GrodsCorp has long been scathing of Sally Morrell’s vacuous and anti-intellectual dribblings in the Herald Sun, but anti-blogging blogger Jim Schembri has staked a serious claim for the Sally Morrell equivalent at The Age, having written one of the most stunningly vapid grade eleven essays to ever be shat onto the opinion page. The lame by numbers article begins:

When taking the weighty decision to get into shape by investing in a “home gym”, one must stay focused on the primary purpose of the enterprise, which is to get healthy and prolong life, not to kill yourself while attempting to operate the aforementioned home gym. Thus, I heartily recommend to anyone contemplating the purchase of a bargain-priced treadmill to get their head examined, promptly.

Even if anyone gave a flying fuck about the process of buying a treadmill, or if the subject of buying a treadmill was worthy of the opinion page, Schembri doesn’t provide any insight into the subject, instead rolling out the most pathetic cliches and tired jokes imaginable.

You should have heard this chick [salesperson] go. She went on about how much time it would save, about energy-burning co-efficients, about reduced joint stress, the in-built calorie counter, the free pedometer. She even worked in a reference to NASA, which I didn’t quite catch, but it had something to do with anti-gravity technology or exercising in orbit. She made it sound too great, and her enthusiasm was so infectious I felt that leaving the store without this treadmill would be the biggest mistake of my life. So we rang it up and home it came.

Still awake? If so, I bet you’ll never guess what happened next.

Assembling it was a trial, and for a while it looked like I was going to burn more calories putting the thing together than I ever would using it. But once it was in one piece I felt the world open up before me. “This is it,” I thought. “I shall be Adonis, just like the guys in the gym.”

He had trouble assembling it! How original! I bet you’ll never guess what happened next.

Then I got on and gave it a go. Or tried to. I need to stress here that there was nothing wrong with the machine. All the parts moved the way they were supposed to. It merely required ventricle-bursting strain to get the thing going. Sweat showered off me. You know those old movies about ancient Egypt where you see the slaves pushing those big stone blocks up the ramps to build the pyramids? Those guys are my brothers.

He didn’t like using it! How original! I bet you’ll never guess what happened next.

So what was I to do? What else? Leave it right there, in the middle of the living room. Eight months later the treadmill wound up the way 95 per cent of all home-gym equipment winds up: covered in towels, jackets, socks and shirts. I was going to sell the dreaded thing but then thought, no, this is actually garbage, so the next hard-rubbish day it was gone. I even watched through the window as they carted it away.

He didn’t use it and it sat in the corner collecting dust! How original!

Jim Shembri, you are the hackest of hacks. You are a disgrace to the profession of journalism. If anyone needed any further proof that The Age was a paper no longer worth even a tenth of the cover price they need look no further than the presence of this abomination on today’s opinion page.

Oh, how the mighty Fairfax has fallen.

I clicked on the link so I could give you a synopsis of the video but Fairfax wanted me to watch a 15 second ad for Telstra Bigpond before I could find out if Britney’s dad is turning her into a zombie.

Fuck that.

Cover the actual news on your news website with advertising dressed up as news for the first ten seconds after your readers arrive at your site.

Genius.

Can Melbourne’s shittest broadsheet tabloid do anything more blatant than this shit to reinforce its image as being parochial, content-free and pathetically focused on ad-bait lifestyle filler?

Coming next week: Melbourne’s best laneways. Coming the week after that: ten best coffee shops in Melbourne

John Surname has noticed before that at The Age they love themselves their Facebook. And if today’s frontpage is any indication their addiction is getting worse.

Andrew Bolt asks a question of a rival newspaper that his own employer, The Herald Sun, would do well to answer.

Doesn’t The Age care if reporters have strong, declared sympathies that call into question their ability to report even-handedly?

The Age loves to get its readers to do the journalism for them. This morning there were widespread delays across the train network and instead of walking across the road from The Age’s office to Melbourne’s largest train station for a few pictures of the “chaos”, they’ve asked readers to take the snaps instead.

Shameless.

…but isn’t there something odd about the man’s facial expression considering the scene behind him?

Note: Please do not click play. It is not a video, it’s a picture.

If you ever want to write an easy blog post, all you have to do is click on a contentious article in the Herald Sun and read the comments left by those pitchfork wielding rednecks who often seem confused by the confounded keyboard. “All them keys! The pictures…they’re…moving!”

