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Welcome to Denuto's Vibe, the online destination for all things legal and hilarious! We're a bunch of legal eagles with a wicked sense of humour, and we've created a space where creativity and good mental health can thrive. Just don't tell your boss we said that.

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ABOUT

Denuto’s Vibe is an online publication that produces informative, witty, comedic, and creative content written by lawyers, law graduates, and persons providing support services to the legal profession. The publication aims to foster creativity and good mental health within the legal industry for those with creative writing passions.

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The views expressed in this publication do not necessarily represent the views of The Legal Forecast, or its affiliates and sponsors, and does not imply an endorsement of them or any entity or person they represent. The names, characters and/or situations are fictitious and any duplication or reflection of reality is solely for artistic purposes. Views and opinions expressed by authors are those of the authors and may be satirical or parody in nature. If you have any questions about this disclaimer, please contact us at creative@thelegalforecast.com.

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Article ideas, creative works, and general submissions for Denuto’s Vibe can be made to the Editor at publications@thelegalforecast.com.

Ryan is an associate for major law firm who has been hopelessly clawing his way up the ranks for the last four years using chewed-down nubs where fingernails used to be.

Despite being an associate, his meagre salary (a victim of his poor negotiation skills each June) still would not cover the cost of his own advice… if he ever needed it.

In his most recent bout of anxiety, Ryan reports that was shaken awake at 3am last Thursday to the realisation that he also needed to stop freeloading off his education. When asked what was driving this newfound need, he simply shared that he would be ‘mortified if anyone else found out he was using his acquired knowledge off the clock to resolve personal issues’.

When probed further with which personal issues he was getting an edge on, he replied, “I have spent years studying certain laws, legal processes, and paperwork – I could prepare my own advice if I wanted to and avoid common pitfalls that a client would fall into, but it just wouldn’t be right. Who would even profit? I did the math, and it just doesn’t add up!”

Ryan handed over a few pieces of crumpled paper that he’d stashed in his pocket, mumbling an apology for the penmanship. This reporter notes that it could be mistaken for a three-year old’s handwriting, who seemed to use a jackhammer as a writing surface.

What was written on that ‘memorandum’ remained a mystery until this reporter handed it to resident handwriting expert, Joanna, who works as a pharmacist and is adept at deciphering the illegible scrawlings of GP’s everywhere. An extract of Ryan’s words has been reproduced below:

List of ways to stop being a law-bludger and impress my dad

• heavy post work drinking sessions with other lawyers in low tax brackets

• request and use firm-issued desk baton to inflict a low-to-mid level concussion after emailing the finalised advice (make firm wide protocol?)

• keeping useful knowledge documents out of sight

• avoid eye contact with other lawyers after-hours?

• talk to therapist about this list

• go into mind palace or dissociate every time a partner gives advice to protect the client’s privacy and value for dollar

• whisper learned secrets into coffee cups (the office wishing wells) before disposing into the bin

• take anti-anxiety meds?

• take up side hustle, get rich, be able to afford own advice

This reporter notes that after Ryan ‘donated’ this memo, he grabbed this reporter into an uncomfortably warm and slightly sweaty embrace over the café table, while whisper-screaming that “[he] needs to get back to the office before anyone notices… who knows how many billable minutes [he’s] just wasted talking about lists when [he] could be constructing advice [he’s] never going to be expensive enough to read – even for proofing.”

Somehow that’s still a junior lawyer's role.

Author: Ryan Aikens (pseudonym) | Editor: Dana Heriot

It’s Friday, 4:45pm in the firm. As the admins, paralegals and partners start to pack their bags, every solicitor under the age of 30 is gearing up for another rough Friday night of ‘who can stay the longest.’ Between a competitive market, inflation and rising interest rates, the young crowd of lawyers certainly feel the need to justify their main-character syndrome to their higher-ups. However, the group remained blissfully unaware that Jake was secretly gearing up for an early knock-off. 

At 5:00pm, a bunch of black-clad and balaclaved men breach the doors with suspiciously acquired temporary passes. Shouting hostilities and waving fists at the terrified bunch of white collars, they gag and grab Jake and drag him out by the arms and legs. The shocked young lawyers could only look on while Jake screamed for help as he was dragged back to the elevators and into an unmarked van.

