Creative Director Moonlighting as Password Security

Please create a new password for your account.

Password123

You’ve used this before. We’re looking for something fresh.

Password123!

Your password is too similar to your previous idea.

Letme1n

This still feels pretty first thought. Keep going…

dingDong!

Try exploring some other ways in. Go back to the brief: min 8 characters, at least one number and symbol.

Kn0ckKn0ck

Feel like I’ve seen it before.

Psst!

Yeah, no. What would David Droga do?

An app that scans your retina for identification and manages to donate to charity at the same time.

Great. But we’re only looking for a password word at this stage. We could look at this down the track.

fhgjfldjfdK01

Random. What’s the human truth behind the idea? I don’t get it.

pa$$word123

You’re not there yet. There’s something in the dollar signs for sure. Can we see what this would look like in all CAPS? 

PA$$WORD123

Why did you change it to all CAPS? There’s no way I would have suggested that.

Helloisitmeyourelookingofor?

Cheesy.

pastw0rdS

Puns are the lowest form of wit.

thereisnopassw0rD

Clever. A little long. Not sure if it’s memorable.

catsR2cool!
Really? Cats have been done to death.  Come on, I know you can crack this.

cre8ivitySux!

Hmm. Is there something that ties to culture or a newsworthy cause?

Loveislove1

Feels a bit tokenistic. What about something so simple no one would ever guess it. Like: Password123! 

Donald Trump Targaryen?

Donald Trump has set the internet on fire with fan theories that he may actually be a Targaryen with fire breathing dragons, after threatening North Korea with ‘fire and fury’.

‘North Korea best not make any more threats to the United States. They will be met with fire and fury like the world has never seen,’ President Trump said during a briefing.
Fan theories were quick to draw comparisons between the President and rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys Targaryen, such as: ambition, ego, impatience, recklessness and generally ignoring their more experienced advisors.

However, there appears to be just as much dissimilarity between the two, namely: empathy, likeability and regular sized hands. Not to mention––breaker of chains and good looks.

In fact, it would appear the President has more in common with Daenerys’ father, ‘The Mad King.’ Could Trump perhaps be a long lost secret uncle we didn’t know about?

Come to think of it, he does resemble a weird/sleazy uncle who says inappropriate things at the dinner table.

The T-Shirt’s Last Day

I imagine Echo and the Bunnymen’s Nothing Lasts Forever has sound-tracked the end of many a relationship. Today it reminds me that clothes – like people – grow apart. Or fall apart in this case.

It wasn’t until I caught the reflection of myself in a cafe window that it hit me: this was the last day I would ever wear my favourite blue t-shirt.

As I sat on the train I wondered how on earth I hadn’t seen the signs of wear and tear sooner. Or better yet, why my mirror failed to warn me of its demise. I had been cheated by my own visage.

For years, this blue Supreme tee and I had been an ideal match that never required much in the way of critical reflection. People often told me we looked great together and that we were the perfect fit. It had become a staple and looking good in it was a given. And over the last four years it sure did serve me well, outliving many of its contemporaries in the process. But it no longer fitted its Supreme label.

In fact, when I look back on moments of social success, so to speak, it wouldn’t surprise me if I wearing Ol’ Blue. Whether it was casual work drinks, a date, or even the prowess of company at a fashion show – the simplicity of my tee held its own.

Now that I think of, this probably wasn’t the case – but it was at least comfortable.

It was time to face up to the facts – Ol’ Blue was not in good shape. It hadn’t attracted a compliment in some time. It had let itself go, especially around the waist. Four years of wear, and wash cycle after wash cycle, had finally taken its toll.

Ol’ Blue now resembled a man of pore posture whose life had been run ragged. The neckline was unstable, slouching down low, and it was thinning up front. If you cared to look close enough you could even spot my chest hair poking through the strained fabric.

After realising how bad I’d let it get, I couldn’t wait to get home and take it off. I studied the judging looks from co-workers and clients alike while in a meeting. All of whom seemed to sneer at Ol’ Blue. I felt compelled to let everyone know that this was going to be its last day in the office, and we would not be holding farewell drinks for it at the pub after work.

Still, parting company with such a loyal garment wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe I’d keep it hidden away where it couldn’t hurt anybody, in a drawer behind those unused condoms. No. It had to go. It had to. Katie from accounts confirmed it with a withering stare. But I couldn’t ignore the memories that lay within its very fabric.

