Local Man Knows That Russia And China Are Probably Doing Some Crook Shit But Not Really Sure What

Jack Bronson (23), a Kayo subscriber, Commerce student, and a man who has a Brooklyn Nine-Nine quote in his Instagram bio, has confessed to his mates today that whilst he’s aware there’s something a bit off, something a bit ‘how you going’ with those Ruskies and those Chinese (no we’re not giving them a nickname), he has absolutely no idea what’s going on.

Over a few Heinekens (they were on special, back off), the conversation between Jack and his friends weaved between the Brisbane Lions, the Australian cricket team, and whether or not to raise Newstart so that people aren’t living in abject poverty because we have a sickeningly self-centred approach to taxation and welfare, before finally settling on what every fella loves to unpack over a cold one (or even two).

International geopolitics.

In a rare moment of raw honesty from a man who knows how to lie a lie better than he knows how to tie a tie, Jack laid his cards on the table.

But after that hand of poker was done, Jack laid his metaphorical cards on the table by letting the lads know that whilst he is unshakeably confident that there’s something pretty crook happening with the Russian government and the Chinese government, he has truly no idea of the details.

‘It’s something about surveillance, right?’ he spitballed, with that conversational first-serve limply sailing into the net of mediocrity as he received nothing but shrugs from his mates.

‘Or like, the gays? I know they don’t have it easy. In either place. Or just one?’

Jack continued as the shrugs grew greater, before deciding it was easier to just say ‘fuck it’ and write a note reminding himself to get a subscription to The Economist. As world affairs unfold around this archetypal young Australian, expect him to be pretty aware of what’s happening in a broad sense, but if you expect him to fill in any details, you’ll come up more empty-handed than his bank account after a weekend at the ‘races’ (of which 80% of his time was suspiciously spent in the bathrooms).

Plenty more to come, loving this guy.

Brave Med Student Tearfully Confesses How Hard She Works To Everyone In Earshot

In a raw, honest confession that has sent shockwaves in the immediate vicinity of Merlo’s at 9.30am this morning, a local med student has taken unprecedented steps in the realm of courage and bravery by describing loudly just ‘how hard it is.’

Sara McKenzie (23), a budding endocrinologist and self-described ‘fangirl’ of BoJack Horseman, is not normally known to be so brutally honest. In fact, as she always tells her friends after what has to be at most like, three wines, she ‘keeps it really bottled up, you guys.’

But this gutsy little trooper with a Medal of Honour in ‘not complaining’ can’t hold it in any longer. Sipping on a flat white, and contemplating a studious day ahead, something in Sara’s mind simply snapped.

Suddenly, a Doctor of Medicine was not merely a degree. It was not merely a set of courses and rotations that would give one the requisite skills and knowledge to practice medicine.

This humble degree became, at least in the words of Sara, a titan more frightening than a Mitchell Johnson thunderbolt at 150km/hr, and more difficult to resolve than the racial tensions at the heart of this great southern land.

This humble degree was now ‘fucking unbearable,’ ‘impossible,’ and ‘so much harder than anything else you guys study, no offence.’

Whilst her pained confession was ostensibly only intended for the ears of immediate friends, the loud statements travelled to neighbouring tables, until the entire establishment was placed in a position of simply having to listen to the trials and tribulations of one woman going through something that thousands have done before.

Truly unbelievable scenes. But at the end of the day, fair enough. How easy is Arts, am I right?

No more to come on this definitely not bitter, cynical joke.

FRAUD: I’ve Been Following Dr Seuss’ Medical Advice For 3 Weeks and Now I’m Terminally Ill

There was a time not too long ago when I would have trusted Dr Theodor Seuss with my life. Now, I’m beginning to question if he’s even a real medical doctor.  

For the past six weeks I’ve been following the advice of the esteemed doctor and author. The result? I now have advanced mesothelioma and Crohn’s disease.

