The Hilarian 3rd Edition 2019 by The Hilarian

[issue 3 2019]

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Welcome to the third edition of the Hilarian where we ask ourselves, what does the ‘quarterly’ in quarterly magazine really mean? In our view, it should be interpreted broadly, with a youthful optimism in a dark world increasingly devoid of happiness and baby formula. However, the real injustice here is the use or misuse of the term ‘quarter’, for why do we not call a quarter watermelon, the most commonly consumed version of the supermarket watermelons, a quartermelon? Anyway, here at the Hilarian we try our best to give you quality procrastinatory material that you can really sink your tooth into (for those of you with dentures). You want something that makes you smile (you should smile more, cutie) – a distraction from the hallowed halls of Ligertwood, but not by way of a quarterly (?) magazine? Well how about this way – I love that you get cold when there’s a public school kid outside, I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a soy chai latte, I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you’re looking at me like I’m a Young Liberal, I love that after I spend a day with you I can still smell your Lynx Africa on my clothes and I love that you are the last person I want to DM to before I go on some NSFW pages. And it’s not because I’m lonely (am though), and it’s not because it’s almost exams and I want to procrastinate. I came here tonight

because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your degree with somebody, you want your degree to end as soon as possible. Apologies, we were a little caught up there and we want to make it Billy Crystal clear that we’re committed to delivering you smooth and silky content that you can introduce your mother to. In this edition, Christiana Michaels reveals the trial and tribulations of dating as an ethnically and spiritually Greek person, Rory Clark swears the Joker didn’t make him want to kill nobody and Lachie Blake reveals why exchange just really makes you a better person. Other featured articles include an exposé on how Jennifer Lawrence perfected her accent in the Oscar thinning ‘Red Sparrow’ and much, much (not that much) more. Finally, in Hilarian Discourse, Felix Eldridge puts forward an alternative for ending the backlog in our Federal and State court jurisdictions, whilst Equity and Wellbeing Officer, Brooke Washusen discusses the importance of regular STI checks. Enjoy the magazine, enjoy the quartermelon and enjoy the Joker – it was good knowing ye. With love and US Military betrayal, Lachie, Rory and Nick

Editors Rory Clark Nicholas Garbas Lachie Blake Sub-editors Josh Claridge Felix Eldridge Alex Lowe Christiana Michaels Art Bianca Tramaglino Graphical Executive Elliott Sarre IT Officer Sufwan Wahabzada Printing Kwik Digital The Hilarian does not reflect nor represent the opinions and views of the Adelaide University Law Studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Society (AULSS), nor those of the University of Adelaide Law School.

$1 OFF ANY COFFEE* *1 *1per percopy copyofofHilarian, Hilarian,Issue Issue3,2,2019 2019

The Hong Kong protestors have listed their five demands to the Chinese government, so here are mine. Since 9 June 2019, Hong Kong has been rocked by major protests. The protests, initially against the now-withdrawn Mainland China extradition bill, have been ongoing and the demands of the Hong Kong protestors have only expanded. The new list of demands includes the resignation of Chief Executive, Carrie Lam, an inquiry into police brutality, a cessation of the government’s characterisation of the protests as ‘riots’ and greater freedoms in general, particularly the right to vote. Drawing inspiration from the courageous Hong Kong protestors, I have my own, personal demands for the government of the People’s Republic of China, they are as follows: 1. Continue the crackdown on yellow umbrellas. No, not the yellow umbrella protestors, just continue the subsequent crackdown on the use of yellow umbrellas, they are distasteful and are a crime against style. In this context, ‘fashion police’ and ‘secret police’ can be used interchangeably.

2. Make that gross boil on Mao Zedong’s chin disappear in pictures. Look, PRC, if there’s one thing I can commend you for it’s your ability to make things ‘disappear’, why not apply those skills to Mao’s chin in photoshop? 3. Lmk the next time your Navy puts in a bulk order for baby formula. I’m a big fan of the old ‘white gold’ and I too want to save a few bucks by being part of your bulk order, that stuff is like crack to me, or should I say, opium. 4. Everyone knows you’re the ‘real’ China, just let up a bit with Taiwan. The only countries the ‘Republic of China’ has diplomatic ties with are ones my geography teacher didn’t teach us about. Remember what Tywin Linnister said, ‘Any state who must say, “I am the real China” is no true China’. 5. Take away the organisers of the Yulin Dog Meat Festival instead of the Uyghurs. This one will get you brownie points in the West. In general, genocide = not cool, but protecting dogs = very, very cool. 6. Add a second big star to your flag and rotate it 90 degrees clockwise. Your flag will now make a smile, so now everyone will know you’re happy

5 unmistakable elements of every fleetingly stereotypical 21st you have attended. By Christiana Michaels

