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While you were asleep: Bill proposes bill, shark attacks famous beach, satire finally passes


Monday morning. You made it. Overnight, Bill Shorten wrote a letter, a vintage 1970s fear resurfaced and Donald Trump finally finished off satire.



Bill calls for integrity commission in towering Arial font.

You know what? There’s a nagging aspect about Bill Shorten that we can’t put our fingers on. It’s nothing serious, he’s not running Peruvian flake from under the Senate, muled by cadet journalists and political interns, but there’s certainly something that’s holding us back from accepting him as a viable option. It’s a bit of mystery, but this morning, I think I understand. He condescends to know the electorate, to be a man of the people, but I don’t think he knows his base at all.

Check this tweet out:



A national integrity commission. That sounds good, yes more of that.

But! Pop quiz, hotshots, who among you actually paused to squint, draw their phone closer to their peepers and read the actual letter?

Be honest. I know. Me either.

Just make it happen, Bill.

But don’t make us read extra.



Shark attack brings the 1970s back to Bostonian beaches. Fear’s up, bruh!

Terrible, awful, unthinkable news from beachgoers who are still gnawing their fingernails in the turbulent wake of Jaws. There’s been a fatal attack on the famous beaches of Cape Cod. Now, if you’re fond of sensationalism and John Williams’ strings, you’re sure to fall in love with the chances of your own death by deep water teethies.

Summer is coming. Dah-dum. Dah-dum-dah-dum-dah-dum-dah-dum…



Nah. It’s probably worth mentioning that despite what the little Benchley voice in your head says, it’s extremely long odds of it happening. In fact, this attack signifies the first attack in the state since 1932. Tragic, yes. An outlier, absolutely.

Unless there’s been more, and the mayor has just been covering it up. It could be a boat propeller. I agree. But let’s not think about that. Let us focus on the naked sensuality and generous proportions offered by a certain resident of Amity Beach.

That’s some nice rack, Harry.




Donald congratulates Mexico, finally drives stake into the laboured heart of satire.

We are gathered today to honour the death of satire. While it has been very sick for a while, and it seemed to be making a recovery, it was quietly throttled by the hands of the man who put it in ill-health in the first place.



So, today, while we may lash out against this ugliness, through grief sex, or binge drinking, or drowning in denial, it’s best that we remember the satire that we knew. The one that made us laugh. The one that met our friends, and the one that was always there for us.

Rest easy, champ.





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