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

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.

Squash the Internet

Australian internet provider Optus have received thousands of calls over the last few days from customers complaining of a ‘broken internet’. Tech support lines have been jammed from Sydney to Mumbai since images of Kim Kardashian’s oily backside went viral last week.

A representative from Optus was forced to comment earlier today. ‘Checking out Kim Kardashian’s booty is not the reason your internet is broken.’ He paused. ‘It may just be a loose cable.’

Despite his refusal to blame the image for breaking the internet, he did admit that a ‘booty’ may cause, at least, some damage. ‘It is possible that the internet could be squashed by an image of somebody’s rear end; but in my opinion, it would need to be substantially bigger, and not as curvaceous.’

 

First & Last

I’ve never beaten anybody in a race. Well, post-birth that is. And if I hadn’t have won that race, I wouldn’t be here today. The first race any of us are ever in, and it could of (perhaps, should of) been my last. I managed to win the right to be born. I beat millions of other sperm in a race to the egg; which probably says more about the quality of the competition than it does anything else. I can only assume my one and only victory came down to a mix-up. Perhaps I jumped the gun and got off to a good start. I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel right that I’m here, especially after being defeated by a kid almost half my age at the swimming carnival earlier today. My high school P.E teacher seems to share the same assumption. She once lost her cool with me and blurted out in front of the whole class, ‘How fucking slow and stupid must the other sperm have been for you to be born?’ She’s no longer teaching at my school, which isn’t to say she was wrong.

That initial race must have really taken it out of me. Maybe I put so much energy into winning, that I’ve completely exerted myself. It would explain why I’ve felt drowsy and fatigued ever since birth. My mother had me on a variety of vitamins and tablets to combat iron and energy deficiencies as a child, however, none if it ever made a difference. It’s as though my body is still catching its breath. Or maybe it’s just resting on its laurels, content with that one taste of victory. And It’s not as though the victory of being born is something one can cling to, either. Life is like one giant green room filled with 6 billion others who’ve all won the same race. Everyone’s a winner, so it doesn’t even count anymore. It’s like defecating or breathing, we’ve all done it. So you can’t bring it up in conversation and brag about it, or put down the other sperm who lost and died doing so. Nobody living even remembers winning that race. That’s how many other fucking races they’ve won. Is it really impossible to recall life as a semen? Or have people deleted it from their memory bank to make room for all of the other victories they’ve had since birth?

Sometimes I sit alone for hours trying to think back to that race. I try and recall the feeling of making it into the egg first, but it never works. Occasionally I’ll have a nightmare about it; I trip and fall allowing another sperm to get there at the very last second. Other times I’ll dream about the doctor telling my mum that there was a mistake, “The wrong sperm won.” He frowns. “You’ve got a loser on your hands, the rightful winner has been robbed.” The nurse adds. Unhappy with the result, my father applies to have the race rescheduled. The doctor apologises, informing my parents that unfortunately none of the other sperm survived. “You’ll have to start over and try again from scratch.” This news brings a smile to my father’s face. “No,” my mother says, “we’ll keep the baby, for now.”

I wake up in a cold sweat and out of breath, as if I’ve just finished the race. I wonder if it was it worth it? Being born, I mean. What’s the point of winning if you’re doomed to lose forever. I sometimes wish I would have let another sperm win. That way I wouldn’t be getting laughed at by this kid at the swimming carnival. Did I mention that he’s almost half my age! “It’s nothing to be proud of,” I blurt out, “I’ve lost to kids a lot younger than you.” What kind of comeback is that? I’ve only made it worse for myself, he’s laughing even louder. I’m drowning. I try and focus on the comfort of my ergonomic desk chair, my high-speed internet connection, and the release of Call of Duty Advanced Warfare waiting for me at home.

Y-MEN: Steve

No, not all mutants join the X-MEN. Some of us have desk jobs you know.

