Overnight, things got rather heated. We were cheated out of gold, Barnaby cheated his way to the PM’s chair and Italy came together to peg fruit at each other.
Battlin’ Aussie athlete cheated out of gold after lunar stunt.
I didn’t watch it, but by purely reading the headline and making an assumption, but Matt Graham’s mogul silver medal was not worthy compensation for the feat he pulled off. I mean he jumped over the actual moon. What the actual fuck, Olympics?
— ABC News (@abcnews) February 12, 2018
I mean, just congratulations Matt, despite your subscription to the Lleyton Hewitt school of undercutting your brilliance (see below), but look. If people aren’t going to be compensated properly by suitable pieces of metal, don’t be surprised when your average Australian doesn’t give a tinker’s cuss about the Winter Olympiad.
Blah-blah-naby Joyce faces more criticism, this writer considers a career change.
To be honest, I’m sick of typing Barnaby Joyce. Those two words now follow me in my dreams of electric sheep. So, for the remainder of the issue of his wandering prong, I’ll be substituting the name, because I’m bored and tired and fed up with the entirety of his pickle.
Overnight, in a move straight from the duh handbook, Labor criticised the role of “Shepherd’s Pie,“ stop thinking about Barnaby. With Malcolm set to travel to New York, Shepherd’s Pie would essentially be running the country, and considering the questionable contents of the pastry, criticism again knocks on his door, stop thinking about Barnaby.
Shadow attorney-general (which sounds like a rad goth band who doesn’t actually play music) Mark Dreyfus said: “Acting Prime Minister is an extraordinarily important position and it is hard to believe Shepherd’s Pie could do justice to that position given the distractions he is now enduring.”
Shepherd’s Pie is set to make a public announcement later this morning.
A talking pie? Outrageous.
Ancient battle rages over the juice of spoiled oranges. Or something.
While it might not have the prestige of the local Syrian scrape, or one of the twelve wars in Iraq, a rather civil war rages in the streets of Italy totally unchecked, and massively fragrant.
The Battle of the Oranges is a tradition held in Piedmont that pits two disparate forces of gingers together to duke it out for supremacy. Think of it being close to the Capulets versus the Montagues, but with perpetual sunburn.
Ha ha, just kidding, the festival is actually about pegging citrus at your fellow townspeople, for three pissing days, why? because maybe traditions matter?
Meanwhile, a town in Italy is pelting itself with 500,000 kg of oranges, for reasons. pic.twitter.com/1oiyr4HuFW
— Evan McMurry (@evanmcmurry) February 12, 2018
To be fair, don’t judge, as we also participate in a time-honoured destructive lobbing of fruit, as sexless attention seeking teens the country over periodically group to hurl pieces into the classroom ceiling fans of yore, symbolising the beginning of detention season.
Juicy Wars: Ivrea deluged in zest as ‘Battle of Oranges’ goes wild pic.twitter.com/thH2VzBdNO
— Ruptly (@Ruptly) February 12, 2018