Sadly, these idiots have apparently worked out how to make it to The Age’s website. Today The Age published an article on Indigenous people being concerned that the latest batch of tourism advertising promotes “trampling” of their culture. Fair enough, right? Would you graffiti the Vatican? Or urinate in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher?

Of course not. But for some reason, even though Indigenous culture goes back over 60,000 years (yes, that’s even before Jesus), Aboriginies should take their made-up “culture” and get fucked. Or at least that’s how readers of The Age see it:

“Typical. The aborigines (sic) are never happy. I am sure if they were paid they would say their ancestral spirits were at peace. The biggest problem with aboriginal (sic) ‘culture’ is that it is undocumented. So they make things up as they go. Oh my God, there’s money in it! Look another sacred site!”

“Of course this issue has come up. I smell a con for cash as compensation. “

“I suspect the filmakers (sic) sought and were granted permission. I also suspect that the people complaining did not get any kickbacks from the filming of Australia.”

“Will they ever be happy ??”

I can’t imagine what didn’t get approved. I’ll be updating this post throughout the day with new comments as they come in. As I write this, eight comments have been posted, and all of them are negative towards Indigenous people.

Aren’t Australians just salt of the earth?

In a blatant attempt to bury potentially embarrassing material, the Victorian state government has today tabled over 200 reports in Parliament.

With criticism-worthy nuggets of gold almost certainly hidden somewhere in the reports, you’d be forgiven for expecting Victoria’s broadsheet to do some — um, how you say? — journalism for us. You know, a bit of reading, analysing, questioning and reporting. But this is The Age, remember. That’s not how Fairfax rolls anymore.

You want journalism? Do it yourself.

The work experience kid was too busy writing tomorrow’s editorial to read all 200 reports

Perfect headline, isn’t it? Politics, shit and sweets, all rolled up in one irresistible package, promising a tale that couldn’t possibly disappoint.

And it doesn’t.

The short version of the story, just in case any Andrew Bolt readers have stumbled by (we all know you imbeciles don’t bother reading links), is that a woman kicked up a fuss over seating at a pub function and was allegedly given a free bowl of poo-smeared ice cream as a “placatory gesture”.

I worked in the hospitality industry for many years and saw some horrendous things (and heard of worse) … but this despicable act would take the chocolates, so to speak.

Anyway, here’s the bit that really impressed me:

Ms Whyte said she realised something was amiss when she brought a spoonful to her lips and “the stench went through my nostrils”.

“I retched and spat it out into the napkin,” she told News Ltd.

Notice the missing sentence between those two? I imagine it went something like this:

“SO I TOOK A BITE ANYWAY…”

Fair. Fucking. Dinkum. What would have to have been on this woman’s ice cream to dissuade her from putting a spoonful into her gob?

Yesterday GrodsCorp revealed this hideous Photoshop effort running on The Age’s website.

And today we can reveal this truly, truly, mindblowingly, fucking awful effort running on The Age’s website.

Surely they’re taking the piss. Surely.

How’s this piece of sensationalist stupidity on today’s Daily Telegraph website?

This graphic’s surely going straight to the artist’s portfolio.

And how about this pathetic effort in The Age last week?

There is so much wrong with this one that I don’t know where to start

Accidental fucktardery or a Mac-hating graphic designer’s subversive prank?

Apple’s Mac Pro running malicious crippleware

Little things go wrong all around the world, in all sorts of situations, every single day. Some are newsworthy but the vast majority are rather trivial.

For instance, sometimes commercial flights are delayed for a short time due to unforeseen circumstances. There might be a flight between Sydney and Christchurch that takes off less than two hours late due to a broken down tow truck and incorrectly secured baggage. Then the flight crew might chuck on some television entertainment to keep passengers occupied, and in the lamest of ironies they happen to play an episode of Fawlty Towers which features a character who bungles things.

All of this would be a bit annoying for the passengers, I’m sure, and it’s not exactly the best look for the airline, but is it newsworthy? Let alone headline worthy? Apparently The Age thinks “yes” on both counts.

After a series of blunders that kept one of its aircraft stranded on the tarmac for about two hours this morning, Qantas tried to calm passengers by screening an episode of Fawlty Towers.

“The irony was not lost on us,” said one passenger, Jock, who telephoned the Herald while waiting on the aircraft as it sat idle at Sydney airport this morning.

I hope I never meet “Jock” in real life because he sounds like a wanker. Imagine the kind of dipshit you’d have to be to call the newspaper to express your indignation that your plane has been delayed. Mind you, he’s exactly the class of braindead knob at which The Age seems to be pitching their newspaper (sic) these days.