I’m sure you can sympathise. We’ve all allowed clothing items to outstay their welcome as trends left them behind. Maybe it’s a camo print, early 2000’s stained denim, or that pair of Adidas button up tracksuit pants you’re holding on to. It’s emotional.

But I was farewelling this one thing that transcended time and trends. It didn’t bear the scars of bad screen-printing or hideous fluoro. It was cool – plain and simple

Come to think of it, my Ol’ Blue tee didn’t outstay its welcome.

It simply outwore it.

Chris is currently interviewing new t-shirts. He is a mens small, enjoys a fitted feel and durable heavy-duty fabric. He’s taking recommendations here: quasitis@gmail.com

Pokémon Goes Out of Control

Remember when we’d stalk the streets and pile into parks searching for Pokèmon? When the cops would ask you what you were doing hanging around outside a stranger’s home at midnight and you could explain that you were just on a quest? Or when a slim chance of catching a Vaporeons was worth stopping traffic and risking your life for? Good times.

But as popularity for the app wanes, Pokèmon have gone from being the most hunted species on the planet, to a damn nuisance. They’re fucking everywhere. The last remnant of sad Pokèmon master trainers are said to be outnumbered 7000-1.

Parks (‘GYMS’) have become breeding grounds, and our streets are at risk of being overrun by these pests once thought cute and fun. And now our native wildlife are suffering. Poor street rats are being forced out of their natural habitats behind Chinese restaurants. Not to mention, the damage being done to our property. Just recently, a car in Brooklyn was set a blaze by a rampant Charizard.

But it doesn’t end there. While walking my dog this morning, I happened to step right in Pokèmon poop. Sure, it may be invisible to the naked eye, but it’s safe to say it was probably there. I mean, let’s face it, based on the sheer numbers of Pokèmon roaming around, we’ve probably all stepped in their shit. Go on, check your shoe.

My question is: how long before a mother claims that a Diglett took my baby?  What we must do is simple. We need to dust off those cobwebs from our Pokèmon Go app (or re-download it in most cases) and take action! But this time, we gotta catch and kill ’em all.

 

 

 

Lawyer Demands Justice for Bee after Stinging Man in Self Defence

A Sydney-based lawyer is defending a Honey Bee currently fighting for his life after stinging a man in a local park. The lawyer is seeking compensation, citing self defence. ‘What we have here is a hard working Honey Bee who was just going about his business and is now facing certain death, while the trespassing human gets off with a minor sting.’

Comparisons between the pain of the sting in question and the injuries suffered by the Bee could become a major point of interest for the jury who are expected to reach their verdict early next week. ‘My client is still in shock, he’s endured a level of pain he would not wish on his worst enemy,’ said the Bee’s attorney. ‘His abdomen and digestive tract have been ruptured beyond repair.’

The victim who declined to comment on the case and has yet to seek legal representation is said to have complained of experiencing a feeling of faintness and trouble breathing––typical symptoms associated with a bee sting.

Which asks the question: who’s really the victim here?

Luckily for the stingee, he was not allergic and recovered quickly, returning to work and performing regular duties that same afternoon. Unluckily for iiithe stinger, mother nature has sentenced him to death.

‘What we must remember here, is that a park is not solely for the purpose of leisurely walks, but a place of business for our Honey Bees.’ Stated the Bee’s attorney.

Those who worked alongside the fatally injured Bee said he was a peaceful bee, who would not violently act out, unless cruelly provoked. Although there is no evidence the man harmed the Bee in any way, the Bee’s attorney is speaking to co-workers and seeking out anyone with information tying the man to malicious acts towards Honey Bees in the past.

More to follow.

The Staff Only Door

I recently returned a pair of sneakers without a receipt. A sign above the store counter read: No Receipt. No Refund! But I persisted. Unsurprisingly, the sales assistant was reluctant to speak to their manager. I’ve worked in retail before, so I couldn’t blame her. But I was not leaving with these hideous sneakers my sister thought would suit me.

I knew what I had to do. I had to pull out the age-old line that sends shivers down the spine of anyone in retail. You know the one: ‘The customer is always right.’ Nobody knows where the fuck this came from or how it became sacrosanct. The sales assistant was furious, but conceded defeat. After a heavy sigh, they stomped towards the ‘Staff Only’ door. Knowing that I was in for a long wait, I made myself comfortable on the stool reserved for trying these hideous sneakers on.

