

However, on the eve of Market Day, the Union has expressed concern about their decision to hire rapper Ja Rule as their point man.

‘I’m going to be one hundred percent down the line with you here: when he signed him up, I genuinely hadn’t seen the Fyre Festival documentaries,’ President Milroy told The Obiter in an exclusive interview at Subway.

‘In hindsight, I did think it was weird that a world famous rapper had reached out to us to express his interest in helping out with Market Day. But I just thought he was an over-zealous first year; he’s studying an Event Management Single Major part time this year.’

Milroy admits that as Market Day drew closer , her team of advisers became anxious about Mr Rule’s event management experience.

‘Throughout the planning stage, Ja would hang out at Pizza Café for hours on end and kept claiming to anyone who’d listen that he had secured Blink-182 to perform in the Great Court on Market Day. We saw no emails or confirmation or anything from Blink-182’s management, and were suspicious because in previous years we hadn’t even been able to lock down The Steele Syndicate’s jazzy rhythms, but Ja assured us he was all over it.’

The Union’s concerns were only amplified in January when a pair of documentaries were released, unpacking Ja Rule’s disastrous previous event ‘Fyre Festival.’ ‘We split the our Exec into two,’ Milroy explained.

‘Half watched the Netflix doco, half watched the Hulu (a notably more difficult task because they had to torrent it off Euduroam).’

‘We became quickly aware that Ja was not the master event organiser he proclaimed to be.’

As early as Monday, Mr Rule was contacting the State Emergency Services to source stalls and supplies that they often reserve for flood and cyclone affected areas.

‘In what world did Ja Rule think the SES would stock L Card posters?’ asked bewildered officer Mark Silver.

With students set to arrive at UQ tomorrow morning, the Union is now planning for the worst case scenario.

‘We’re getting Merlos to do up some cheese sandwiches for everyone just in case this goes tits up early,’ Milroy said whilst clutching a long black and a brown paper bag.

We’ll see how this goes. Certainly more to come.

Aspiring Motivational Speaker Really Wishing He Could Just Lose A Limb Already

From the day he graduated BBC, Adam Watson (19) never doubted his dream career. He’d spent his schooldays participating in public speaking (but weirdly never made the transition to debating). He was the young man that the prestigious Lions Youth of the Year Competition once described as ‘successfully enrolled.’

He was, frankly, a prodigy.

Adam Watson wanted to be a motivational speaker. No other prospective career quite compared to his daydreams of passionately advocating the value of daily reflection and rock climbing to an assembly hall of fidgeting 14-year olds.

His one true goal was to travel the inner-West of Brisbane, pacing amongst rows of pre-teens, explaining the formative value of setting goals (and writing them down).

However, in recent months, Adam has realised that achieving his goals may not be as simple as waking up and whispering ‘I can and I must’ three times.

In a cruel twist, nobody appears to want the advice or guidance of a 19-year old who only leaves Brisbane when his Coolum apartment isn’t being rented out and he can get a weekend away.

Adam Watson has realised he needs a life-altering shake up in his life if he is ever to incorporate ‘Adam Watson’s Dream Mechanics Inc.’

To that end, he has a new wish: that he could just hurry up and lose a limb already.

Nothing too major; just a humble arm amputation would really re-energise his motivational speaking career. Going the full 127 Hours is not out of the question for Adam: such is the dogged nature of his determination.

Adam knows that if he could just walk out onto an assembly and soak in the audible gasps when his weird claw leg scrapes across the stage, then his future would be set in stone. If he could just tear up when he gets to the part about not being able to teach is 8-year old Darcy to catch a rugby ball because his claw thing couldn’t pass. That would be more than he could ever ask for.

For now, Adam must settle for the benefits of planning your week ahead on a Sunday evening. But one day soon, he hopes to hear the pitter patter of that weird claw.

Hopefully, more to come, Adam. You brave, brave man.

‘I Might Just Smokebomb,’ Says Girl No One Noticed Arrive

Saturday nights are famously when a little city named Brisbane comes the fuck alive.

For the fun-loving, low-earning student, the glitz and glam of Mr Percival’s takes as big a toll on the bank account as it does on the self-confidence. Thus, the humble house party, without views of the river and people immeasurably more attractive than yourself, is where it’s at.

