‘Fuck, Regretting Last Night,’ Says Hungover Man Who Will Do This Again In 8 Hours

A pounding headache, a bellyful of vomit, Furphy, and regret, and a distinct sense of existential malaise probably won’t be enough to stop a certain young Brisbanite from doing it all again to himself tonight - except this time, it’s Saturday night, instead of Friday. 

And he might kick things off at a mate’s place, instead of on his hands and knees in the work bathrooms at 8pm after a boozy lunch went hideously awry.

‘Oohf baboof,’ muttered the local man, Andrew Stackley (21), whose experiences last night were almost as cliched and boring as the concept behind this article. Post-work beers, the streets of Eagle Street (actually only one) became his colosseum for the night, as this gladiator charged through schooners like Shane Webcke through a NSW defensive line.

But come Saturday morning, as he reviews the sickeningly confident texts he sent to mutual female acquaintances last night, he fires off a few of his own to the boys’ group chat, humorously named ‘Brad’s not gay but’ (referring to an acquaintance Brad who wore a pink shirt to pre-drinks literally once).

‘Fuck me, regretting last night fellas,’ wrote Andrew, his shaking thumbs barely able to press the keys displayed on the screen of his cracked iPhone 5C (like those weird coloured plastic ones, it’s fucking weird, hey). After no replies from any of the so-called ‘fellas’ for well over fifteen minutes, Andrew decided to pick himself up off the stinking couch in his stinking West End sharehouse and march round the corner for a coffee.

But the basic physiological process of human movement proved too much for this shell of a man, as he collapsed back down into a heap in the living room floor.

There have been stained puddles of piss with more dignity and self-respect than this man.

But nothing will stop him hitting the turps again tonight, as he foolishly believes hair of the dog will fix him, when what he probably needs is quite serious therapy and the love of someone who will appreciate him for the failure of a man he will always be.

Just another lighthearted bit of reporting from your friends, enemies, and needlessly flamboyant frenemies here at The Obiter HQ.

No more to come.

Ghost Of Avocados Past Show Up To Torment Millennial Homebuyer

A paranormal excursion taken by an avocado has tortured the absolute shit out of a struggling inner-city Arts graduate, as the spectre of ‘Ghosts Of Avocados Past’ continues to rage across the Brisbane property market.

‘Ooh. Ooh. Bet you’re regretting that $24 purchase now, buddy,’ said the ghost of a smashed avocado, that had inexplicably found its way to inner-city enclave Paddington to torment local millennial, Tommy Collins (27), as he desperately tries to buy a first home that won’t put him in debt for the next nine hundred years.

Tommy’s decision to enter the property market was, on paper, a wise one, but the previous decade of careless spending has put him in a pretty tough spot.

While you can’t put a price on the memories created by beer-soaked weekends followed by avocado-soaked breakfasts, it has undoubtedly fostered a world where Tommy’s credit score is more atrocious than Djokovic’s backhand down the line.

Actually, what the fuck are we saying - live with no regrets. Have that eighth smashed avo this week. Order that second pizza. You’re only young once, unless you’re a cryogenically frozen Walt Disney.

But that’s all beside the point. What matters now is that the haunting, pale spectre of a delectable smashed avocado on Turkish toast with crumbled feta and cracked black pepper is calling Tommy some very, very hurtful things, and not all of them have to do with his financial position, if we’re being honest. Many, many of them have to do with his Armenian heritage.

Nevertheless, Tommy’s ability to stick his fingers in his ears and pretend like the ghost isn’t there is currently serving him pretty well, despite the real estate agent protesting with him to ‘please stop, cunt.’

Intriguing scenes coming out of the greatest city in the world, the city on a river.

No more to come.

Chance The Rapper’s Full Name Revealed As ‘Chance You See Me, Chance You Don’t The Rapper’

New information surrounding the young musician has emerged and has Splendour in the Grass organisers realising they are really to blame for this one.

‘Yeah, in hindsight the signs were there that Mr Rapper would potentially pull out of his Sunday night headline spot,’ said one spokesperson. 