If you haven’t worked in retail before you probably can’t understand why it takes the sales assistant so long to return. What could they be doing back there? What’s going on? Let me explain.

The ‘Staff Only’ door leads to a small passage that links to a rickety bridge connecting to a flight of a thousand stairs. The sales assistant must climb the narrow stairway to reach a giant door that requires 100 correct variations of a password before it can be unlocked. Once inside, the sales assistant carefully runs their hand along the wall to find a hidden button that grants them access to a secret elevator. The elevator doors opens to an isolated platform surrounded by a vista of water. The sales assistant now must swim for roughly 5km before reaching a sandy bay. Crawling to shore, the sales assistant begins their trek through an amazon forest where they’ll be forced to defend themselves against an array of dangerous wildlife. Pending survival, the sales assistant heads towards the center of the forest to discover an open cave. Deep within the cave is a cavity no bigger than a fox hole. The sales assistant defies dimensions to squeeze through to the other side. Here they are met by two burly men wearing rubber gloves. An invasive inspection occurs. Once cleared by security, the sales assistant then crawls through a damp dark tunnel. Tired, sweaty and barely able to stand the sales assistant reaches a stale little office with cream walls. They gently tap on a door that reads: ‘MANAGER’. A voice yells ‘Come in.’ The manager sits slouched on a swivel chair throne. His collection of half empty styrofoam coffee cups clutter a cheap plywood desk. The remnants of a Subway sandwich sit beside his Dell computer. The sales assistant gulps: ‘I have a customer out there who wants to return some sneakers without a receipt.’ The manger spins around and proclaims: ‘No receipt. No refund! You know the drill.’ The sales assistant begins their long journey back to the store.

It’s been approximately 8 minutes since the sales assistant first left me standing there. A long a time to keep a customer waiting, sure. But knowing what the sales assistant’s just been through I’m actually surprised they’re back so soon.

‘Well?” I asked, what did the manager say? The sales assistant wiped the sweat from her brow. ‘Sorry, we don’t refund without a receipt.’

I didn’t want to do it, but I did. ‘Can you ask them if they’ll do an exchange?’ The sales assistant now dead in the eyes, says ‘I’ll check,’ and slunks back towards the ‘Staff Only’ door. I’m prepared to wait.

Sunday is Games Day.

Simon says touch your forehead with your right hand. Simon says touch your chest with your right hand. Simon says touch your left shoulder with your right hand. Simon says cross your chest and touch your right shoulder with the same hand. Now, Simon says bring both hands together in prayer and say amen. Anyone who copied me and pulled their hands apart is going straight to hell.

Introducing Chris Brailey’s Dream Peen

TIRED OF TUGGING THE SAME OLD STICK? DOES YOUR DICK MAKE WOMEN SICK? REST EASY, THE PENIS OF YOUR DREAMS IS CURRENTLY BEING DEVELOPED IN A FACTORY WEST OF CHINA*.

Jealously is a Curse, But Stains Are the Worst

I’ve never been good with girls and up until Thursday afternoon––neither was the burrito stain on my t-shirt. There I was standing by the bus stop doing my best to not sweat profusely in front of people when an attractive girl headed my way (which, in turn, made sweat management impossible).

“Oh my God! Is that a burrito stain on your t-shirt?” She squealed, like it was a celebrity or something.

“Um, yeah, it is. I just had one.” I mumbled through her excitement.

“I love burritos!” She gasped. “We should get a drink sometime. Like now!” It was that easy.

Next thing, we’re at the pub across the street sharing a beer. “So, tell me: How did you get the stain on your t-shirt? I’m intrigued.” She blushed, but before I could even answer she was already on to the next question. “Believe it or not, (which I didn’t, at the time) I’ve been wondering ever since I saw you at the bus stop what kind of sauce it is,” She paused, “on your shirt I mean.” Blushing again.

Dumbfounded by her interest, I confessed: “Chilli sauce.” And with that she slowly bit her lower lip. I tried to ask some questions of my own in an attempt to change the subject and make light chatter about work, weather, hobbies, anything really––but soon realised that she was only interested in one thing––the stain.

