Record-Breaking 183 Oroton Umbrellas Spotted At All Hallows’ Mother’s Lunch

‘When it rains, it pours!’ shouted one particularly intoxicated mother as she opened another bottle of Dom Perignon champagne, ignorant of the fact she would have to be collecting her children in the family BMW in three hours, with a blood alcohol level well above what most would consider functional, let alone legal.

The wet weather today in Brisbane did not cast despair upon a group of women celebrating school being back, and their shitty little children being out of their perfectly balayaged hair. 

The one weapon these women carried en masse to protect themselves against the elements was the Oroton umbrella, obviously. 

A symbol of both ubiquitous wealth and poor taste, a canopy of Orotons enveloped a local Teneriffe cafe. A phalanx of the rain-protecting devices immediately signalled to other Brisbane citizens: take notice, these dermatologist’s wives won’t take no for an answer if you tell them you’re out of the ‘organic pinot grigio.’

It was alleged that one AHS mother, Julie Smith-Wright, had the audacity to brace herself against the rain with a sickening, albeit practical, newsagent umbrella. 

As of this afternoon, it has been reported that Julie’s children have both been un-enrolled from All Hallows’, and forced to attend the heathen wasteland known as Brisbane Girls’ Grammar School (given Julie’s husband was a cracking openside flanker for the First XV in 1982).

More to come.

Obiter Team Drowning Under Record Number Of Subcommittee Applications

‘This is fucked,’ stated the Editor-in-Chief, looking at the nine hundred subcommittee applications scattered across his desk, evidence of over nine hundred people who want to write for The Obiter

‘What is it, Dad?’ asked senior writer Michael Fielding, weirdly.

‘Get me the President. Now,’ responded the Editor, hands trembling as he gazed upon the array of names in front of him, all of whom appeared incredibly desperate to be a part of The Obiter organisation. It seemed almost unbelievable that nearly one thousand people would want to write for this small-time satire publication, but the proof was in the pudding.

And then the email notification dinged. Another application. Another bright-eyed youngster, the 987th, in fact, who was gunning for a coveted position on The Obiter subcommittee. The subject of the email read ‘My Obiter Application,’ but all the Editor saw was ‘More Work.’

He sighed, as he thought back the glory days, when only three or four hundred students would apply for the subcommittee. 

‘I’ve got the President for you on line one,’ chirped Michael, snapping the Editor out of his hazy, nostalgic stupor.

‘Terrific,’ came the swift reply, almost as swift as his chiseled, weather-beaten hands seized the phone. 

‘Mr Tran? It’s your Editor…’ he began, before being cut off by a voice on the other end of the line that sounded suspiciously like Alec Baldwin.

‘This is Mr Trump, Commander-in-Chief, and the Drumpfy-Cheeto-Supreme. How can I help?’

The Editor slammed the phone down on the receiver with force only seen once before, after Churchill ordered Australian troops into Gallipoli. How could this be? How could he have just been connected with the Idiot-In-Chief? The scary orange Cheeto man?

‘Michael!’ bellowed the Editor. ‘I just spoke to the President… of the United States?’

‘You mean… The Orange Liar?’

‘You bet.’

This story to be continued.

No more to come.

Office Karaoke Night Waits With Bated Breath As Dave From HR Selects ‘Ni**as In Paris’

A casual office karaoke night has rapidly transformed into a minefield of potential racial faux pas, as the well-meaning but misguided People & Culture Manager, David Whitfield (26), selected Kanye West & Jay-Z’s 2011 hit ‘Ni**as In Paris’ as his song of choice.

An array of easygoing karaoke hits appeared to lull the office into a false sense of security, as the clock ticked over into the evening hours. The managing partner of Fleming McGrath & Reiffel, Mark Ricketson (58), had begun with a spirited performance of ‘Livin’ On A Prayer,’ before handing the microphone over for a whole-team rendition of ‘Africa.’ 

And as the Peroni’s began to flow, and inhibitions began to disappear, the night seemed destined to make a crash-landing on the island of ‘wholesome fun.’ Until David took the microphone.

A self-described ‘rap aficionado,’ many were expecting David to repeat the antics of the 2017 Christmas In July party, wherein his fiery attempt at ‘Ice, Ice, Baby’ was met with equal parts laughter and applause. But tonight, as his chubby fingers punched out the actual N-word, the tone shifted sharply, and one question grew to the forefront of the alcohol-soaked minds of those present.