Chance claims that this is not his fault, stating that he flips a coin the day before any show to determine whether he’ll show up.

‘It’s part of my show, it adds an element of mystery that really gets the people going,’ claims Chance. 

Festivalgoers were not happy claiming that it’s ‘not a thing’ to decide when you want to show up to work or not. 

‘He’s deranged, I paid good money to see him perform but he thinks he’s Harvey Dent with all this coin flipping. I want my money back,’’ said one festivalgoer.

We interviewed Chance’s parents, Mr and Mrs Rapper to find out what inspired them to give their son such a unique name. According to the couple, shortlisted names for their son were: ‘Low Probability the Rapper,’ ‘‘If I Feel Like It The Rapper’ and ‘George The Rapper.’

‘We were always set on ‘The’ as his middle name but couldn’t decide on his first name. Ultimately, we felt Chance rolled off the tongue the best. Always handy if you’re a Rapper,’ confirmed Chance’s mother, Sherryl Rapper.

No more live performances to come.

Man Killed, Entrails Searched At Splendour Alcohol Checkpoint

Splendour organisers have yet again shown a brazen disregard for both the spirit of music festivals and basic tenets of natural law, slaughtering a music fan suspected of carrying alcohol into the camping ground.

A search, carried out post-mortem, revealed no traces of drugs or alcohol throughout the entirety of Kyle Hughes’ viscera. Hughes, a seventh year exercise physiology student, was reportedly asked by authorities to submit to a painfully thorough search, involving anaesthesia-free open heart surgery. 

When he refused, on-sight doctors administered a lethal injection and the autopsy began.

An onlooker, who wished to remain anonymous, stated that it was ‘the most barbaric and awful act [they] had ever seen, until Russ’ set that afternoon.’

Officials have come under fire for committing the murder, with an Amnesty International statement labelling the act as ‘pretty dog.’

However, Splendour chief Julia Truman has defended the actions of her staff. 

In a press release, Ms Truman stated that ‘Our number one priority at Splendour is always the safety of our patrons. While harvesting someone’s organs may be seen as a drastic step to achieve this goal, we believe it is absolutely necessary to ensure an enjoyable festival environment for all, especially the good folks at Smirnoff, whose hard earned would have been at risk if the young man’s ventricle did in fact contain a bottle of rum. 

‘Luckily, thanks to the quick thinking of our security staff, it never came to that.’

Truman’s approach has been lauded by NSW Premier Gladys Berejiklian, who was seen drinking what is believed to be Hughes’ blood outside the public hospital where his autopsy took place. Berejiklia  sold the hospital to Chinese investors later in the day.

A tough day for Kyle Hughes. Tame Impala should be pretty good though.

No more to chum.

Last Minute Rush To Sell Splendour Tickets Following Removal Of ‘Likes’ On Instagram

Someone call the plumber, the validation tap is broken! 

Hot girls and boys from around the country are coming to the shocking realisation that their social media posts are no longer obtaining the social approval to which they have grown accustomed. This comes after a radical change on Instagram that prevents users from seeing how many likes another account’s photo has received.

Reactions to the change have been drastic and the timing couldn’t be worse with popular music festival Splendour in The Grass this weekend in the North Byron Parklands (read: Not Byron at all). 

Clout from photos posted attending the festival is the draw card for many young people who know one of the headliners, maybe? This has meant that hundreds of young people are attempting to resell their tickets after coming to the realisation that they will now have to spend a weekend in Yelgun for no reason. 

‘How to sell ticket without buyer?’ has become the most Googled question of July with enquiries for a refund to Moshtix being directed to the terms and conditions that clearly state ‘No Backsies.’

‘I objectively do not like music, I like drugs and validation. And I can get drugs in the normal Valley, not this one in bumfuck Mullumbimby,’ exclaimed local influencer, Annabel Belford.

Scientists believe a chemical reaction in the brain when receiving hundreds of likes is able to ward off hypothermia. In a dramatic twist, the removal of these likes has meant that these same festival goers are now at the risk of death in their climate-inappropriate outfits.

