TBS Newsbot

While you were asleep: Sydneysiders asked not to use airport, Amelia Earhart found, The tale of the wife of Colonel Sanders

Friday fudging morning. Yew. Overnight, we’ve had Sydney Airport reach new destinations of disappointment, the discovery of something ancient, and the sad story of Mrs Colonel Sanders. 



Sydney commuters asked not to travel to the airport, as delays enable the end of days.

If you’re unfortunate enough to be up at this hour, you’ve already dragged yourself from the warm embrace of your bed, glumly wrestled yourself free from the grip of manchester spooning you, as the familial scent of your bedded lover quietly begs you to say at home, with you inside it.

Sadly, you’ve once again chosen that a toxic relationship with that partner you don’t want to be with, the one that makes you do things you dislike. Love you heaps, life.

Preamble completed, I feel horrorawful for all the people in the tableau below, lovers stranded in an airport terminal, stuck for a reason not yet disclosed, hopelessly cast shoulder-to-shoulder next to those who also know but one thing: Fuck. This.



To those who are yet to leave bed this morning, our goal is simple. In order to honour those above, the lost, we must sleep-in.






Bones of Amelia Earhart finally confirmed. We think. 99% sure.

There are no bones about it, that’s a terrible turn of phrase to use at a time like this. 81 years after the fact, it seems that the bones of Amelia Earhart have actually been found, for real this time. Earhart, of course, is famous the world over for ruining Hilary Swank’s career.



As a matter of fact, A-Dog’s bones were found in 1941, but the scientists of the day believed that they weren’t hers, purely on the basis that they weren’t properly ladylike.




Pre-WW2 America was a hell of a drug.

One they’re probably still shuddering through their system.






KFC Malaysia honours the wife of Colonel Sanders, unearths spicy tale.

Little is known about the wife of Colonel Harlan Sanders. But one can naturally assume it must have been a tough gig. In love with a man with unearned military pretence, hell-bent on a singular purpose: perfecting and elevating his chicken recipe, the one that he insists will one day make him famous, the one that he insists keeping a secret.

I’m seeing a lot of cold dinners, and even colder far sides of the bed, midnight cursory glances out the window to see that grimy yellow in the chicken shed illuminated, before closing the curtains, hoping against hope that he’d see, realise, and finally come to bed, if only for one night this week. I’m also seeing justifications to hide the hurt, auspices of well, at least he’s with the chickens are not someone else, fully aware that the chicken is his true love, knowing that you are merely the potato and gravy on his menu, a side dish to ravage only when irresponsibly drunk and regret immediately afterwards.

That being said, Mrs Colonel got her moment in the sun, as KFC Malaysia have momentarily placed her face atop their signs.






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