‘Is he going to sing it word-for-word?’

At press time, with the humorous sample from Blades Of Glory commencing proceedings, there is a certain look of unabashed confidence in David’s eyes that does not bode well.

More to come on this pressing issue.

‘Yeah, I Love Beer!’ Says Liar Drinking A Mid-Strength Great Northern

It can be difficult to be honest. To face up to one’s friends and family, and admit the truth, however troublesome that may be. But the most wretched task of all is admitting the truth to yourself. 

And for fifth-year Commerce/Tourism Management student, Mitchell Salisbury (22), that task is proving more difficult than ever, as he continues his strange pattern of behaviour, which involves necking schooners of Great Northern Super Crisp, whilst simultaneously declaring he ‘loves beer’ to anyone who will listen.

‘Phwoar, how good’s a beer!’ declared the local man, lying to his friends, family and himself, as he continued to exclaim such sickening nonsense as ‘a six-pack of Northerns gets my tummy rumbling!’ and ‘I genuinely enjoy beers guys, look, I just drank two of them.’ 

No matter how much Mitchell tries to convince everyone of his passion for brewed hops, yeast, and barley, the proof is in the pudding. At least, the proof would be in the pudding, if the pudding was a voucher at the bottom of the Coles receipt which declares ‘$12 for a six pack of Great Northern.’ 

At the end of the day, Mitchell is effectively enjoying soda water with a sprinkling of beer flavour. And close, personal acquaintances have confirmed that fact.

‘Yeah, he insists on telling everyone down at The Osbourne how much he loves a cold beer, or a ‘Froth Whitlam’ as he idiotically calls it,’ stated Ollie Davidson (23), a school mate of Mitchell’s from their glory days at Churchie McGrammar.

‘The Osbourne literally has thirty different beers on tap and this bloke’s never ordered anything other than a mid-strength Great Northern. Even when their happy hour is on!’

Whilst Ollie revealed to The Obiter that he’s hardly a beer expert, and can barely pronounce the words ‘stout’ or ‘porter,’ he admitted he is still more experimental than sticking to the one beer without fail.

‘A Balter’s not bad under the right conditions, even,’ he whispered in a needlessly intimate tone.

No more to come on this enduringly clever idea that’s not just a basic attempt to cash into the ‘tagging your mate in beer articles’ genre.

‘Happy Birthday To This One’: An Investigation Into Whether Your Friends Actually Know Your Name

‘Love this for you.’ ‘Happy birthday to this one.’ ‘This one xoxo.’ Is it possible that your friends have actually forgotten your name, and are trying to not make it obvious?

The Obiter have become deeply concerned over the past few weeks, with our crack Socials team constantly monitoring Instagram, Facebook, and LinkedIn feeds to keep track of this deeply disturbing trend. 

Do your friends actually know your name?

It may seem like a silly question. But it’s one worth asking. It’s such an absurd, comical idea, that you’d never put your mind to it. You’d never give it a second thought. But if you truly rack your mind, searching the deepest recesses of your brain, one question seems to pop up time and time again: why do your friends exclusively call you ‘this one’? Is it a friendly, cute term of endearment? Or are they covering for the simple, if disturbing fact, that they have outright forgotten your name?

After all, if they were fully aware of your name, you’d suspect they’d use it more. They’d say things like ‘I love this for you, Travis,’ or post such heartwarming statuses as ‘Happy birthday to this one, Sarah. Her name is Sarah, and I know that because I am her friend.’

But in the absence of such blunt statements, doubts grow. And given our reputation as Brisbane’s premier home of incisive investigative journalism, we decided to ask a couple of your friends for their thoughts on the matter.

The main response was ‘who?’ and, upon repeating your name, most of your friend’s simply muttered ‘oh yeah, this one. That one. Love her. Love him. Love that for him.’ Deeply suspicious.

And even more suspicious is the fact they all ran away immediately after our intense questioning, despite our very kind offer to buy them a hot chocolate and chat about their grades and which lecturers are the funniest (hint: it’s Russell Hinchy. He tells you to highlight things!).

Stranger things have been seen certainly, but this is an important moment to reflect on how strange this particular thing has become. 

No more to come.

