ALIAS POOR YORICK

The thing is  I've been chatting with my profile enhancement team about 'keeping it real' & they've suggested that I need to drop that fourth wall and talk to you directly about the man behind the billionaire blogger, CEO of the vast blogging empire ALIAS POOR YORICK, rich and famous and adored by dozens. About the real me. Just an ordinary bloke. A regular dude. And I can assure you that fame and wealth have not changed me a bit. Sure there's the odd extravagance: I bought NZ as a weekender, and I can afford to floss with spider silk, but underneath all that I'm just a man who puts his trousers on one leg at a time. Obviously I'm a very busy man so I employ a team of specialists to put my trousers on, but I have spoken to the team leader and he assures me my trousers are in fact put on one leg at a time. Just like an ordinary man....  Perhaps if I take you through an average day - I wake up, skype Sting and we do a little yoga together, then I u

Justin Timberlake yesterday pleaded guilty to three separate charges of being Justin Timberlake and one secondary charge of attempting a crap joke when he refused to take a roadside sobriety test because the officer had not allowed him sufficient rehearsal time. Mr Timberlake was sentenced to six months of not being Justin Timberlake, and ordered to do 28 days of community service which will consist of lecturing Justin Bieber about the dangers of being too pretty. In other news from the People's Republic of America, Donald Trump has been found guilty on 457 charges of being Donald Trump both on a State and Federal level. Mr Trump's team of eight hundred and four lawyers have told reporters he will be appealing. There is so far no evidence of this & a totally legitimate world-wide survey taken over the weekend has revealed that approximately three billion people would really like Mr Trump to fuck off and die. And then fuck off some more. No further. Further. We can still see

  In a brief but terrifying speech last month Opposition Leader and Shadow Minister for Blunt Force Trauma, Peter John Edward Normal Name Dutton, said it was all the fault of foreigners and if we wanted to get more houses for real proper Australians we should put a stop to foreigners altogether before they come over here and buy up all our invisible houses and rent them out to their university student families with names like Tran and deWahlui and Ma Zedong.  You know I'm right, said Dutton, I've been right before and I'll be right again. It's all their fault, those darned foreigners. Why can't they just stay home and send their money without annoying us with their actual physical presence. I'm a busy man, spluttered Herr Von Dutton, and so are all the blokes in my shadow cabinet, even the girls. We've got nuclear power stations to build and sadly dated monetary policies to pursue. I simply don't have time to deal with people who have names that are impo

 Repeat after me. Deep-fake. It was a frame-up. I wasn't there, I didn't do it, you can't prove a thing. It wasn't real cocaine and when I find the bastard who sold it to me for $500 there'll be questions. I'm sorry, where was I ? Ah yes.  Now before you get into the gory business of implausible deniability you'll need a costume change. Pictured above is one of my personal favourites: Chinese opium smoking jacket, purple Pumas, and babyshit brown Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs (not shown) If you're the recently-deposed leader of a political party you may wish to accessorise with something like a paper bag containing with $200K in cash. Or a Maserati Quattroporte parked outside your humble ground floor electoral office. The purpose of all this flim flam is, of course, to dismay and confuse your persecutors. Remember, you are totally fucking innocent & appearing to be mildly deranged as well will do no harm whatsoever. Repeat after me: this is a deep-fake

 It was a day like any other day. Except it was dark, so it might have been night. I'd got up early to check out the Nikkei with a view to starting a bear run on Tesla stock because fuck Elon Musk Nothing personal, he just  really gives me the shits. I met him once, at Davos. Beat him at 3 dimensional chess and he still hasn't paid up, I mean it was only fifty grand and it was his idea to make it Krugerand. The OG of currencies. He accused me of cheating by knowing the rules, called me a poofter Star Trek tragic and stormed off. At least I can spell my childrens' names, I retorted wittily. Hey. I know. Let's see who can make the most anagrams of your name in one minute. Double or nothing. Or are you afraid of a challenge, Mr Lone Skum. Or should that be Noel Smuk. What about Mone Sulk ? Eh ? Eh ? But he was gone. Stormed off in a petulant frenzy. Which I still think is a stupid name for a car.                                                                           I&#

 It's Day 1463 of the Tour de France. Your Facebook feed is full of promos for Lifestyle Community real estate opportunities and funeral plans. And it's your birthday tomorrow. Your spouse got Putin & Rasputin the Borsoi Hounds and the fake Brett Whiteleys in the divorce settlement before buggering off to Noosa to spend some quality time with her Pilates instructor Pieter the former Olympic gymnast and professional Scandinavian. And it's your birthday tomorrow. You wouldn't mind so much if they hadn't fucked off with the last of the cocaine and your best three bottles of Grange Hermitage. And your favourite corkscrew. And it's your birthday tomorrow. You've spent the night watching Inspector Morse and repeats of Parliament Question Time. Bob Katter has just asked his usual colourfully incoherent question, rabbiting on about the contribution of Christianity to Modern Society. Something to do with having got rid of human sacrifice, Snake River Gods, and Sa