21st season. It’s about third year, where every Saturday night you are consumed by the loss of another 50 bucks to a distant friend you will never see again after graduating. Perhaps my underlying bitterness is due to childhood trauma regarding birthdays, or the fact fairy bread is no longer a socially acceptable appetiser, but 21sts have slowly become a tiresome occurrence. Each party is a fearful repeat of the last, and I’m here to shame those exact elements I intend to repeat for my own celebrations. Still invite me. Please. 1. The Save the Date You know the drill. 8pm on a Wednesday night, and a notification arrives. You’re excited, maybe it’s tag in the latest Punkee recap of The Bachelor, or the AULSS have advertised a new exciting careers seminar on Tax Law opportunities. Wrong. The save the date is an

essential element of every celebration, encompassing a fierce competition in marking calendar territory, disguised as a friendly invitation. Although you will inform your boss of your unavailability the day before, the 7-month notice is instrumental in satisfying your ego with a plethora of acceptance through event invitations. Polished off with a childhood photo as the cover banner and reassurance that “more details will be provided closer to the date”, the save the date is an excellent forum to publically share your Unley Park address for your hardcopy invite. 2. The Dress Code Sigh. Perhaps the most consistent and tiresome feature of any event is the outfit of choice by the guests. With more clones than Star Wars Episode II, it is an undeniable fact that the coordination of particularly male guests demonstrates clear comfort in anything resembling a niche school uniform. It encompasses typical mooting look with a quick exchange of suit pants for chinos, unless the Eagle Rock is performed, in which case it looks more like St Peter’s College formal after-party. You know the look, you’ve probably worn it, and if not, you’ve gotten with it. The adventurous few will rock the turtleneck and resemble a deflated version of Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson, and maybe even Happy Socks (not a substitute for a personality).

4. The Speeches An absolute hit or miss, the speeches pinpoint the end of the awkward cocktail socialising, and the stilted conversation of “just uni and working” to the few people you haven’t seen since high school. Panicking adjacent to the tall cake with un-edible flowers piercing through it, the birthday celebrant squirms in fear at the realisation of THAT story from schoolies being told to their extended family. After hearing about meeting in primary school, the crowd awkwardly laughs at inside jokes by friends and the recap of their romantic history in front of Nan. As the cake is cut, the parents attempt to hide their visible shame on the newfound information on their child, and instead, recite pre-written words on pride and love for the celebrants ‘many achievements’. 3. The Décor Somewhere in the dark depths of the internet, a Pinterest board exists that has been copied and pasted into various venues across Adelaide on Saturday nights. Now hypocritically, I can’t say I am the most innovative soul, however seeing the same large light up ‘21’ numbers at every event has convinced me that our lack of creative substance is a cultural concern. The décor is overall best represented by a profile picture change by the celebrant, posing with obnoxiously large balloons (bonus points for confetti insides). Furthermore, the broader event photos are perfectly framed in front of a flower wall, mock press-conference backdrop, or spray-painted rectangular Bunning’s grid. Throw in a light-up letterbox on the gifts table and a projector with a Sarries Thursday’s montage, and you have a truly creative masterpiece.

5. The Posts With the big night done and dusted, and the wine-barrel tables returned to the provider’s warehouse, a critical element of the function remains. The Sunday night at 6pm, colloquially known as ‘peak time’ (for those without substance or moral standards), is the perfect time to rub in your successful conformity. The unstoppable distribution of perfectly curated Facetuned photos appears across the Instagram feed, an unmistakable reminder to everyone not invited. Alongside it, the caption features a hashtag curated for the event consisting of #INITIALS21, and an ambitious happy birthday message to compensate for forgetting their actual birthday. With the headache fading and appetite returning, the cycle has successfully repeated, until next weekend.

Exposé: The End of History and the Last Bake Sale. By Rory Clark Once standing as a shining example of rules-based liberalism, the flowering democracy that was the Adelaide University Law Student’s Society has become a shadow of its former glory. Increasingly murky elections and suppression of the free press have rendered the AULSS a rubber stamp dictatorship in which the President’s rule is absolute and The Hilarian can no longer drop five hundred dollars on “publishing expenses”. Esteemed newspaper The Washington Post adopted “Democracy Dies in Darkness” as its official slogan in 2017, reflecting the increasingly hostile attitude towards print and digital media organisations following the 2016 US election. If The Hilarian were to adopt a similar slogan for a similar time, it’d probably be to the effect of “A Magazine’s Readership dies in Semester 2”, but that’s beside the point.

**Censored by the AULSS Censorship Officer Over the past fortnight, we’ve witnessed China celebrate the 70 th anniversary of Communist rule, as violence between protestors and police only continued to escalate in the already hostile streets of Hong Kong. Closer to home, disturbing scenes abound as Adelaide University’s current StuPol hacks sharpen the weapons of their future political careers and go to war over cheaper and larger schnitzels or something. However, broader happenings draw attention from far more domestic trends. Explosive leaks from anonymous whistleblowers1 within the LSS reveal a dangerous internal culture, prioritising short-term financial gain over the strength of student democracy. Revenue generated by consistent “bake sales”2 often disappears offshore, while journalistic inquiries into these finances are often met with responses of “please stop distracting me” and “please get out of my house Rory” from Vice-President Belal Salih. Such responses reveal an increasing dismissal of the press’s role as scrutinizer in any healthy democracy, and has disturbing implications for any future attempts to secure The Hilarian it’s own designated space in the office fridge.