Yet, for 22-year old marketing grad Lucy Dyson, Saturday’s venture to a work friend’s housewarming did not deliver the vibe she was so desperately seeking after a brutally long week of contacting influencers on behalf of Verge Girl.

The party was full of people Lucy ‘doesn’t even fucking know’ (as revealed in a covert message to her best friend from school, Samantha Murphy) and the tub of hummus was large enough to ensure that the dismal supply of crackers was efficiently decimated, leaving a big, fuck-off tub of hummus on the table with no means of transporting the chickpea gel into one’s mouth.

She couldn’t just grab a spoon and go gangbusters on that shit.

This was dire.

The hummus thing had agitated Lucy more than it perhaps should have and she quickly decided that the gathering wasn’t her cup of tea, namely because Lucy likes to put a teaspoon of hummus into her Earl Grey, which is admittedly deranged but we’ll push on. You know, now that I’m sitting down to write this out I’m realising that Lucy’s hummus thing played a way larger part in this than I originally thought. Hummus in tea is weird, right? It’s not just me?

Regardless, Lucy was set to bail. However, she knew that if she told the host she was heading off, that would add a minimum of 30 minutes to her departure time.

‘You can’t go,’ ‘I never see you!’ ‘But it’s so early!’ These words of peer pressure would ring across the Paddington living room filled with twentysomethings trying to forget their work week. Fuck that shit.

Lucy whispered to her sole ally in the weed-infused lounge room that she was going to ‘smokebomb.’ However, the declaration raised a vexing anthropological question: can one smokebomb if no one noticed, reacted, or even cared when they arrived?

Both sides of the conundrum have plausible merit. Lucy did make a beeline for the door and order the Uber from around the corner to avoid spiking the interest of any witnesses, a low risk as she is genuinely so boring.

However, the smokebomb is traditionally followed by notice and discussion of the elusive getaway. Again, these supposed post-conditions did not occur on Saturday because no one gave a single fuck whether or not Lucy was there to give her spiel about how much she loved ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and how it has to be seen on the big screen. Yeah, cool, Lucy.

Regardless of where you stand on the smokebomb quandary, we can all agree that Lucy is a certified piece of toast.

More to come.

Hypocrite! Berejiklian ‘Against Drugs’ Despite Last Name Clearly Being The Result Of Three-Day Acid Trip

New South Wales Premier Gladys Berejiklian has come under fire in recent weeks with her approach to recreational drug use, and in particular, its use at music festivals. Dismissing pill testing, and charging exorbitant fees to NSW festivals, are just a few of the policies which reflect her distaste for recreational drugs.

We call hypocrite! It’s pretty crazy for Ms Berejiklian to be so stringently opposed to mind-bending, recreational drugs, when her own last name is so abundantly the result of a deranged, three-day acid trip.

The Gospels say ‘Let she who is without sin cast the first stone,’ Gladys! And bloody well let she who is without an LSD-riddled, spacey last name cast the first anti-drug policy which affects the live music industry.

I mean, seriously, Berejiklian? That’s not some whimsical word conjured up by a Roald Dahl-type figure after a few cups of coffee. It’s no ‘snozzberries!’

And it’s still clearly not the result of a twenty-year-old festivalgoer after a few caps. It’s no ‘Peking Duk are fucking sick!’

No, it is very clearly the result of an epic, three-day, acid bender which took minds to the prisms of very language itself, resulting in a deconstructionist last name which is so out there, network television pundits still can’t pronounce it (and it’s not because they’re ignorant).

For the Premier to stand on her soapbox and wax lyrical about drug deaths, when an acid-fuelled adventure is responsible for the roguish combination of ‘j,’ i,’ and then another ‘i,’ is nothing short of folly.

Here at The Obiter, we have only one question for Glad Wrap.

What are you on, and a follow-up question - where can we get some?

‘Valentine’s? More Like Fuckentine’s!’ Screams Sex Addict Deputy President As He Escapes Rehab

At 8.03am this morning, notorious sex addict and Deputy President of the UQLS, Mr Henry Bretz, was found to have escaped a Gold Coast rehabilitation centre for his sex addiction.

