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.

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.

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.

Bigger Isn’t Better

I officially moved into a bigger stomach over the holidays to fit in all the junk I ate at Christmas. And sadly,it’s way too big for any of my pants. My trainer says I’m going to be in exercise debt for at least 12 months to pay it all off. So I’ve been trying to return everything I ate over the break, and it turns out they don’t refund or exchange even if you keep your receipt. So now I’m stuck carrying around this flabby thing that’s too big for the rest of my body. And it only seems to be growing.

Dear Peanut Brittle

Dear Peanut Brittle,

People have always come between us. They’ve kept us apart for so long. As a child, my mum desperately warned me against you, and the dentist stopped us from seeing each other. Over the years you were difficult to chew, and yes, there have been times when I grew frustrated or annoyed when you got stuck in my teeth; but that tends to happen in a relationship. Anyway, don’t they say that all great couples go through hard times?

When I discovered you unopened in the cupboard today, I just simply had to have you. We didn’t take it slow, either; I ripped open your packet and jammed you into my mouth. My teeth were under prepared; they screamed in agony as I bit you so hard…

Remember the time you were at that party? The one with the chips and dip? Nobody knew who you were. You were all alone, but I knew. Except, there was that one kid, Stewart. He was curious, too curious. He walked on over to our table and stood between us.

‘What’s this?’ He asked.

‘You wouldn’t like it.’ I replied, bluntly.

‘It looks pretty nice.’ He said, leaning in.

‘Well, it’s not,’ I glared ‘why don’t you go and try some of those chips.’ I insisted.

‘No, I think I’m going to try some of these.’ He smiled.

That little shit. I’d never been a violent child, I just wanted to protect you, and keep you all to myself. My teeth had grown sharp from our time together, so I knew if I could bite into you, then imagine the damage I could have done to Stewart’s skinny little girly arm. Luckily, I didn’t resort to violence and came up with this instead.

‘You know what these are made of don’t you?’ I asked. He shook his head. ‘Peanuts.’ I said.

‘So what?’ He shrugged.

‘You’re allergic to peanuts.’ I snarled.

‘Am not.’ He frowned.

‘Am too,’ I replied ‘your mum told me.’

‘Am not’

‘Am too!’

Stewart looked around, but couldn’t spot his mother.

‘But, I guess you could have just one.’ I smiled.

‘What will happen if I eat one?’ He asked.

‘Well, I guess, you’ll probably end up dead.’ I replied.

So there we were, just the two of us hanging out at the party. By the end of the night my stomach ached, and my teeth were so sticky that my mouth was jammed shut. I’ll never forget it.

Love,

Chris.

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.’

 

Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee Wishlist

1. Woody Allen

2. Steve Coogan

3. Garry Shandling

4. Dylan Moran

5. Stephen Merchant

6. Nina Conti

7. Noel fielding

8. Jonathan Ames

9. Steve Martin

10. Richard Ayoade

11. Christopher Guest

12. Eddie Murphy

13. John Cleese

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.

Tripping on WI-FI

Turn off your mind, relax and scroll down screen. It is not dying, it is the internet.