5:30pm. Our reporter is on scene with Jake and his previously-balacaved friends in the Criterion, schooners in hand. Jake lets us in with our biggest scoop this month: the entire kidnapping was completely orchestrated so Jake could leave at 5pm.

“Yeah, the boys had just had enough of me turning up late after a while,” he says, between mouthfuls of Furphy. “I was too scared to talk to the partners about better work-life balance so we figured just orchestrating a kidnapping would be easier.”

“The hardest part would definitely have been stealing all the temporary passes from the mailroom. Oh yeah, and the police chase and ditching the van in the brown snake was a bit stressful too. But not as stressful as the anxiety associated with leaving work at 5pm,” he shudders. “I know I’m a lawyer but I’m also a millennial and confrontation just isn’t my thing.”

Back at the firm, there are tears as many of Jake’s colleagues are weeping into their keyboards as they try to process the traumatic events that had just unfolded. However, Jake’s mate Mia isn’t showing much emotion. 

“I was freaking out at first, but I’ve watched enough of Jake’s drunk Instagram stories to recognise his mates’ voices with my eyes closed. What a dog,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

“Not even mad though, it was well planned out. Next Friday I’m going to get the girls in here to shoot me with a tranquiliser dart and carry me out. I’ve already started stealing passes.”

Looks like more to come. 

Author: Christian Coulthard | Editor: Dana Heriot

The cafe in the foyer downstairs was far more than serviceable. Grant usually hit his first 'wall' of the day in the guts of the mid-morning, which always warranted a mosey away from the office to that lovely foyer cafe. 

Unplugged from the desk and unfettered by work-appropriate chit-chat, Grant was in all senses except clinical, dead to the world. However, with each step closer to the elevator doors, his podder to the foyer showed more of its true colours. 

It was all a front. Deception at its finest. 

He could never admit what for, not even to his wife. Just imagining that conversation made him shudder. 

The truth was, each day he unbridledly self-medicated with a triple-shot long black, and it obviously wasn't the amaretti biscuit the barista nestled atop his keep-cup that kept him coming back. It wasn't even the rampant caffeine addiction he'd developed as a consequence of foolishly overdelivering in his first few weeks of firm life. 

It was that magnificent 111 Eagle Street elevator. 

The glass walls were exquisite - hardly even noticeable. To the layman, they weren't there at all, but Grant was smarter than that. He knew that it was just free from the green tinge of iron impurities. Expertly crafted. Almost crystalline. 

He could rave about it for hours. It was an indisputably unhealthy obsession. 

The way the hyper-tensile cables didn't let out a peep dropping 26 levels in a matter of seconds made his mind pop in unison with his ears. 

The carpet somehow always smelt of new suede shoes and felt almost like a hug from his father, something he wished he got more of - how provocative. 

The way each floor button was embossed and gilded in what was presumably not real gold, but a very believable placeholder - breathtaking. 

Not much left Grant flustered, but that sultry DING indicating he had reached his destination overwhelmed him, so much so that he had recorded it on his phone on multiple occasions. 

It was a sensory and tactile daydream. 

The ride up to the office when he arrived, the ride down for lunch and his return for the second half of his day, and the final ride down for the day only gave him a measly four daily opportunities to bask in the glory of the idyllic girth of the shaft, the inaudible, almost entirely frictionless car guide rail and the unrevealed, yet indefectibly measured load of the counterweight. 

What was worse, he had to curb his enthusiasm when others were riding with him. A living nightmare for such an enthusiast. 

So, he treated himself - once a day, alone - to pure bliss. 

But today was different. Grant had a plan. He was going to claim that he'd left his wallet at the cafe. 

Genius. 

One more ride than usual. Naughty, but he had earned it. 

That morning, his newborn said her first word, 'Mama', but couldn't even string together a 'Da' let alone a 'Dada'. One might say he was quietly heartbroken had he not expressed to everyone in the office just how much he was crushed. 

A pick-me-up was in order. It was essential to his productivity at work and in maintaining familial homeostasis. 

Thank God for that elevator. 

DING

Author: Harry Jans | Editor: Dana Heriot

Imogen, a 3 year PAE lawyer, was spotted laying in a Brisbane gutter today. It is reported that she had emailed a document externally labelled FINAL - FOR EXECUTION with a broken clause reference.

Imogen explained (while face down in the street) that she had triple checked the document before sending it to an external firm, “I scrolled through it slowly for 30 minutes, making little edits. It was perfect until I decided to refresh the table of contents using the F9 key. Next thing I know, the other side is asking about the Error! Reference not found on page 3.”

