All the Oh Errol girls are tres ambivalent about the news that Intern Brownie has been offered a new fulltime gig and will be leaving us at the end of the year. Proud as punch and happy because we love him dearly, but kind of devo, because … well we’ll just miss seeing his confused little face around the office. Spilling Eccoccino on his Dragons jersey, accidentally wiping photocopy toner all over his face, purring when I tickle him under the chin.

Worst of all, it means the search is on for a new intern to take his place. Errol is a full-time enterprise you know. We can’t manage this shit on our own.

So while Jessica is already busy planning Brownie’s farewell party, I’ve been distracting myself poring through the pile o’resumes we’ve received in the past few weeks. Seems like the kids have heard about Brownie’s sweet hot tub deal and want a piece of the action.

One application letter had the name T.Carney on the back and weird spots of discolouration on the envelope so I just kinda left it sealed and threw it away. Joel Moon’s application was just a set of shirtless photos of him. HOW SHALLOW DO YOU THINK WE ARE, JOEL? Well I kept the photos, so probably quite shallow. But this is a business Joel, so don’t expect an interview.

Just kidding. You’re on the shortlist darlin.

I also binned a few that were unsigned and filled with mysterious white powder. I think we can all guess who they were from.

One in the pile really caught my attention though. After I finished licking the meat pie residue off Greg Bird’s letter, I realised it was one damn impressive set of references.

Now I already have a soft spot for the amazing Birdman. I know I usually say bitchy things about the Sharks, but what can I say? He’s a fiesty little pugdog. I like that.

I love his hilarious expression in his NRL ad with Ben Mendelsohn. I love his crazy Mexican bandido moustache:

… almost as much as his ridiculous lady-glasses. Bitch has no shame. I also like that.

I especially love his Ancient Rome-style tendency to gluttony. I would bet anything he also has a fetish for eating during sex. You know it’s true. True and hot.

But it was his reference from his (admittedly not always the most sportsmanlike) teammate Paul Gallen that really set him apart.

Looking for sophisticated humour? Look no further than Queensland, my friends. After the long, dark, soul-crushing night that was Origin II, we have woken to a morning of OMG HILARITY.

Thankfully, Kiki has already stepped in and posted something about Origin II so I’m spared from having to recap the bloodshed in its entirety, but to give you an idea of what you missed, it probably would have been a series of rants about:

* Why Allan Langer cannot deign to wear a suit even when he is named in the Queensland Origin Team of the Century. ARE YOU KIDDING ME ALFIE? A crappy screen-printed Industrie shirt is not acceptable outerwear for receiving a state-based honour in your chosen field (don’t even get me started on Artie Beetson and his T SHIRT);

* How my Blues crushed me in the heart with their lack of spirit, constant returns to ineffective dummy-half running and lack of any kind of creative spark;

* Why the kind of knee-jerk, media-influenced refereeing like Archer showed around the ruck on Wednesday night is the kind of bullshit that makes me infuriated with Rugby League. That and the complete inattention paid to the ten metre rule and the inconsistency on late entry to tackles. If you want to keep fans, how about you actually make a decision on what the rules are and stick with it? Hmmmm? Anyone?

(I know, right Willie? Look at his face, he totally agrees).

* How proud I was when Brent Tate made a break with the ball and my mum screamed out ‘ANYONE BUT TATTTTTTE!’ Seriously I had never realised before that moment that she can’t stand Brent Tate either. Aaaah, the wonders of genetics.

… then it would have been me trying to resist pointing out the Ref’s blidnness to Queensland forward passes, and failing, then a lot of profanity.

But after all the trauma, I wake up to the news that Greg Bird was arrested by Queensland police …. as a practical joke.

Oh, Queensland. You kill me. Just as you take a win on the field and assert your dominance, and we start to think maybe you’re not just foolish nutbags and rednecks from the North, you handcuff Gred Bird in a paddywagon the street for five minutes. I AM DEAD. You waggish constables! How droll you are!

The truth is I’m laughing, so in that sense, bravo kids. The image of moustachioed Greg Bird in a paddywagon is kind of funny. But if we’re being honest, I’m not really laughing with you, darlings. This is to practical jokes what the ‘Queenslander’ chant is to great literature.

But, oh, how good it feels to laugh again. Thanks, you crazy kids in maroon.

My joy is only dulled by the fact that I also woke up to see that Bird, aside from being the object of THE GREATEST JOKE IN HISTORY has also shaved off that fabulous moustache, which devastates me.

Sigh. I liked ‘Maudlin Mexican Bandido’ Bird so much more than regular Bird.

I think I need another Queensland joker to cheer me up.