Man Who’d Never Heard Of Dominic Thiem Three Weeks Ago Suddenly An Expert

‘His semi-western forehand grip really frees up the whole court for his groundstrokes. Seriously, look it up.’

The Australian Open has done a fabulous job of keeping the silly season rolling around, with weekends dominated by the rapid daytime consumption of mid-strength alcohol whilst attempting to pronounce the exotic names of players such as ‘Nadal.’ 

And for unemployed, lazy, or just generally strange Australians, the tournament has giftwrapped a great opportunity to temporarily become an expert on players who, realistically, no regular person knew much about beyond ‘he hits a mean forehand.’

Rob Higginson (23), a part-time bartender and full-time punter, is one such Australian. Whilst his friends suggest he’d never so much as uttered the hallowed words ‘Dominic Thiem’ before a few days ago, the degree to which he now spits out knowledge on the Austrian finalist suggests he must’ve had a deep passion for Thiem burning over the last five years.

For anyone unfortunate enough to ask Rob what he’s tipping for tonight’s final, he’ll suck in a few deep, throaty, nicotine-stained breaths before embarking on an analysis of the 26-year-old’s game so complicated and convoluted as to render the initial question almost entirely redundant.

‘His eastern backhand grip, reminiscent of a sort of 2015-era Wawrinka, is intriguing to see in the modern game, and his ‘heavy’ forehand - meaning, of course, fast and with topspin - is incredibly difficult to play for those standing too deep, but challenging for any trying to rush the net,’ Rob suggests, a harsh contrast to his proclamation three weeks ago that he’d ‘never heard of this Austrian fucker.’

Intriguing scenes. Sources close to Rob suggest the core of the issue may be the fact that he doesn’t easily read the difference between Austrian and Australian, due to his rampant dyslexia. 

Apparently his real name isn’t even Rob, it’s Bor!

No more to come.

McDonald’s Valley Mall Boldly Volunteers To Be The ‘Next Flying Cock’

In a brave move that highlights their commitment to innovation, whilst also demonstrating their complete lack of understanding of Brisbane nightlife dynamics, Ronald McDonald, spokesman for the McDonald’s Valley Mall, has recently stated his grand plan to make the Brunswick Street location ‘the next Flying Cock’ for the youth of Brisbane.

Whilst the McDonald’s is an institution on par with the hallowed Cock, its focus on serving fast food, rather than serving up Birdman Randy hits, suggests it may struggle in this gutsy, but misguided attempt to corner the Brisbane youth market.

‘We saw a space left by the closure of the Flying Cock, and thought we should go for it,’ said Mr McDonald, his eyes anxiously darting around to make sure The Hamburglar wasn’t about to ruin his press conference. If there’s one thing The Hamburglar loves more than stealing burgers, it’s ruining press conferences.

Who do you think threw the shoe at George W. Bush?

‘Hiring Grimace as the resident DJ is our first step towards success as the latest nightlife venue for Brisbane youth to let down their hair,’ he continued, with Grimace awkwardly stepping forward and waving, as if they hadn’t really planned this at all.

Critics suggest that Grimace’s commitment to playing nothing but tropical house, in particular the works of Kygo, won’t necessarily nail the clientele this ‘New Cock’ desires, particularly given that the only person who likes Kygo remixes is enough is literally Kygo.

Regardless, this is an intriguing business pivot from a stagnating fast-food joint. The Obiter wonders that if The Beat should ever shut down, Oporto would step into place to be Brisbane’s first gay chicken joint, with eight different dancefloors to go along with the eight different delicious sides. Plenty to ponder

No more to come.

Rock Bottom: This Man Is Pretty Excited For The BBL Finals, Actually

You have to hit true rock bottom to turn it around, and for one Brisbane local, it seems he is right on the cusp.

‘Gee, you wonder whether the Melbourne Stars have peaked too early,’ said local sad-case and cricket tragic, Lachie Watson (24), as his silly season shenanigans have rapidly given way to being weirdly invested in the BBL Finals.

Perhaps consecutive weekends of long lunches, tall beers, and becoming desperately well-acquainted with the toilet bowl of his sharehouse for both gastroenterological and alcohol-related causes have caused this young man to do a bit of soul-searching.

But while soul-searching for some usually leads them to read ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ or ‘The Barefoot Investor,’ for Lachie, it seems that soul-searching has led him to invest far too much of his time, energy, and self-worth in the trials and tribulations of franchise Twenty20 cricket teams.