“My life as a lawyer is over!” she whimpered, “I should have stuck with my COVID side hustle of making jarred jam in upcycled beer bottles!”

Before this reporter had the chance to ask about the practical use of such a vessel, Imogen’s phone rang with the word BOSS flashing on the screen.

“I’ll get right on it” she said professionally after answering, still face down, “what’s the urgency on this?”

Imogen was last seen slumping dramatically through the foyer of her work building, shaping eyeliner back into place and removing the various remnants of gutter litter from her jacket.

Time will tell whether she was just asked to clean out her desk. However, this reporter proposes that Imogen’s Type-A response to this small infraction means she should learn to simmer down… by a lot… and probably reduce her caffeine intake.

More to come.

Author: Annabelle Lee (pseudonym) Editor: Dana Heriot

The recently-minted partner called out to a few young grads from the edge of the Christmas boat, it has been reported. Sporting a messy moustache left over from Movember, he pulled beers from the tray for his reluctant interlocutors.

“How about the French? A company over there had to pay damages to a consultant because he wouldn’t join in the fun! He was complaining about a few drinks and some blokes acting on their impulses. Apparently, they fired him but I bet he forced himself out. So now companies won’t organise Christmas parties over there in case they get sued! Can you believe it?”

“This would never happen in Australia. Here everyone respects the happy folks over at HR. Cause they’ve got our backs! No, over here we know the fun and the work go hand in hand. That’s why we picked you here at a drinks event. Especially you, Cara!”

“I heard a rumour that after the court decision, the consultants at the company went on strike like it was Bastille Day! Consultants. Striking? What are they going to do next?”

“Hey, you! Mate! Yeah you, sorry I forgot your name, with the pinstriped shirt. Are you having fun? Or are you going to sue us too? Ha, ha.”

He handed out another round of beers from the tray.

It was reported that, long after the grads had walked away, he continued drinking with his arm resting against the railing, looking forlorn into the waves. He could be heard muttering to himself.

“And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past… yeah, I love Christmas parties.”

Author: Daniel Zola (pseudonym) Editor: Dana Heriot

Tuesday night at Eagle Street’s Pig ‘n’ Whistle, amongst the blur of corporate suits unleashing their self-proclaimed functioning alcoholism on a selection of craft beers, junior criminal lawyer Jasper Knotts (27) was deep in thought. 

Jasper was busy performing the complicated mental mathematical calculations as to whether another schooey of Gold would financially preclude him from filling up his 2004 Honda Civic with enough E10 to make it out to Cleveland courthouse tomorrow, where he would invariably cop a spray from the magistrate as to why his client had neglected to show up to his sentence for the third time in a row. 

Our reporter caught up with Jasper in the smoker's area, as his nicotine-stained fingers darted back from the ashtray, surreptitiously depositing several dumpers into his battered empty pouch of JPS blue.

“Yeah mate, it’s like this,” Jasper began, wiping his hands on his $50 K-Mart suit, “I love what I do. Now sure, the big corporate lawyers have their fat pay checks, fancy buildings and the prospect of sexy ‘Suits’ cosplayed dates with attractive rich people every Friday night…” Jasper trailed off, remembering an Instagram reel posted last night by two of his corporate lawyer mates on a junket to the Almalfi Coast with a group of supermodels. It made him conscious that the closest he’d gotten to getting laid in the last six months was when a 54-year-old offered a backrub in lieu of his fee, “but nothing beats fighting for justice!”

Our reporter nodded encouragingly, handing Jasper the first tailored cigarette he had enjoyed in a year.

“Cheers mate. So sure, my clients are an echo chamber of Shaggy's hit song ‘wasn't me’ who invariably never pay the fees anyway, but someone has gotta stand up for the little guy!” Jasper paused for a moment, wondering if his sermon would be recognised by the punters around him for the Atticus Finch-level soliloquy he desperately hoped it was. 

Our reporter coughed politely. 

“Oh right. So yeah, last time I asked my boss for a bonus he asked me if I believe in unicorns too. So whatever if my girlfriend left me for a fast food manager because he’s more ‘financially secure’? Who cares if my days are spent driving to every far-flung maggies court in town to get blasted by people who treat me like I orchestrated the damn Hindenburg disaster - at the end of the day its… its…”

“About justice?” Our reporter offered helpfully. 