@therapist

My therapist moved his practice online. From now on I have to vent my problems in 140 characters or less.

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The Height of Entertainment vs The Bottom of Enetertainment

The Emmys = talent, wit, & charisma

 

The VMAs = butts, butts & more butts

 

 

 

 

The Bump Into

We met inside Joe’s Coffee House. Well, technically, in the doorway of Joe’s Coffee House. She wore a bright blue dress with a decorative floral print (which, by the way, still looks amazing to this day). That morning, I was on my way out, and she was on her way in. I was still jittery after indulging in my second cup of coffee; she was flustered, and struggled to balance her awkward combination of urgency and clumsiness that I too saw in myself. Then it happened. We bumped into one another. She stepped right, and so did I. We both giggled. I smiled and she blushed. Then I went left, and she went left! I made the first move, and nervously apologised. She blushed some more, brushing the hair away from her face and said, softly – ‘It’s okay.’ Not wanting to hold her up (although, secretly hoping to) I stepped left once more, but coincidentally, so did she. We both excused ourselves simultaneously, stammering over the top of one another (which was cute… then) It was as if it was our destiny to bump into each other. Fate had brought us together, in it’s own romantically clumsy way. But after twenty thousand-odd left and right footsteps later, we’re still caught in the same doorway, unable to get out of each other’s way, not unlike an animated GIF.

As time went on Joe’s Coffee House eventually closed down and became a laundry mat, then a beauty spa, followed by a Thai massage parlour, a tattoo parlour, a Starbucks, a KFC, a tax agent, an adult store, and eventually another coffee shop. It didn’t seem to matter what happened either side of the doorway, we remained permanently stuck in our clumsy collision. She grew cold, irritable and sarcastically sinister, while I exchanged my smiles and charming mannerisms for demeaning mumbling slurs (directed mostly at myself). 

As unhappy as we were, our timing remained impeccable. She still shuffled left when I shuffled left. And when I went right, she wearily stepped right as well. Gradually, our apologies subsided to a mere sigh or grunt, then inevitably ceased to exist. Each time she brushed the hair away from her face, I quivered inside with rage. The awkward little nuisances we originally fancied in one another became one gigantic pain in the arse.

Still today, our doorway predicament often draws an audience of onlookers who sigh ‘awww’ in unison. Over the years we’ve featured on multiple news programs and even signed a book deal. The publisher thinks our story could be turned into a movie one day. She calls it ‘Hollywood’s first ‘Doorway Romance’. Together we’ve witnessed all types of things in the doorway. A couple of years ago when the cafe was still a KFC there was a robbery. They managed to escape through the open doorway with the safe and four hostages by walking right between us, without breaking our bind. KFC were so livid they attempted to sue us for neglecting our duty of rescue. The court hearing took place right there in the doorway, where we were forced to demonstrate our bind to the jury, as if we had a choice.

The latest coffee shop is currently undergoing renovations, the owner’s concerned that we’re going to get in his way. How ironic. ‘It’s nothing builders haven’t worked around before’ I told him. If something was to change and either she or I made an unexpected move and broke free, I don’t know what I would do with myself, to be honest. It’s been so long that I’ve grown comfortable, content even. My parents have been married 45 years and they can’t stand each other, but they persist. I guess it’s easier staying together sometimes, even when you have a choice.

When we’re alone at night we often talk about missed opportunities to travel abroad or the fact that we’ve never been intimate. As we grow old the chance that one of us may become too weak to stand is kind of exciting, thrilling even. We’ve even started placing bets on who will go first. She thinks it will be me, because of my arthritis. Hopefully, whoever goes first will still be young and healthy enough to travel, heck, even meet somebody else. As long as it’s not in a doorway that is. 

Our timing is so impeccable that we’ll probably go at the same time: dying in each other’s way. Come to think of it, that would be a fitting way to go. Romantic. A real Hollywood ending, the publisher would say. Like Romeo and Juliet, but nothing like that at all.