The escape was discovered, not by detective work, but by staff noticing Mr Bretz sprinting down the street naked (admittedly looking incredibly fit), yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Valentine’s? More like Fuckentine’s!’ and ‘Get ready, Australia!’

It seemed the Deputy President, who was due to return to normal duties when his comprehensive rehabilitation for debilitating sex addiction concluded in late February, had been planning a Valentine’s Day escape for some time.

Excerpts from his diary revealed his ingenious plan, which involved seducing his way out of the secure facility. God knows his raw, dangerous, enigmatic erotic power could seduce a gazelle out of the jaws of a lion - the nurses and doctors of Broadbeach’s ‘Help For Hot Stuff Rehabilitation Centre’ could hardly stand a chance.

The train from the Gold Coast to Central takes a little over an hour, and for that period of time, humble paying customers were treated to a tirade of erotic, sexy, and titillating statements, spoken by a man with a dangerous addiction.

‘When I get back to Brisbane, it’s sexy sex time for me,’ ‘Can’t wait for my erotic energy to consume some poor suburban bar,’ and ‘Valentine’s? More like Fuckentine’s!’ were just a few of the countless steamy phrases heard this Thursday morning.

Observers on the train indicate by this point, the Deputy President had found clothes, and was bragging that he had already enjoyed some ‘sexity sexy sex, a cup of frothy sex milk.’ His clothes in question were a tight-fitting leather vest, and gold pants. Truly the uniform of a man with an addiction so damaging, he was not constitutionally permitted to return to Deputy President duties until he could walk naked through the streets of King’s Landing without yelling out ‘Oohf baboof! Someone pour me some sex!’

The chilling details of his escape have reportedly done little to negate his Valentine’s power, with his already-staggering sexual energy only supplemented by the romantic vibes which hang in the air on the 14th of February.

Watch out, Brisbane. It looks like he’s back.

So much more to cum.

‘Close The Gap,’ Says Wealthy Ashgrove Resident

'It's just distasteful, for my beautiful Queenslander on Glenyon Drive to be so close to... to that place.'

Katherine Whitford (58) is a lifelong Ashgrove resident, and feels the tempo of the suburb flowing through her blood every day. The wealthy, semi-retired commercial property investor enjoys her life in one of Brisbane’s leafiest suburbs, but suggests there is one improvement that could be made.

‘Close The Gap,’ she told us, in a confessional tone akin to a small child telling you they’ve dropped Grandma’s favourite mug, although not as confessional as a so-called ‘Ashgrove’ resident telling you they technically live in Alderley.

‘I just find it uncomfortable that I live so close to The Gap. And to see the residents of The Gap, occasionally venturing into my home turf to enjoy the fine cafe and dining scene on weekends… well, not to be rude, but it makes my skin crawl.’

Obviously, closing a suburb of Brisbane is a fairly mammoth undertaking, particularly if the sole reason is one wealthy citizen’s elitist tendencies.

But Katherine is serious. And so she’s established seven targets that must be met in order to successfully close The Gap. Unfortunately, only two of those targets have been met so far, the first being a trip to The Gap to shake her fist at The Gap Coles and mutter ‘Shame,’ and the second being a strongly-worded letter to her local member, the iconic Kate Jones.

In a speech to a gathering of concerned Ashgrovians, Katherine lamented that only two of the goals for closing The Gap have been met.

Using her oratorical skills to distract from her movement’s failure to succeed in key areas, she proclaimed ‘This is a day of learning, a day of focusing on our future ahead. We mustn’t simply strive to close The Gap, or do our very best - we must dedicate ourselves to this task, and pursue it with reckless abandon.’

Venturing from her Glenlyon Drive house in a rare journey, Katherine recently again travelled to The Gap to try a Filet-O-Fish from their McDonald’s restaurant. Chewing down the sandwich of steamed bread and battered fish, she whispered ‘Sun Tzu’s Art of War. To beat my enemy, I must know them.’

More to come. Go GPS!

Problem Solved! Ripper 'Close The Gap' Speeches By Morrison And Shorten Definitely Enough To Solve The Issue

Phew!

The eleventh Close The Gap report could have put our politicians in a touch of strife when it was delivered Thursday morning. After a decade of failure to meet targets on improving Indigenous life expectancy, child mortality and school attendance, our Parliament could have appeared completely beaten.