“Yeah mate… Oi, you reckon I could still go for a clerkship at one of the big six?”

Author: Xavier Winchester (pseudonym) Editor: Dana Heriot

Once upon Eagle Street Pier-y

A law grad sat and pondered weakly,

“Should I quit while I’m ahead,

then quickly go and lay in bed?”

A ‘simple task’ was set before her,

or so-called by the older lawyer.

In her ears were placed her buds,

From far away you hear the thuds.

“I’m not okay” screamed MCR

Across the room and not too far

A fellow grad chose then to stand

And find the listener of the band.

“Are you okay” was the question asked.

The first grad continued, typing fast,

“Oi dude, I’m talking to you”

The second will soon be in need of rescue.

All at once, the music stopped,

And on 4 coffees the first was hopped,

“Yeah, justsomenormalpalpitations –

Caffeineinducednotthesesummations”.

A quick thumbs up, after a pause.

“Promise?” checked the ‘fresh to law’.

“Yeah,” she said then answered a call

And slowly pushed pins in a voodoo doll.

The doll bore resemblance to a higher-up…

One that indeed had a recent blow-up.

Perhaps the second would let it be,

Lest a new doll appear…  and looked like he.

Author: Annabelle Lee (pseudonym) Editor: Dana Heriot

Arthur had struck a jackpot. After years of false promises from successive governments to invest in specialised mental health clinics and an expansion of Medicare appointments that had barely allowed him to increase his rates, life was looking up. A loosening of industry regulations meant he could now set up a specialised practise in Corporate. Corporate Lawyers.

All the years he had spent at university reading about unethical studies on mice and pigs and theories of the unconscious birthed in cocaine consumption. All that time wanting to help traumatised adults to reconcile their internal family systems and adjust their object relations. Only to have his work reduced to a manual that could be applied by a high-schooler. Because CBT meant a stable income.

Now he finally had a chance to work with the most disenfranchised and underprivileged, and at the same time neurotic and self-abnegating, group in society. Lawyers. Corporate Lawyers. Oh, the fees he could charge. He could put up the rate of a Senior Associate as a base rate. He could even charge for every fraction of a six-minute increment of overtime beyond his usual session.

And the gossip. All the juicy goss he’d hear. Christmas party flirtations. Retainers settled in scenic elevators. Semantic debates with retired judges. High-functioning addiction. Low-functioning libido. The cutting edge of life. He would retire with enough stories to write Hunter S. Thomson-esque novels. 

What mysteries of the psyche would reveal themselves in his consultation room? He would calculate the ideal amount of yoga and mindfulness sessions to help juniors get through IPO season. He could figure out the correct ratio of narcissistic personality disorder bros to lean-in feminists required to make a successful morning tea. The correlation between the size of a bonus and dopamine levels.

Of course, all within his training. He’d heard rumours that it was the relentless drive for profit growth and the rigid hierarchies within law firms that generated toxic structures barely meant for breathing, desiring humans to inhabit. Yeah right. Until long-term studies that supported those hypotheses had made their way into textbooks, all of that was inconclusive.

Author: Daniel Zola (pseudonym) Editor: Dana Heriot

Professor Danya Mitskaya took another sip of her водка and turned away from the typewriter, it was reported. It had all gone according to plan. The first version of the exam had been mere bait. From rumours spread among students who went to the same neo-Bolshevik reading groups she attended, and from her own experiences in tutorials, she knew campus conservatives were a bunch of softies.

It didn’t take much prompting for the loudest one among them to feel victimised and leak the assignment to media. As if portraying the anti-vaxxer trust-fund baby as a HIV-spreading murderer was meaningful defamation. The student probably thought she was setting up a career for herself as a morning talk show host by leaking to the Murdoch press. If only they knew, knew the crimes against capitalism she was plotting.

The real ploy had been to sneak in the second copy of the Criminal Law assignment in the chaos afterwards, without the usual scrutiny. The real propaganda. The neatly-wrapped package of Critical Race Theory and Frankfurt School jargon that would turn the smartest students in NSW into foot soldiers for the Party.

Sleeper cells, walking into the halls of power. Waiting for the day a single word spoken on ABC Radio National would activate them. When they would make Safe Schools a compulsory HSC subject. When they would send every white, and every straight, person, back to the UK by ship. When they would invite Chinese foreign agents to finally take over the Australian housing market.