Several beers later the two were practically eating out of the palm of each other’s hands––the stain and her I mean. Not only did I feel like the unwanted third wheel buying them drinks, but extremely uncomfortable when the stain went in for a French kiss. I made an excuse about having work early in the morning and got the hell of there. She wrote her number down on a napkin, leaving a lipstick imprint along with it. The thing is: I’d had stains on shirts in the past ruin conversations, job interviews and certainly photos, but this was the first stain I’d ever seen pick up a girl.

On the way home the stain dodged my questions, acting completely aloof as though I was over-reacting or something. “This is bullshit.” I said, “You’re going straight into the wash basket when we get home.” The smug punk stain just sat there in silence.

My wash cycle ended on Monday so I had a couple of days to cool down before Napisanning the shit out of my t-shirt. After pulling everything else out I eventually came face to face with the stain again. Admittedly, it had slightly faded since Thursday. Certainly less confident in appearance than how I left it. Deflated even; starved from moisture, it barely resembled the cocky son of a bitch that stuck out like dog’s balls on Thursday. I kind of felt sorry for it, in all honesty.

Regretfully, I pulled the napkin with the girl’s number from my pocket. “One phone call,” I said, shaking my head. “Five minutes and I’m hanging up, not a second longer.” With this, the stain lit-up, blooming in colour once more. The phone rang and rang, eventually going to the girl’s mailbox. “Hey, you’ve reached Annie’s phone. Leave a message after the beep.” Even her voice was attractive. I left a message.

“Hi. Yeah, look, it’s, uh, Chris. Not sure if you’ll remember me, but… We met last Thursday. My stain and I…” With that Annie picked up. “Hey! Sorry, I didn’t recognise the number or your voice. Can you tell the stain that I’ve been waiting for him to call?” I stared down at my shirt in the wash basket. “Yeah, sure. I’ll let him know. Listen, what’s the deal here? I mean, you know, this is kinda weird. The whole thing with you and the stain…” Annie quickly cut me off. “Sorry Cliff,” she pleaded. “Chris.” I said. “It’s Chris. My name is Chris.” She didn’t care. “Right. Um, is the stain around at all? Can I talk to him?” With that, I handed the phone over.

Hours went by while the two of them chatted away. Every so often I’d walk by the laundry to check and see if either had hung up, only to find my phone resting on the side of the stain with Annie’s laughter echoing out through the speaker. That weekend, the two of them went out to lunch, unsurprisingly, for burritos. When the stain got home it looked bigger than ever. In fact, it looked as though half a bottle of chilli sauce had been newly spilt on my shirt. I was furious (it was three o’clock in the morning I might add.) “Where the fuck have you been, and why is my shirt covered in sauce? What have you two been doing?” I screamed. “Not that I’ve been waiting up for you or anything.” I added. I might as well of been talking to a brick wall, because the smug punk stain just sat there in silence. “That’s it.” Motioning towards the cupboard. “I’m getting the Napisan.”

Sorry, God is Not Available in Your Country…Yet

Message seen posted on thousands of church notice boards.

Rumours that Netflix are cracking down on the use of VPNs to access its content have scared the shit out of Australians finally enjoying good TV after so many years of inequality; but perhaps even more shocking is speculation that God will assume a similar strategy––barring those outside of the Middle East and Europe from accessing biblical content, and therefore––Heaven. Apparently the passage found in Mark 16:15 “Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature,” was taken way out of context.

“You have to understand,” A source close to the creator of the universe pointed out “When that was written the world was a far smaller place––in fact––God had no idea there were even people living outside the 20 or so countries referenced in the bible.”

It is estimated that there are over 2.18 billion subscribers to Christianity alone, with varying degrees of worship and gospel readership. A spokesangel issued a statement on behalf of the Almighty confirming the crackdown; “We’re in the process of implementing a state-of-the-art technology that will block those outside of ‘Holy’ regions from participating in our belief system, therefore, padlocking the gate to Heaven.”

It is not yet clear whether Heaven (who have previously kept their population secret) will allow thousands, perhaps hundreds of millions of residents who entered Heaven via unsanctioned countries permission to stay put. The Church is yet to issue a statement or comment on the news, despite its followers pressing local priests for clarity and guidance.

A religious commentator confirmed with concern, “This is the very first time I’ve ever seen the Church displaying this type of error message to a religious user.” The message (which appears in the image above) has been spotted on several hundred churches and chapel notice boards since Monday.