At first, I was excited about the prospects of his program after rave reviews from a number of celebrities. Buoyed by this optimism, I began to implement Seuss’ mental health model through his mindfulness exercises. However, purchasing a feral cat, covering its eyes with a hat and letting it destroy my apartment was not helpful whatsoever. It was so damaging to my mental health in fact that I suffered a psychotic break and assaulted a police officer. But that’s a different story.

Not only that, but the damage the cat did to my walls let loose a few kilograms of asbestos (I live in a fibro shack). Needless to say, I copped a gobful of the stuff, and I’ve rapidly developed severe mesothelioma and I’m likely to perish within the year.

While these results were certainly discouraging, I didn’t want to judge too soon - every treatment has anomalies, after all.

With this steely resolve, I commenced Seuss’ famous diet.

If you take anything from this article, let it be this: Do not, under any circumstances, listen to Seuss’ associate Sam-I-Am. Green Eggs should not be ingested. The rotten, moss covered eggs not only tasted disgusting, but absolutely destroyed my gut and has led to the development of a nasty case of Crohn’s disease (yes, like Pete Davidson).

While I firmly believe in the right to self-treatment, Seuss’ criminally negligent health program is a reminder of the dangers both of the practice itself , and of the need for government intervention on fraudulent medical professionals. I’m fucking dying cause of this nerd.

Lock him up.

‘Noot Means Noot’: Inside Pingu’s Harrowing Sexual Assault Case

Consent shouldn’t be a complicated a topic, yet here we are. It’s 2019, and courts are still adjudicating on issues of consent, implied consent, and the autonomy someone has over their body. But there are some glimmers of light at the end of this tunnel.

The protection of the law has finally extended to claymation penguins, in a landmark case heard by the Victorian Court of Appeal. For Pingu, a brave young penguin from the North Pole, who was in Melbourne for one harrowing weekend, it looks like ‘noot’ means ‘noot.’

Pingu’s story, a distressing account of sexual assault in one of Melbourne’s leading nightclubs, was heard by the jury last week, with arguments closing Monday. Whilst ‘no’ has recently been recognised as firmly meaning ‘no,’ there has been huge conjecture over whether ‘noot’ means ‘noot.’

Is a ‘noot’ an expression of a lack of consent? Is it a nonsense phrase? Is it a penguins way of warning us ‘the real criminal is in the White House’? We just don’t know. But thankfully, the courts have seen fit to ensure Pingu’s suffering will end, and his perpetrator will find justice.

Examining the circumstances, Justice David Davidson firmly concluded that there was an inutterable absence of consent from Pingu, and indeed, he just wanted to enjoy a Gin & Tonic with his friends (whose names cannot be printed because we don’t remember any of the other characters from Pingu).

And with that in mind, and with a single tear rolling down the cheek of Pingu as he watched Davidson J pronounce in judgment, the principle was firmly laid down: ‘noot’ should always mean ‘noot.’

Powerful.

At press time, Pingu was last seen texting a woman to ‘send noots,’ casting doubt over the actual meaning of the phrase. Interesting. Not much we can do about that one.

No more to run.

‘Buy Our Unique Merch!’ Says Band Selling Plain White T-Shirt With Small Black Logo In Top Left Corner

A pack of local musicians have sent some dazzling waves through the local scene with innovative, original merch.

‘We have a sick, cruisy range of tees and caps, and they’re all super unique!’ yelled local Brisbane band, Loose Change, from their merch desk at the Foundry, as they desperately tried to pay the rent through selling $38 white t-shirts with a small black logo in the top left corner.

It’s a truly brave effort from Loose Change, a group who have ‘not found their sound yet,’ but sound suspiciously like Kevin Parker walked into a Sticky Fingers rehearsal and said ‘Wait here, I’m going to go get someone from San Cisco and The Jungle Giants to really make this thing work.’

For all the nine gigs they’ve played over the last seven months, the financial situation for the indie-rock foursome has been fairly dire, with the ex-private school graduates often forced to shamefully show up to Churchie Old Boys’ luncheons to get a proper three-course meal. 

This is not because they can’t get a three-course meal at home from their loving mothers, but rather, their insistence on moving out into a Highgate Hill sharehouse has ensured they eat nothing but bananas, instant noodles, and ‘good vibes’ every day.