Whilst Lachie would usually stand by the water-cooler at his management consultancy firm, McNicholls & West, discussing such relatable topics as ‘the bushfires’ and ‘how the coronavirus sounds like a beer,’ he now can’t be budged from in-depth analyses of the failures of AB De Villiers, and full-throated adoration of the Sixers putting together a terrific finals run despite their lack of any notable stars.

Lachie’s friends, a mis-shapen collection of school mates and work acquaintances, have expressed mild concern, although their lack of surprise seems to indicate this isn’t the first time their friend has developed an odd obsession.

‘Last summer he became deeply invested in the lore of The Hunger Games,’ stated Travis Bentley (25), a schoolmate who hangs around because Lachie can still be ‘a bit of a laugh.’

‘Wouldn’t shut up about Panem and everything. Very strange.’

More to come on this rapidly developing story on the plight of the young Australian man.

Eight-Year-Old Barista At Gold Coast Cafe Casually Champs Man Forty Years Older Than Him

‘Just a flat white then, champ?’

Today, unreal scenes are coming out of Burleigh landmark, the Mermaid’s Chlamydia Cafe & Roastery Company. 

A chirpy little blonde surfer kid, who is clearly balancing life in Year 3 with being just a deadset barista, has just looked a forty-four-year-old investment banker square in the eyes and hit him with a devastatingly simple ‘that everything, champion?’

As the sun kissed the sand of Burleigh, social cues were cast aside as this absolutely gutsy little youngster, who is clearly someone’s cousin or brother or something, decided to hurl the middle finger to tradition and just champ the shit out of a stiff looking old bloke.

The investment banker, who we have found is named Robin Harrington (44), which is as wanky as any name one can possess, is absolutely reeling from the comment. His stammering response of ‘um, um, um, yep, just card thanks,’ was hardly the work of a clever, witty genius, and his shaking hands as he pulled out his ING Orange Everyday betrayed the fact that this little surfer rat has done an absolute number on him.

And in an even more embarrassing twist, Mr Harrington had ordered his flat white on ‘skim milk,’ to which this effortlessly cool surfer kid, revealed to be nicknamed ‘Smudge’ to his mates, continued to call ‘skinny.’ 

‘Just on skinny then, champ?’

‘Ah, yes, yes, um, skim, skim milk, yes,’ stuttered Mr Harrington, his twenty-four years of corporate slavery and no holidays leading to this truly pitiful moment.

‘Gotcha, chief.’

And with that final, devastating blow, the damage was done. Whilst physically Mr Harrington will ingest the caffeine over the next half hour, and have it fully digested by sundown, the mental damage wrought by this incessant ‘champing’ truly knows no bounds.

No more to come.

Greens Somehow Responsible For Bushfire Policies Despite Literally Never Being In Government

The Australian political landscape has today been rocked by revelations that one party has managed to be in power for the last eighteen years, and influence policy to a degree never seen before - despite never winning a Federal or State election.

This group of nefarious, shadowy powerbrokers who some are nicknaming ‘The Greens’ have been able to effectively govern on a platform of ‘fuck the farmers,’ and ‘let Australia burn’ for over eighteen years, whilst never being once discovered by the party who has supposedly been in government.

‘They just let us get away with it for so long,’ said one anonymous Greens member, who goes by the name of ‘Mugabe Had A Point’ online. ‘It’s crazy! We were intentionally making policy to ensure Australia burns in 2020, and despite the fact we were literally not in government once, it all stuck! What?!’

Prominent political commentators have poked holes in this intriguing conspiracy, hysterically claiming that ‘this is not how government works,’ and ‘genuinely, how can you make policy if you are not in power.’ But that sort of intellectual elitism and snobbery won’t fly, when experts on Facebook and Twitter are aggressively claiming that a fringe party well outside of government have been safely handling government responsibilities for decades.

‘This is political success on a scale we’ve never seen before,’ said one gutsy young BAFE student who is clearly just parroting whatever his Dad told him. 

‘The Greens have managed to dominate Australian climate and bushfire management policy for the past ten years - despite literally never being in power!’

Intriguing points being made, but let’s remember not to politicise a tragedy, even if that tragedy can directly be traced to policy and political decisions. Just have a beer, how good.

No more to come.