The first days of October saw a changeover in executive positions over the past week, signalling the arrival of Ligertwood’s overlords for the 2020 academic year. This signals yet another election in which access to voting booths was forcibly suppressed through the insidious tactic of voting booths never materialising in the first place. Further, all candidates were elected unopposed, drawing disturbing comparisons to the methods of autocratic one-party states. Despite all three editors spending seven hours digging through those miniature garden things outside Ligertwood, the bodies of opposing candidates still remain undiscovered. Also I’m fairly certain Melissa saw us. Only time will tell what further developments may unfold as a result of the disturbing developments seen over the last month. One cannot help but compare the towering hexagons of the Ligertwood foyer to those towering busts of Stalin or Hussein, symbolising the ever-watchful reign of an all-seeing dictatorial force. However, perhaps the most resolute symbol of Ligertwood’s state remains its humble Puratap, with its feeble water pressure still without repair as the years continue to advance around it. As stern-browed Competitions Director Mitchell Brunker scolds me for the rotting chicken I have left unattended in the office fridge, I ponder on the days of journalistic freedom experienced by my forebears, and wonder if I may see them again in this lifetime. 1 “Whistleblower” is definitely NOT a euphemism for Rachel Neef. 2 “Bake sale” is internal industry slang for a bake sale.

Dear Applicant, How dare you presume to apply to my firm? I was sickened by your interest in my firm and revel in the time you have wasted completing my extensive application process. What were you thinking, applying to me? My guys are the best in the country, not applicants coming out of some nameless uni from some tiny state that isn’t even on the east coast. I received an overwhelming number of applications cause my firm is the best, capisci? I’m the best and you’re nothing, no, worse than nothing, and reading your application was the worst displeasure I’ve had today since one of my existing clerks put too much sugar in my coffee. And you know what? I want my coffee piping hot, what is it with these nespresso machines these days? I said I want my coffee HOT. I take great pleasure in informing you that I will not be progressing your application. I am viscerally offended by your interest in my firm and would advise you to give up on a career in the legal industry immediately. If an opportunity at my firm arises which would be suitable for you, such as cleaning our bathrooms with your tongue or acting as a footrest, I will inform you tout suite. Here’s your feedback: you’re a pathetic worm. Regards, H.R.

Joker didn’t make me want to kill anybody, but Ad Astra definitely did.

By Rory Clark

DC’s newest foray into serious filmmaking has been mired in controversy recently; particularly the Joaquin Phoenix fronted Joker, in cinemas as of October 3. Detractors have argued that the film’s focus on lone acts violence committed by frustrated white men draws disturbing parallels to real world events and possibly inspiring copycat acts. However, despite any arguments to this effect, nothing could instil me with murderous rage quite as much as fucking Ad Astra did. I’m serious, it took 100% of Joker’s runtime to even give me the slightest half- chub for murder, however this was achieved within almost 15 seconds of having to endure Brad Pitt’s overly mopey visage gracing the theatre screen. I swear to god, any university educated inner city “journalist” who considers Joker a threat to societal values should sit themselves through the opening titles of Ad Astra and try to convince me they don’t feel like booting a small dog the length of a football field.

While I understand that creating empathy for a mentally unhinged loner with fantasies of violent revenge could be considered irresponsible, it can’t be nearly as irresponsible as subjecting and entire audience to a sequence in which Brad Pitt moodily attempts to make a phone call to his absent father. I mean goddamn dude, you’re on Mars, enjoy the scenery for Christ’s sake. I’ll admit Joker contains some pretty disturbing implications as to the visibility and publicity that society attaches to violence, but this wasn’t nearly as disturbing as a sequence in which Brad Pitt uses a metal panel as a shield to pass safely through an asteroid field, a feat which is physically impossible. I was Attila the Hun following this scene; I was the Scourge of God. I rode my horse of indignation across the steppe, leaving entire populations decimated in my wake.

CORRESPONDENCE To: mrskirby@hotmail.com

From: The Hilarian Editorial Team Dear Monique, (or would you prefer to be referred to by your Instagram handle, @KirbysLittleGirl?). We would like to thank you greatly for your submission to Hilarian Discourse. We asked our readers to submit tribute pieces in honour of Michael Kirby AC CMG’s 80th birthday earlier this year, and we were blown away by the high quality of submissions. Unfortunately your piece “Why Michael Kirby is my spirit animal” was not selected for this edition, or any future edition, or for publication...anywhere... ever. We thought you may appreciate hearing the following feedback, to allow you to improve upon future submissions. First of all, we prompted contributors to perhaps highlight the most influential aspects of Kirby’s public presence since leaving the High Court bench. It is safe to say that a single line stating that “he is just so YES!!!” he is my spirit animal!! I disent [sic] ahhah!!!” doesn’t quite attain the level of academic rigour we were looking for. Your paragraph titled “Analysis of Kirby’s dissent through the lens of judicial activism” started off promising, but was far from insightful. While it is difficult

to pinpoint precisely where this analysis fell flat, it may well have been around the point at which you drew comparison between Kirby’s career and the 1993 Nintendo video game, Kirby’s Adventure.