Not since the success of that Corporations Law exam in 2013 had she pulled off such a feat. Under the guise of a fake bomb alarm, she and her comrades had snuck actual ammunition into the university. It was because of their unwavering commitment to the ideology of Cultural Marxism that the University of Sydney had expelled the neoliberal Mikhael Spenkov. It was because of the weapons these hardened SJWs hid under their staff kitchens that the Ramshackle Centre had failed to get a foothold on the university.

But the decisive victory had come today, the same day that conservative columnists thought they had thought the Sydney University Faculty of Law to back down. Oh, how wrong they were!

More to come.

Author: Daniel Zola | Editor: Dana Heriot

“Come on guess! Does it look right to you?”

The partner stood over her desk, their head tilting jarringly to an angle that verged on potentially broken.

This quip was repeated, echoing down the halls of BigLaw this morning, as the junior lawyer began to wonder whether the heart palpitations she was having arose from imposter syndrome, primal fear, or just too much caffeine.

“It’s a simple document review, you should have picked it up. Have a look and tell me.”

As if summoned by an insidious call to their soul, more partners appeared from air vents to scuttle down from the ceiling and across the walls in a spider-like fashion, gutturally giggling, as the junior tried to focus on the first line of the 32-page printout.

“Um, is it a formatting issue or a content concern?” the junior attempted.

The giggles from the growing crowd of partners in the room evolved into a shrill chitter. Some had taken up residence on the ceiling hanging inverse like a bat, their growing talons within swiping distance of the junior's sweaty brow.

“You should know, we’ve been over this before,” the lead partner said, eyes sparkling with delight as the junior’s hand trembled slightly on turning a page. The lead partner’s incisors lengthened to fangs, glistening with venom.

Associates in offices nearby slammed their doors and grabbed what appeared to be a special kind of bug deterrent labelled Billabelles. The junior rolled their chair up to the corner, now quietly armed with a pair of scissors and a ruler.

“Is it the indemnities? The warranties. The payment terms. The notice details. Oh god, is it the cross-referenci-”

The junior lawyer’s screams were cut short as they were consumed by creatures who amassed like bees in a hive, ravenous for the adrenaline the junior produced. It was stronger than any scotch in the firm and the secret ingredient keeping partners energised - constantly one year away from retirement.

Obviously, a new junior would need to be hired, possibly two.

The quality of juniors had been dropping in recent economic times, with applicants clambering for career growth and abandoning the ‘fight for justice, advocate for the little guy, help out your family’ pure goodness mindset that made them so delicious. Jaded associates were like cornflakes compared to them.

Sometimes the partners would indulge in a particularly stressed-out associate, whose low wage, high expectations, sleep deprivation, and social withdrawal ensured that they would not be missed by friends and family, just to get by.

It would take weeks for loved ones to even realise they were missing, with many assuming that their career at the firm was taking priority. By the time the missing person report came out, the partners would have agreed on a story that the individual just never showed up to work one day. It was beautiful. For this junior, they would simply say that it was a limited-term graduate program.

No one would suspect foul play.

For the curious reader, however, the document’s issue was that the signing clause was missing one party’s ACN.

If only our junior had flipped to the last page before her untimely ‘annual leave’, perhaps the partners would have chosen a different victim for this quarter to use for adrenochrome.

Author: Annabelle Lee | Editor: Dana Heriot

John sported red cheeks each PM,

Even Google Maps could've seen 'em,

But they were not from him blushing,

Or from hastily rushing,

But from an absence of consensus ad idem.

Another day meant finding other dimes.

A statement synopsising John's time.

For unlike raw dough,

Dimes don't leven on their own,

And so each evening was rounded with wine.

Craig was a lawyer at heart,

But instead his degree was of Arts.

Heart and mouth were attached,

So each sentence dispatched,

Was with volition, but not very smart.

John and Craig were both apes at their best,

They both revelled in beating their chests,

Til one day rose a topic

Whilst both were myopic,

"How do I love?", well, they sat there suppressed.

It's of no matter that both men knew nothing,

For their careers were predicated on bluffing.

Each time air passed their lips,

They both prayed it would stick,

But their wives were outsourcing their loving.

So both John and Craig sat in bliss,

Unaware they, by their wives, were not missed.

They carried on and bickered,

While the barman just snickered,

As he arrived from Craig's house for his shift.