‘This is so irresponsible I’m getting dad to sell our Facebook shares when I get home. If I get home, may as well lay on the road this is fucked. Also, I have a bone to pick with Secret Sounds or whoever the fuck runs this festival, how can they say it’s in Byron Bay? It’s nowhere near Byron Bay there are cows everywhere!’ rambled BAFE boy Tom Garten, clearly suffering the early effects of the hypothermic conditions.

Mark Zuckerberg, we now speak directly to you, these changes are highly irresponsible, please change it back. I want everyone to know I just cracked 200 likes for the first time. Please.

No more to come.

‘3 Weeks In Europe Changed My Life,’ Says Local Man With Rare Case Of ‘Super-Chlamydia’

Oohf! Things aren’t looking too crash-hot for local Subway sandwich artist, and part-time graphic design student, Aaron Woods (21), as his ‘life-changing’ trip to Europe has ensured he’s brought home more than just treasured memories of being passed out in the streets of Budapesht.

While Aaron will tell anyone who listens that his three week holiday in Europe ‘completely, utterly, and undoubtedly’ changed his life, sources close to the pathetic unwashed gremlin of a man have revealed that he’s most likely referring to the incredibly rare case of ‘super-chlamydia’ that he is bringing to Australia’s shores.

The STI, miraculously contracted by a man who has the sexual potency and attractiveness of a bunch of unwashed, seedless grapes, came across Aaron’s bloodstream after a midnight hostel dalliance with a woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Avril Lavigne’s lesser-known sister, Celine Lavigne.

But the drug-resistant infection, doomed to rot away at Aaron’s genitals, is at the very least a proud reminder of a crazy three weeks abroad, which will be the main happy memory he holds onto for his next few years in his soul-crushing graphic design career.

At least he has a creative outlet, as a post-modern Subway sandwich artist, but only time will tell whether the bigwigs up at Big Subway have a problem with an infection-ridden enfant terrible being responsible for the production of a yummy veggie delight roll. 

With two cookies thanks!

The only question we have left to ask is: given the form he’s in, should Ash Taylor be anywhere $800k/season? You let us know via carrier pigeon.

No more to come.

‘Plenty More Fish in The Sea,’ Says Grandma, Completely Oblivious To Overfishing Epidemic

In an attempt to make 23-year-old single woman, Anna Starke, feel better about her crippling loneliness, her geriatric grandmother has revealed that she is pretty ignorant to the plight of our oceans. 

The age-old saying that ‘there are plenty more fish in the sea’ may have run its course, now that human greed has ruined an ecosystem covering 70% of the planet.

‘Don’t worry dear, I’m sure there’s one out there for you, there are eight billion people in the world, after all!’ reassured Grandma Starke, despite funding her retirement with dividends from large investments in unsustainable fisheries.

Estimates show that between 970 - 2700 billion fish are caught around the globe annually. If only Patricia Starke realized that with every fish oil tablet she took there was a dramatic decrease in the likelihood of her daughter finding love. In fact, some scientists argue that the oceans will run out of fish by 2048 which spells disaster for an entire generation of singles.

‘It’s pretty cooked,’ stated Anna, insightfully.

‘When you take out all of the fish, you’re just left with whales and prawns.’ 

And that’s not to mention the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, which lies halfway between Hawaii and California. 

This veritable island of trash, not to be confused with Ipswich (bazingolator), is estimated to be the size of North America, and is a lasting reminder of humanity’s filth. The Obiter was unable to fund an investigative trip to determine whether suitable fish could be found underneath trash island, although we did go to Retro’s and the answer is no.

‘I don’t really want to go fishing anymore’, decided Anna.

‘My friend Connor went out fishing every weekend but only ever caught crabs.’

Like the STI! Got him. More to come.

'It's A Bit Cold Today!' Reports Everyone

In what seemed to be taken as an unequivocal invitation to have a go at being a fucking weatherman, the temperature of Brisbane turned it up today - or should we say down! 