Hilarian Discourse is a platform for razor-sharp intellectual discussion and debate. It follows that listing all the bodily crevices in which you wish to insert Kirby’s gavel (an object, I note, that has never been used in the Australian judicial system) does not quite fall within the scope of the segment. It was somewhat of a red flag that your piece made no reference whatsoever to any of Kirby’s decisions or any academic commentary. In fact, all of your footnotes appeared to be poorly cited references to the ‘Dank Law Memes’ Facebook page. It is often said that a picture tells a thousand words. But after viewing the poorly photoshopped image of you and Michael Kirby on a beach as contestants on The Bachelor, I was left speechless. As a final point, the constant references to Michael Kirby being your “daddy” were, quite frankly, disturbing. Once again, we thank you for your submission and look forward to reading more of your work in the future. Kind regards, The Hilarian Editorial Team

How I was Haunted by the Ghost of Ligertwood. **Censored by the AULSS Censorship Officer It’s a little-known fact that Hilarian editors are required by Law School rules to stay behind and conduct a review of past editions every year. This is an important aspect of our prestigious role and one I took seriously in volunteering to undertake the review immediately after being appointed editor earlier this semester. Interestingly, the previous editor, whom I replaced, had been conducting the review before his abrupt retirement. I had asked why it had not been completed (the Hilarian has an illustrious but stunted decade-long history) but I received little in the way of answers from my mysteriously hushed co-editors. I was simply told that he had managed to review the editions from this year until 2016 but there remained many more to go through until I hit the supposed ‘first edition’ of the Hilarian from early 2010. Last Thursday I finished my seminars just as the sun set over Ligertwood and went to the LSS office (a room for important people and important business) and picked up from where my predecessor had started, sorting through the magazines. I became transfixed on

the ancient tomes of Hilarians past, thoroughly noting the mistakes, pithy comments and gay porn** memes generously provided by those who had written for this magazine over the years. Pages flicked before my eyes until they were nought but a blur. A stack of pages grew like a hand rising from the grave before me, until finally a wheezing cough snapped me from my haze of editorial madness. I looked up from my work to come to the shocked realisation that it was nearly midnight. Only the ghoulish fluorescent security lights from the “New Columbo Plan Graduates” (good job renaming it guys) Court illuminated the world outside from the LSS office. I had momentarily forgotten the rasping guttural cough I had heard, but I snapped to after realising I could not place its source. I felt a cold wave of terror as I surveyed the oppressively dark foyer which was hardly visible beyond the door of the LSS room. Who was out there, crouched in a dark corner or slowly creeping across the Ligertwood carpet, watching me as I sat reading with my back to the door.

Suddenly a pale face materialised in the gloom, staring intently at me and then rushing forward as I fell back in terror.

I packed up my things quickly, and just before I exited the building I heard the cough again.

‘Oh G’day Lachie! What are you still doing here?’ said Dale Stephens who had evidently stayed behind for some reason or other. He peered down at me as I had fallen backward into my pile of Hilarians in horror.

Before I could turn, a wistful, rasping voice spoke, from right behind me.

‘Must be some really interesting stuff to have floored you like that! Anyway, I’ve got to get my train!’ he said as he turned to leave. Just before he exited I called out to him, saying I hope he gets over his cold.

‘Why did they name such an ugly fucking** building after me’. I sprinted out of the building and never stayed after dark again. Legend has it, you can hear the voice if you stay in the bathrooms after dark, look into the mirror and say: Ligertwood, Ligertwood, Ligertwood.

‘What cold?’ ‘I heard you coughing’ I said. Dale turned to me, all of a sudden serious as if he was about to talk about mutuality of risk on the battlefield. ‘I don’t have a cough. You should really finish up before midnight and get home’.

You want to know why society is so polarised? Look at how we treat regular old Australian milk. Whatever happened to the Australia we knew and loved? I look around to the things I once recognised, my bottle-o, my local servo (I tell you with all these OTR’s popping up it’s going to be me on the run soon), my misso (you’ve taken your foot off the gas lately, love) and I can almost feel a tear forming from where I used to cry – my tear ducts dried up when the Clipsal changed its name. Everything is changing, the only language this new generation understands is entitlements, handouts and handys. Some lefty ‘scientists’ say you can’t pinpoint this generational change, but I am telling you now that it all changed when these treesuckers declared war on our true-blue Australian milk. The amazing thing is that this new generation preaches the lefty double of tolerance and acceptance, well I’ve got a double for you – a double standard. How can you speak of tolerance when half of you refuse to drink good old-fashioned milk – lactose intolerance, sound familiar? What’s the excuse, can’t stomach it? Well I guess we have one thing in common because this generation makes me feel physically sick.

Just like a group of people sucking out the air of the room, these ‘milk’ varieties have sucked the soul out of our society. How can almonds even make milk without breasts? It’s an udder disgrace. It’s the reason why every Mary, Stacey and Nicole spends $1,500 on a christening for their shit-eating kids but not a cent to support our dairy farmers. This country went to shit the moment we traded milkMEN for soy-boys, I’ll take my milk moustache over your soy-boy beard any day. Since when was it not ‘politically correct’ to say ‘Merry Milkmas’? What is this raggity-ass, unspecific ‘Happy Drinking’ bullshit I hear these days? These hypocrites want an unhomogenised, multicultural society, yet they won’t support unhomogenised full cream milk with the creamy creamy on top? Psychopaths. Let’s get back to trueblue values, let’s get back to a White Milk Australia policy. So you want a solution to this shit-show? Drink your fucking milk.