So thank God Scott Morrison and Bill Shorten were able to entirely avoid this mistaken perception, by delivering a pair of killer speeches on reconciliation! Well played, gents! Nothing helps literacy more than a fiery speech on the floor of Parliament about literacy.

Morrison’s speech was touching. It was personal. He expressed a deeply human frustration with these issues. The issue, of course, not being the failure to actually meet the Close The Gap targets, but with the fact he was expected to devote time and attention to the issue. No matter what you think of his politics, you have to admit that he made a fair dinkum effort by bravely reading out a speech.

I mean, it’s frickin’ 2019 already. How much more time do you want the guy to spend on this ‘Close The Gap’ racket?

Shorten’s speech made for a great contrast between the two leaders. While Morrison at times appeared unsure whether he wanted refugees or Aboriginals to receive lower quality healthcare, Shorten was clear sighted in his vision for a better future for Indigenous Australians.

'I watched Bran Nue Dae last night,’ Shorten noted, in a thrilling addition to the national discussion on Closing The Gap.

‘And then I saw Rabbit-Proof Fence was on Stan, so I added it to My List. Call me Bill ‘Mabo’ Shorten.’

Despite knowing he will likely do fuck-all to fix things, at least Shorten thinks the current status quo isn’t the best, and that is kind of a step forward, isn’t it?

We do know one thing for sure. If today was a test of our nation’s political leadership, they passed with flying colors. As long as those colours aren’t yellow, red, and black.

Such was their performance speaking in Parliament, they should be able to get away with ignoring all other Indigenous affairs for the entire next year without too much backlash. At the end of the day, the Indigenous Australians who are incarcerated, suffering, or hungry, should be able to feast on the sublime words of two of Australia’s sharpest intellects.

And if that wasn’t enough, our TV editor thinks that Q&A might touch on the issue for one night. Wow! That should go down well with a green tea and a Tim Tam.

Yum! If thrilling speeches is what we get for failing to meet our goals as a nation, then let’s continue to fail, I say. At least we’ll get a ripping soundbite out of it.

No more to come for a year.

My Autistic Horse Can’t Just Make Friends With Himself Now, Can He?

Hey doctors, listen up. We get it. You’ve got your degrees. You’ve got your stethoscopes. You’ve got your scrubs, and we’re not talking about the offbeat sitcom starring Zach Braff, Sarah Chalke and John C McGinley.

But doctors, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. And not a broken one, because I know you’d love that, wouldn’t you? “Ooh let me fix the bone.” No. You can’t fix this.

For years, doctors have agreed that equine therapy is a successful treatment for children with autism. Time spent with horses can enhance communication and coordination skills and has palpable benefits for autistic children. For these developments, I salute you.

But herein lies the problem. I’ve had my horse Ginger since I was a young boy. Throughout my youth, whenever I was bullied or bashed at school, I would smile as I cowered on the bus because I knew that Ginger would be there waiting for me when I got home. We’d gallop and frolic throughout our 1 acre at Samford. I felt free.

But then came the diagnosis. On my 8th birthday, doctors confirmed to me and my family what we had suspected for years.

Ginger was autistic.

Now, it’s all well and good for autistic children to reap the curative rewards of horses. But what about my horse? Ginger can’t exactly just make friends with himself now, can he? Can he?

It’s the single biggest failure of the medical community in Australia that they have not yet told me how I am to address my horse’s autism. My horse could not seek therapy by making friends with horses, because he is a horse and he’s autistic. All the other horses in our neighbourhood grab a drink together after work at the nearby dam. I can lead my horse to water, but I can’t make him drink with his mates. You see, he’s autistic.

I tried forcing him to spend time with a hairy, four-legged human I found in Mt Isa just to see if reverse-equine therapy had any effects. Guess what, Doogie Howser MD – it didn’t work!

If the doctors of Brisbane do not get back to me in one hour with a feasible solution to address my horse’s autism that does not involve the frankly ludicrous suggestion that he spend a relaxing day in the country, riding and petting and feeding HIMSELF, than I’m afraid I have no choice but to blow up Gotham General Hospital.

Your move, Doc.