The weather's downward spiral into the lower degrees would've gone completely unnoticed if not for the brave whistleblowers of every office workplace notifying the colleagues upon arrival that the rumours were indeed true: it's a bit cold. 

Thank fuck for these almighty weather aficionados taking time out of their Monday to provide wall-to-wall coverage on the fact that Brisbane was chillier than usual. 

The colder temp is indisputable evidence that climate change is a hoax by the Chinese and that our Prime Minister was right on the money when he said 'I ain't afraid of no ghosts.'*

*In complete and utter hindsight, that quote was probably more accurately traced to the time he was asked to quote his favourite line from Ghostbusters. The male remake, of course.

No more to come.

Mid-Year Graduate Looking Forward To 6 Months Of Doing… Something

Yes! She’s graduated! Six-and-a-half years later, and Lizzy Drysdale said goodbye to the hallowed halls of UQ like an aged sailor tipping their hat to their sinking vessel. 

’Goodbye, sweet friend,’ whispered Lizzy before throwing her graduation hat into the air and posing for photos of her throwing her graduation hat into the air. Her Instagram page may show all smiles and happiness, but much like watching Game of Thrones or The Rugrats Do 9/11, the finale leaves a sour taste in one’s mouth. 

‘I’m honestly so excited not to do assignments or exams,’ says Lizzy, ignoring the fact that her future job will likely equate to doing assignments, just at a much more urgent pace, and with actual, real-world, million-dollar consequences.

‘So yeah, got six months off... and after that... I guess just another 12 months of applying for things.. and after that... hmm dunno.’

Lizzy briefly sips on a schooner of Furphy Pale Ale, the beer they drink in heaven.

‘It’ll be nice to have the time to be able to think about what else I should be doing with this time,’ she utters between sips.

‘Maybe I’ll travel. Or get really into like, Premier League soccer.’

With the schooner literally finished and her glass metaphorically half full, Lizzy is sure to be fine. But in the meantime, she has a lot of TV shows to catch up on, followed by ... dunno, something. Podcasts are really good these days. Who knows?!

More to come.

Monday Morning: Bitterly Hungover Sunday Sesh Victim Claims He Was 'Up Late For The Wimbledon’

Stumbling into work forty-eight minutes late, with uncharacteristic sunglasses resting on his face and a piping-hot triple-shot flat white resting in his clammy, sweaty hands, local finance grad Dominic Henson (24) has had to rapidly come up with an excuse that will surely take its deserved place in the ‘Bullshit Artist Hall of Fame.’

The victim of a few Sunday beers that escalated into something far greater, Dominic’s head was thumping with the hazy memories of a few too many pale ales, as well as some questionable choices of words to a female acquaintance who described him as ‘a prick.’

Dismal looks from other colleagues confirmed to Dominic that he couldn’t simply coast through the day, assuming no-one would notice him. The unmistakable stench of sweat, rum, and shame would make sure of that.

So the poor lad has had to come up with an excuse on the fly for the absolute state he’s in. And that’s when Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic come into play. The 2019 Men’s Singles Final at Wimbledon is the centrepiece of the tennis calendar, but for Dominic, it was simply a background distraction on the TV at the pub, a sorry reminder of a life outside of near-alcoholism.

But today, Federer and Djokovic may be this young man’s saviour. Charging into his superior’s office, he decided to get on the front foot, opening his dehydrated mouth for the first time that morning to say ‘Fuck me, it’s incredible Federer didn’t break him in that first set.’

‘The game could have been decided there,’ he continued, slowly beginning to believe his own lie, like all good bullshit merchants do. ‘But Novak just kept the baseline game going, deep ground strokes, and that powerful serve return that characterises his game.’

Dominic’s stunned superior, the barely-older Andrew Bond (26), realised that his junior didn’t notice he was on the phone with the Sydney office, in the midst of an incredibly important conversation. 

What was initially a masterstroke from Dominic, has rapidly turned into a stroke of sheer idiocy. And it’s particularly shocking considering Dominic is Pat Cash’s nephew (backstory!)

Absolutely no more to come on this half-baked mess (a description that applies both to this rambling article, and its central protagonist).