How Jennifer Lawrence perfected her Russian accent in the 2018 Romantic Comedy, Red Sparrow. Unfortunately, ever the humble actress, Jennifer insisted on a low-key cafe on the shores of Byron Bay. After a brief introduction, we were sat in our chairs, our eyes drawn to our handwritten menus that informed us that eggs cost $33 (+5 with haloumi). Not a moment after I had thanked Jennifer for her time, ‘Jenny from the stock’ let her ‘average girl’ persona be known by taking her shoes off at the table. Ms Lawrence has a net worth of USD$130 million, yet clearly my appetite was worth nothing. ‘So, what do you want to know?’ Jennifer asked after a sip of her perspiring glass of freshly poured Fiji water. ‘The accent, Jennifer’, I say as if she already knows, ‘the Russian accent you perfected in Red Sparrow, I want to know, all of Hollywood wants to know, hell, even Russia wants to know, how did you do it?’. A grin that would be considered smug on anyone but Ms Lawrence formed, ‘shall we begin?’ said Jennifer with absolute resoluteness. For what seemed like three sunsets, Jennifer detailed her painstaking transformation into Dominika Egorova, a woman whose sexual appeal could only be matched by her intellect.

For Jennifer, it was simple, as everything was. Each day would start with hot yoga, a chia seed and Greek yoghurt cool-down meal would be next. The creative fire that burned within her as an actress was lit by her work as an activist in support of women’s rights. Unfortunately, Jennifer noted, ‘the hot yoga gets to your head’, undoubtedly referencing the numerous occasions on which she thanked Harvey Weinstein during acceptance speeches. Jennifer always followed chia yoghurt with some interpretive dance, undoubtedly interpreting someone without shoes on. ‘But Jennifer’, I queried, ‘none of this seems to pertain to how you perfected your Russian accent, when did you get time to prepare for your role?’. For Jennifer, the shoes were off and honest words were flying like a Russian ballistic missile into a commercial airliner – ‘I just knew how to do one, that was the extent of my preparation’. It was at this point of the interview I knew I had wasted my employer’s money, of course, Jennifer Lawrence need not prepare for a Russian accent. She, like the greats before her, are simply conduits for the personas they are asked to perform, no preparation was required. For the period of filming ‘Red Sparrow’, Ms Lawrence was Dominika Egorova, and I was just a humble spectator witnessing greatness.

How to lose a Rye in 10 days. I’ve lost the Rye and I don’t know why. What went wrong? When I started this month’s column, I wanted to write in solidarity with those who can’t put down the breadsticks, the baguettes, the banana bread (might be a cake) and the vitawheat (it’s not healthier, stop). The plan was simple, adopt a fresh, French-baked Rye bread loaf and ditch it by the wayside by making it 10 days without eating it. What I actually did was make the biggest mistake of my life. The first five days may have made you staler, but it grew my heart fonder, with each wholegrain you filled a hole containing pain. There was a magic to your crispness, and no, it was not because French Harry Potter calls a magic wand ‘baguette magique’, it was because you were the only thing that could pair ham and cheese appropriately without getting called ‘weird’ for trying to instigate something between a cow and a pig. Who cares, I ate it, call me ‘thunder thighs’, but just know that these eyes are forever and exclusively, for wholegrain ryes.

I did exchange and that means I’m better than you. I did exchange, and that legitimately means I’m better than you (if you didn’t do exchange) and even if you did (if you only did one semester abroad). Some people might see this article which bears a title and possesses an attitude which seem satirical and even ironically arrogant and perhaps assume this is a ‘send-up’, jest, joke or jibe. This article’s publication in the Hilarian, a humour and variety magazine of some international acclaim I’m sure will only add to this suspicion. I can assure those people this is not. the. case. I am better than you, and the reason for this is because I have done exchange. I want to talk about this. Are you bilingual? If you are, statistically it is because you were born into a family with a second language and grew up with an unfair advantage over the rest of us. I speak the language of love (langue d’amour) French (Français) simply because of my grit and determination, and because of my exchange. If you only

speak English I’m surprised you’re reading this magazine as it is for educated people who are undertaking intellectual pursuits at university, you unsophisticated, uneducated philistinish uniglot. How about intercultural communicatory experience? If you haven’t been on exchange, you haven’t got it. Ever heard of globalisation? I wonder what all the multinational corporations that own the majority of Australian businesses and control the majority of large Australian corporate law firms will think when you say ‘Aw yeah nah only talk ta Aussies aye’. I can’t imagine this will go down well. Whereas my mastery of foreign culture and etiquette (a French word I learned on exchange) will immediately put me in my rightful place above you. Seen the world? Maybe for a few weeks, right? Did you do an Instagram post saying, ‘you were wonderful Croatia’? I went to Croatia every weekend on a flixbus and I didn’t feel the need to spend all of my time rushing from landmark

to landmark to land the perfect ‘snap’ as you’d call it, I had plenty of time to take it all in. Did you know it looks stupid when you say, ‘I’ll miss you Paris’? Cities can’t talk, and if they could they’d lambast you for saying such generic drivel when you should just say ‘I went to Paris’ instead. Culturally, I outrank you. I have seen the greatest the Ukrainian photography community have to offer, nestled in one of the many underground theatres located within fantastical Soviet architecture. I suppose you’ve been to Bird in Hand? Again, my exchange has proved invaluable here. I’d like you to think of the consequences, however. Psychologically, knowing I am only better than others because of my exchange is deeply unsettling. I find myself waiting until my colleagues have passed the deadlines for exchange applications before I can rest easy about them, knowing that they will ascend to my ranks if ever they are accepted. I find

myself shivering in pure rage when I see another University of Adelaide student walking into the Study Overseas office, knowing deep in my heart that another has joined my ranks and reduced my uniqueness and superiority. I shall take as my solace these advantages that I have described to you in this article, particularly in the area of employability. Oh, that notification must be my acceptance to Freehills Melbourne. Let me just check…

‘With a clear interest and history in international relations and international issues, the question was raised as to your interest in commercial law. As such you were unsuccessful.’ Merde.