But this T-shirt could be their saving grace.

The innovative artist responsible for the clever creation, a friend also from school, has designed a logo that is equal parts bold and familiar. The name of the band sits below a disembodied hand playing a guitar, while the other disembodied hand is displaying the classic ‘shaka’ symbol. 

The small black logo, placed on the top left corner of the white shirt, is sure to make some pretty massive waves in the Australian art community.

With its retail price far above the disposable income anyone coming to their shows has, it’ll be an intriguing prospect whether they can sell any units. But at the end of the day, it’s actually about the tunes, I reckon?

No more to come.

Fantasy Hero On Mythical Quest Ideologically Disagrees With Concept Of A ‘Damsel In Distress’

‘I just think it unnecessarily reinforces the subjugation of women,’ said Leif Copperthrone, a local blacksmith-turned-warrior, in response to the desperate pleadings of the wizard Riane.

‘But she has genuinely been kidnapped, and the king needs your help--’ suggested Riane, describing the current situation with a surprisingly blunt tone for a wizard trained in the mystic arts of Magick (as this is a fantasy situation, many words are similar to ours, but just slightly mis-spelt). 

As Leif had just been told, the Crown Princess of the Regallson lands had been kidnapped by foot soldiars (that’s how they spell it) from the rival land of Cronsson. Whilst travelling, her convoy was attacked and the Princess summarily taken away, to be held for ransom.

‘In all honesty, Riane, it feels like you might have contrived this situation so I can learn more about myself, rather than this actually being about the rescue of a princess. Thoughts?’ inquired Leif, showing a rare understanding of narrative structure well beyond his years.

The exasperated wizard, with his trick pretty quickly revealed, shrugged his head.

‘Lord Copperthrone, the time has come to reveal something deep from your past… you are the son of Sintor.’

The complete lack of surprise on Leif’s face was enough to indicate to Riane that something was slightly awry.

‘I know,’ came back the blunt response. ‘Obviously,’ Leif followed up, before landing the effective killer blow of ‘This is clearly why you’ve asked me to embark on this quest.’

With not a hell of a lot left in his arsenal, the Magick-user bowed his head and made his exit, before offering some final words of wisdom.

‘Darkness is comin-’ began the wizard before being immediately cut off with ‘yep, well aware darkness is coming.’

Wow. Heck of a lot of news coming out of the magic realm. What a great idea for an article, thankfully we took the time to write and publish this objectively fantastic idea.

No more to come.

‘Where’s My Hug?’ Says Creepy Bloke Who Must Know It’s A Rhetorical Question

As if he was expecting a real answer, a local creep and eternal hanger-on has today backed himself into a new corner by asking a female acquaintance the much-dreaded question of ‘where’s my hug?’

Taron Davidson (23), a first-year finance graduate with a tight-fitting shirt and a reputation for being a terrible bloke to be stuck in a conversation with, doesn’t seem to have a true appreciation for just how bothersome people find him. And stories of his drunkenly dickheadish behaviour around female friends don’t help.

So this makes it all the more confusing when he throws himself to the lions by asking the question ‘where’s my hug’ to Lara Rushdie (24), knowing full well it’s pretty much rhetorical at this point. Your hug is not coming any time soon, Taron, and it’s worth coming to grips with that fact.

Even Taron’s friends, who are often known to needlessly defend the man, admit it was a tough thing to watch.

‘She said hey to a few of us, and then started walking to the bar,’ said Dave Swellows, a fellow finance grad, describing the shocking scenes witnessed. 

‘And Taron made a really bizarre point of inquiring about his lack of hug. It was fucking tough viewing, and I’ve seen a water birth,’ suggested Dave, offering absolutely zero further explanation for that one.

In future, Taron will hopefully pull his head in, but if history is any indicator, we don’t think we’ll be seeing any notable change in his actions until he’s forced to one day ask his wife why she won’t hug him any more.

Depressing.

No more to come.

‘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.