(B)Advertiser love connections...

Non A-town dwellers will be unfamiliar with the shambles that is our state news rag, The (B)Advertiser. Luckily for you, this means you're also unfamiliar with the utter dreck that comprises Thursday's 'Adelaide Scene' liftout. After wading through ten pages of 'youth' directed drivel regarding movies, fashion and hot night spots, said reader is confronted with indisputable evidence that the ability to write is wasted on the dense. 'Miss (+ Mr) Adventure' is so perpetually awful that one wonders if Team (B)Ad are relying on donations from wealthy Eastside dwelling parents of wannabe journos. Such flagrant disregard for the notion of 'readable' can only be explained by the clanking sounds of money piles toppling in a rapidly filling vault.

Par example:

Some time ago, 'Mr Adventure (right then)' Rob Malinauskas expounded his considered opinion that being a fan of themed dress up parties did not in fact make him 'a fairy', but rather demonstrated his red blooded masculinity - because everyone knows that fancy dress parties are excuses for girls to dress up like prostitutes or schoolgirls, which could only result in said girls wanting to demonstrate their, shall we say, friskier hidden natures. The best part of Mr Rob's theory was that boys could never look actually dorky, because the very act of dressing up negates any dorkiness that might previously have existed. I have no pictures of Mr Rob, but I can assure you that such negation would work highly in his favour.

Anyway, last Thursday the current 'Adventure' team addressed the issue of Valentine's Day. Florence Tumbleturn*, she of the unattractive waistbelt and repetitive columns bemoaning her lack of a 'partner' (at 19! - girlfriend needs to listen to some Long Blondes...), effectively channelled years of singledom angst through a funnel of self hatred masquerading as disinterest and hastily reassembled the technicolor hue into a predictable treatise on why Valentine's Day is a load of malarkey due to the fact that 'people's problems don't just go away because they're eating dinner with 100 other couples!' Of course, she made sure to mention that, in case you were wondering, she's not actually bitter about being single this Valentine's Day because she'd much rather spend it with her family anyway as apparently this is what real love is.

I bet you all $483 million that Florence Tumbleturn is going to utter the following statement at least once today:

"OMG, it is like, totally heaps better being single than having to go to some crappy restaurant and I don't even like roses because they make me allergic so who even needs a boyfriend because I am just way too busy for one anyway!"

Then she is going to go to the living room and cry before stripping down to her slip so she can furiously clean the french doors to the pool area while slapping herself across the face. FACT.

Of course, (B)Ad's case was hardly helped by the non-entity that has been Mr Adventure for the past few weeks. It's not that there's anything particularly offensive about him - it's just that his entire schtick is so beigely reminiscent of girls who like ponies that, frankly, I can't even remember what his name is. For the purpose of identification, we'll call him Dawson Leary.

Dawson Leary's treatise on Valentine's Day consisted of the following sentiment packaged in slightly different and uninspiring sentences. Basically, the only way for a 'bloke' to come out trumps is to make sure the materialistic expression of his love inspires the envy of all his girlfriends' lady friends in the ritual dissection that will invariably take place on February 15. He does, however, warn against trumping too highly in case you come off as sleazy. He suggests bettering a fellow gentleman's romantic picnic with a trail of roses leading to a fancy hotel room might appear too desperate to the girl.

That or it might seem as if she'd just wandered onto the set of The Bachelor and had to carry around a stupid rose all night.

Personally, I'd quite like to take my gentleman friend to Hungry Jacks with a checkered tablecloth and some candles and pay the staff to give us table service. Unfortunately, he's boycotting the Jacks because they refused to serve him a thickshake one night when they were in the middle of cleaning the machine so my planned night of romance has been thwarted by circumstance. Blast.

In an entirely unrelated note but inspired due to the fact she was giving similarly inane advice to singletons on Channel Nine's Not Sunrise broadcast, has anyone noticed that Samantha Brett of Sam and the City blogging shame fame is actually Jennifer Aniston on what appears to be a successful time-travelling expedition from the year 1995?

Observe:

Samantha, irrefutable proof that the reading public have suffered a collective brain prolapse.


Jennifer, time-travelling mastermind extraodinaire.


The likeness is especially uncanny here, where Jennifer/Sam seems to be buckling under the weight of her own mediocrity. Poor lass.

Peace out (Let's all play count the roses on the schoolgirls...)

*Not her real name because unlike others I do not enjoy writing glorified Burn Books m'kay?