I can’t get off until I’ve read the entirety of Donald Horne’s The Lucky Country.

Not even by reading the sensual and seductive description that Donald Horne gives of the forward-moving nature of Adelaide as a city in ‘eleven cities’ at the beginning of chapter 3 of the illustrious and celebrated work can get me going, and I used to get turned on by the curves of the mall’s balls.

There are a lot of freaks and geeks in this world, particularly in the orbit of the University of Adelaide, I know cause I’m one of them.

But the pure self-satisfaction you receive upon finishing the work and being one hundred percent prepared to tell your uncle off for using the phrase ‘the lucky country’ to describe Australia in a positive context when clearly Donald Horne intended it in a somewhat insulting manner, gives the scintillating kick of control more than any curved metal object ever could.

It started early in the semester when I trapped myself in a torturous psychosomatic program. I made my usual Thursday night call to a friend who does nursing at Flinders for our usual ravenous coital session while perusing the premier chapter of the famous and much-touted analysis of 1960s Australia. Confirmation on the time was in four hours, and I occupied the menial and morose mean-time by reading the sensational critique of Australian culture.

If you’re looking for a way to spice up your love-life and crave a similar sense of power in the bedroom be sure to visit Dymocks in Rundle Mall and mention that you ‘crave the dominance provided by Donald Horne’s The Lucky Country’ for 20 percent off the penguin books paperback edition.

Somewhere within this process, the wires were crossed and any hope I may once have had for a normal and healthy sexual ritual (my usual candles and rose petals, glass of spring seed sparkling shiraz and bath bombs) was out the window. For the last eight weeks only reading the entirety of the phenomenon, which was once described as a ‘bucket of cold saltwater emptied onto the belly of a dreaming sunbather’ can get me ready to empty a bucket of anything onto someone’s belly.

Brones’ Groanses Opinion: The Youth of today need another extinction-level event to teach them the value of hard work. By Murray D. Brones

When I was a little tacker, I had the godgiven pleasure growing up in an uppermiddle class family of property developers and sugar cane farmers in the tightly policed paradise of Sir Joh’s Queensland. My father, Maximal Brones III, built his empire on the classic Australian virtues of hard work, true grit, and finding legal loopholes through which to avoid paying thousands of Polynesian migrant workers. I inherited this keen business acumen, and am proud to carry on the legacy of a true Australian work ethic, which I will in turn pass on to my own offspring once I am gone, along with a majority of my vast estate and all of my assets. It was a particularly sweltering Queensland day upon which I found myself engaging in my usual ablutions, slathering my sluglike sexagenarian body with mayonnaise and taking in the usual righteous conservatism bravely put forth

by the cultural patricians at Sky News. During this session that I was confronted by a most hellish vision, that of a young Greta Thunberg spouting her alarmist drivel in the most adversarial of fashions. Now usually I’m fine with young women having opinions of some fashion, however what I saw was largely endemic of broader problems with today’s youth. Everywhere I look I see unwashed, unemployed Doc Marten-clad “Millenials” pounding the pavement and causing an unsightly scene over such nebulous demands as “affordable tertiary education” and “responsible climate policy”. It’s enough to make me spasmodically let loose with my right shin and send my youngest son, Darius, hurtling through the 24” plasma.

enough “meIt’sspasmod

loose with m shin and sen youngest son hurtling thro

”

24” plasma.

Despite my reactionary frustrations, times like these lead me to yearn for the youthful values of yesteryear. Whatever happened to the Greatest Generation? Those brilliant pioneers who, in the face of the most destructive conflict in human history, emerged to forge one of the greatest eras of prosperity in modern history? Such eras are testaments to the effect that true hardship has on a generation of people. As such, I put it to you that unprecedented and devastating climate catastrophe is the true answer to millennial problems.

I know what you might be thinking;

“But Murray, surely an unmitigated global catastrophe such as manmade climate change would only result in widespread ecological devastation and geographical change, which would eventually snowball into broader economic and humanitarian disasters which may in turn become the trigger conditions for desperate and brutal conflicts in which humanity ultimately cannibalises itself?”

h to make dically let my right nd my n, Darius, ough the

”

To this I say, Toughen up snowflake; there are no “safe spaces” in the real world.

Every night I close my eyes. Every night I see apocalyptic, beautiful visions of avocadofixated millennial whingers inhabiting a Mad Max-style Darwinian hellscape of burning sands and super cool leather outfits. As I further rub mayonnaise into my crevasses, I envision the most worthy survivors rising from the scorched remains of the lesser, ready to take their place as the true “Greatest Generation”. The final generation. Anyway, this concludes Brones’s Groanses for this week’s issue of The Advertiser. Come back next week for my exclusive interview with Caleb Bond on the topic of even narrower bicycle lanes for Frome Street.

The ultimate guide to pleasing the family of a Greek girlfriend if you yourself are unfortunate enough to not be Greek.

Never did I think that writing in a law school magazine would hit such a personal and traumatic level of relevance based on experience.

