Come Back Dexter, All Is Forgiven

Is nothing sacred? As it turns out, reality television is not the most reliable means by which to find the love of your life. Who’d have thunk that a process involving televised dates and horticultural beneficence might be anything other than failsafe? Let me frank (which, at this point, is a lot better than being Blake), I have never watched an episode of The Bachelor. As best I can tell, it’s an awkward mix of Survivor and team selection for the lunch hour cricket match in primary school. Even though the series ended with a marriage proposal, it was impossible not to suspect that, in fact, the whole thing would end in tears.
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Insolent, Arrogant, Incompetent, Awesome

Perhaps something was lost in translation. Or maybe Russian journalists are simply accustomed to telling people what they really think of them so long as said people are (a) not Vladimir Putin and (b) located somewhere on the other side of the earth. There’s no doubt about it – our Prime Minister has been comprehensively slagged off. In Cyrillic script, no less.
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I’ve Been to Bali Two

There’s a sign around the corner from my father’s. By the side of the Mornington Tyabb Road in a loose, spray-painted script, the sign promises ‘stable manure’ for just a few dollars per bag. What is left unsaid is whether the manure has always been stable or has achieved this through a combination of clean living and therapy. Perhaps it’s best not to ask. To tell you the truth, I’d prefer not to know the going rate for a bag of ‘unstable manure’. This is because I have a substantial fear of the stuff and will do almost anything to avoid it. This makes our decision to holiday in Bali – home of the infamous Bali belly – even more perplexing.
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Tales of a Reluctant Traveler

Flying is the ultimate ‘don’t look down’ experience. But as I tighten my seatbelt on the plane, it’s clear that air-travel has changed. I wait for the moment to arrive, but it never does. It seems that somewhere in the quest for low-cost air travel we have abandoned the one thing that distinguished flying from other forms of transport: the hot towel. Frankly, without a hot towel I might as well be sitting on a tram. Who is it that makes such monumental decisions? Is there a committee? Was there a plebiscite? The stewardess refuses to answer any of these questions no matter how often I push the button. As a result, I’m forced to improvise by wetting one of my socks and using two biros as a makeshift pair of tongs. ‘Hot towel?’ I ask.
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