To compensate with my ongoing resistance, my mother generously extended a priority list of amicable suitors:

In 2003 the world watched as Toula Portokalos married Ian Miller in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, where white people utilised generations of genuine suffering and relatability as a form of entertainment. If, like Toula and I, you are the product of third generation migration, you will be familiar with a simple acronym emphasised by family as your one life goal. Securing the GGB. Good Greek Boy. A rare and impossible breed of mankind, these three qualities instantly repel each other, and present a challenge for the willful seeker. You may have 2 of the 3 options in any order, just not all three together. Just because Kakavas was in the Crown, it does not mean he was up to any good.

1. The GGB 2. The Orthodox Slav (because although Dragan is a Serbian plumber with mild substance abuse issues, he IS Orthodox) 3. The European 4. The foolish Aussie 5. There is no number five. So, if you find yourself deeply infatuated with someone ranked from 2-5 and in dire need of assistance, please know I have zero success stories. Regardless, provide them my own take on a beneficial acronym which may secure a more pleasant experience â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the CCCC.

1. Conformity. Welcome to the new you. Marriage Inequality? Sure! Greatest basketballer of all time? Antetokounmpo! Economy? It’s fine! Help me hide a body? Okay! You’re an asshole. I am! 2. Compensation. A tough pathway but possible to navigate, impress with the security of your future occupation requiring a minimum of a 5 year university degree. A neat safety net for conversation, parents will dismiss backhanded cultural concerns expressed by family friends for a doctor.

4. Conversion. Farewell Pope Francis, welcome to the less-trendy vegan festival we call Easter Week. Embrace Eastern Orthodoxy with open arms and release any opinion on healthy spiritual debate, or the Christening of your future children. With these simple steps that only require the full sacrifice of your sanity, individuality and independence, you are well on your way to being allowed in the house.

3. Cash. If there is anything that deeply impresses people with a habit of financial instability, it’s a fat bank account and the security of a lavish home with a pool. Your family money will have them handing their daughter over, but still insisting on paying for the wedding.

T O

From the Australian Bar Association to just a bar (where you drink): The rise and fall, then another rise, then the subsequent fall of South Australia’s most infamous litigant, and the journalist who lost it all. The second installment of the nail-biting report by Dick Wolff. Previously on Hilarian Untold, we learnt of the tragic tale of Chad Smithers: the former red- hot litigator that disappeared off the face of the earth after the search for his family’s killer turned him insane. In a harrowing turn of events, our exclusive reporter Dick Wolff was contacted out of the blue by a man our experts now believe to be Chad Smithers. The story picks up today right where we left off, where Dick Wolff sits waiting at Danny’s Thai Bistro for the mysterious meeting... PART II. I sat and stared longingly into my king prawn pad thai, slowly sipping from my glass of lemon, lime and bitters. I look down at my watch. 9.16pm o’clock. Still no sign of Chad. There had been roadworks causing significant delays to outbound traffic on lower North East road earlier in the day, but he should be here by now. I’d barely touched my meal, which had now turned rock cold. I prodded at it with my chopstick. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your life. Now you are going to die.” I looked up in shock at the waiter. “What did you just say?” “I said that I hope you’ve enjoyed your meal, those spring rolls are to die for.”

“Oh, sorry. Yes I am, thank you.” “You’re a murdering bastard,” the waiter said. “What did you just call me?” “Oh I’m sorry, you must have misheard me. I said, ‘can I get you any table water?’” I nodded as he filled my glass. I stared around at the now-empty restaurant, beginning to lose hope that Chad would ever show his face. Perhaps it had all been some elaborate ruse. A few moments later the waiter returned to the table. “Are you done?” he asked. “Oh yes, sir. The pad thai was very flavoursome, and you were right, those spring rolls certainly had –” I was taken aback as the waiter sat down in the seat opposite me. “You didn’t let me finish,” he said, gritting his teeth. “What I was trying to say was, are you done fucking me over?” It was at that moment I knew something was up. I’d had some shonky service at restaurants in the past, and I was well aware of the stresses faced by those in the hospitality industry, but this bloke was well on his way to a less-than-positive review on Trip Advisor.

“Look mate. I mean no disrespect to the establishment you’re running here, but –” It was at that moment I realised I’d made a grave mistake. This man was no waiter. My journalist instincts kicked in, and I suddenly noticed that rather than wearing the staff uniform, this man was wearing cargo shorts, crocs and a torn singlet. His skin was battered and bruised, blood and dirt seemed to have found their way into every crevice of his body. He wore a bicycle helmet covered in alfoil. Beneath a great big bushy beard, shone two beady blue eyes I had seen so often in the courtrooms of yesteryear. “Chad. I can’t believe it’s you,” my voice trembled, “why have you brought me here?” “I need answers, Dick.” “What are the questions?” He pointed to my lemon, lime and bitters. “Had enough to drink, old friend?” “I’m sober, Chad. I’ll never touch another drop.” “And what about that,” he pointed to the steak knife sitting on the table, “you been playing with any sharp objects again recently?” “I’ve vowed never to touch another hacksaw again in my life. My dark past is behind me.” I’d said too much. “They were my everything, Dick. Why’d you have to take that all away?” A single tear rolled down his cheek, dropping into my chicken tikka masala. “My career meant everything to me, Chad. You of all people should be able to under-

stand that. I couldn’t let you take that away from me.” I lowered my voice as the restaurant manager wandered past. “Yes I made some mistakes, I’m big enough to admit that. But the defamation proceedings you brought against me pursuant to the Defamation Act 2005 and in line with common law authority would have been enough to destroy me. The award for damages you claimed, not to mention considerable solicitor-client costs, would have sent me bankrupt. I had no choice. You had to be stopped.” I could see Chad crumbling before my very eyes. What happened next was unimaginable. Imagine this: Chad stormed into the restaurant’s kitchen, pulled an 8 inch stainless steel chef ’s knife from its sheath. Then, eyes red with rage, knife outstretched, charged in a line of direction not dissimilar to one that a bee would make towards my jugular. They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. For me, as I lay writhing in a pool of my own blood, an 8 inch stainless steel chef ’s knife lodged in my oesophagus, I was taken back to the warm summers of my childhood in the Dutch countryside. I would spend my afternoons frolicking in the tulip fields with my brother Dirk and sister Gretel, before father would call us in for freshly baked bread and jam. I can still remember the familiar beep of the oven. Beep. Clear. Beep. As I sat at the dining table, my dad placed his oven mitts over my chest. Beep. “I think we’re losing him,” he shouted. Beep. Clear. Beep. I woke with a jolt in a hospital bed, unable to move, speak or even talk. Read PART III of this harrowing tale in the next edition of The Hilarian.

To Test, Or Not To Test, That Is The Question* *No it’s not – ALWAYS test

Many people wonder: do I need an STI test? Well, this can be determined by answering this simple question:

AIDS? Denying you have an STI won’t make it go away, so it’s better to test it and treat it.

Have I had sex?

So where can you get an STI test? One option is your GP. They know you likely feel comfortable around them. However, if this is not an option for you there is also SHINESA and Adelaide Sexual Health Centre. Both services take walkins, can provide interpreters if needed, and test free of charge. Happy testing!

If the answer to this question is ‘yes’, GO GET A TEST.1 Now, what does an STI test entail? Let me make this clear: it is NOT pissing in a cup and walking away. Urine tests, or swab tests if you want nextlevel discomfort (for next level sexual health!), test for two things: chlamydia and gonorrhoea. That leaves herpes, HPV, HIV, hepatitis and syphilis free to recklessly party through your body. In order to get a full STI test, you need to get an examination and a urine/swab test and a blood test. Don’t like needles? Me neither, in fact I’ve only made it through 1 blood test without crying. But would I rather go through this minor trauma than have my untreated syphilis take my deranged self on a murder spree in the name of God?2 Or my unknown and unmanaged HIV progressing to

1 Of course, there is an exception if you’ve only had sex with one person who has also only had sex with you, but I feel this is a minority. 2 This was the plot to a Law & Order: SVU episode. Is it factually true? Who knows, but do you really want to risk it?

24 Hour Justice: A novel way to end court backlogs. By Felix Eldridge Backlogs in the Australian court system have been a consistently overlooked issue for years. While the causes can result from any combination of sporadic rises in crime rates, shortages in available judges, staffing and resource shortages, bloated bureaucracy in the court system and other reasons, this issue must be resolved. While you could attempt more ‘traditional’ methods of dealing with the backlogs, such as employing more judges, building more courtrooms, providing additional funding and reducing judicial red tape etc, there are alternative options that are less expensive and boring. For instance, we could just pile more work on judges. Judges work certain fixed hours for a fixed pay. This is an inefficient use of taxpayer money. Judges should not be paid a fixed salary and should instead be paid an hourly rate. Those who don’t call into work due to selfish reasons (e.g. poor health and stress) shouldn’t be paid.

Now some people might think, why would judges wish to continue working? The answer is quite simple. We would award them penalty rates. Just provide incentives for them to work on weekends, holidays and overnight to make up for lost income. The gig economy is taking over societies, why should the judiciary be exempt from this? And this isn’t just for judges in the state jurisdictions. Federal judges should also be pulling longer hours. The High Court has months of recess (which is the judicial word for a paid holiday), which could be better used by working them to the bone in order to deal with our backlogs. Now, a less discerning reader might say that expecting judges to plough monotonously through the same old sorts of cases at twice the speed will put a strain on them, but there is a solution to that too: casual judges. If the penalty rates idea was brought in, then judges could opt to work certain hours in other courts to liven things up. A High Court Justice by definition must be able to adjudicate disputes between states and between commonwealth entities, so they could theoretically become casual judges of inferior courts such as state supreme courts and the Federal Circuit Court. Just think, we could have seasonal work in different states. A WA judge could choose to pull a three-month trip to the Sunshine Coast during winter for a working holiday.

Furthermore, to ensure that these changes hold up in Parliament, we would have to pass a law preventing judges from unionising. No one wants judges doing enterprise bargaining, taking industrial action or in general complaining about poor working conditions. This kind of thinking must be stamped out. Finally, we should absolutely consider revising the age cap for judges. Many people believe that the reason judges must retire at the age of 70 is because they can become unfit to adjudicate cases properly, or even begin to go senile. This is an absolute lie! The reason we have this cap is because judges have been lobbying for decades to retire early and access their generous pension packets. With the average life expectancy rising, we should force them to retire at the ripe old age of 90 in order to prevent these lattĂŠ sipping millennial inclined judges thinking they can rort the super scheme and expect quiet enjoyment of their land in early retirement!

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