Author: Harrison Jans

A man has shocked colleagues at a corporate advisory firm today by announcing he got married over the weekend to his girlfriend of 16 months. The loved-up newlywed horrified his corporate co-workers by stating that knew enough about Marie to know she was the one for him. After living together for the last four months, Caleb has decided that the information he had was sufficient, taking all their date banter and general conversations as fact.

“What about her warranties?” the senior advisor cried in despair at the news, “what about her representations? Those conversations could have been mere puff to seal the deal!”

The firm was accustomed to matters involving partnerships, joint ventures, mergers and acquisitions. Lengthy due diligence questionnaires, data rooms filled with documents, repeated requests for information, and fact-checking were commonplace (and highly advised) to ensure that clients were minimising risk when entering into these new opportunities.

“He should have definitely sent her a questionnaire to ask about whether she picks fights with bouncers after half a bottle of wine,” sobbed the youngest lawyer on the team, “I’ve only been here for five months, and I know that!”

Allegedly, Caleb did not even google Marie before tying the knot, or comb through the results systematically using a spreadsheet to track data, much less conduct bankruptcy or litigation searches.

“How does he even know who he’s contracted with?” was a whisper reported near the office coffee machine, “how does he know how much HECs debt she has?”

Behind the printer, two consultants took turns breathing into a paper bag, “marriage is a lifelong commitment, and he doesn’t even know what her position is in relation to competitors in the market!”

An internal email between partners allegedly stated that “This [contract] is absolutely going to go sideways.”

Not all feedback was negative though, a rainmaker in the corporate team (and chronic consumer of hair gel) was seen giving Caleb finger guns with the loud declaration of ‘Broooo, what a true romantic! High risk, high reward!’ before sauntering off to a suspiciously long business lunch on the firm credit card.

In a move that was more widely approved of, it is reported that the gaggle of insurance paralegals spent two hours that Monday stalking their Tinder matches on social media. 

The paralegals were last seen drawing up itemised lists of questionable women who appeared in the profile photos of their potential love interest and cross-referencing them with publicly known family members on Facebook. Looks like the lunchtime CPD training sessions have been beneficial for some.

More to come.

Author: Annabelle Lee (Pseudonym) | Editor: Dana Heriot

Groans, screams, and other noises (usually considered normal in a CBD) have been heard throughout Australia this week. People are perpetually in a state of unrest, tossing and turning in the night. Bloodshot eyes a natural consequence of sleeplessness in the face of a national travesty.

What originally existed as whispers of dissatisfaction spread by a few who have visited Noosa, Byron Bay, and other “natural” lifestyle cities, have mutated into shrieking, screeching calls for change by the majority. Australians demand change. Society is governed by our laws and our laws need to reflect the beliefs of the people in the current climate. It’s not called climate change for no reason.

The demand is simple: Chicken salt needs to be a mandatory inclusion with all servings of chips.

The below is an open letter to the Australian parliament building. If there is any justice the desires of the people will be heard and change subsequently implemented.

*Ahem*

Dear Law creator person(s),

I write to you with a request. No. A demand! You need to address a gap in Australian society. For far too long as the Australian people purchase some delicious chips from their local fish and chip shop they have been subjected to the redundant question of, “Oi mate, would you like some chicken salt on ya chippiessss”. I argue that this question is not only insulting (as the answer is obvious), but also a waste of time for which the Australian economy has suffered immeasurably for. As a result of chicken salt related deficiencies there is annual loss in GDP of $7,392,234,192.82 per year. Can you measure the immeasurable? Yes … I did it. You are welcome, Australia. I, the writer of this letter am both incredibly handsome and intelligent.

The opposition may state “oi handsome chicken salt lover person, I’m not a fan of chicken salt so I need to be asked so I can politely decline.” To this response I metaphorically punch my hand through a very thick area of dry wall as I scream at the TV because I forgot how upset Red Dog’s death in the 2011 film ‘Red Dog’ makes me. This argument is blatantly wrong and should be considered heresy against the Australian people. This insinuates that it could possibly be justifiable to decline to have chicken salt on your chippies, which is not only flawed but just incorrect. Do you need evidence? Did you get a chance to try Maccas Chicken-Salt Shaker Fries? That slapped … hard (insert moaning face emoji). Enough said.  

What about if the person is allergic to chicken salt? Sorry not sorry, but only the strong can survive. Your sacrifice is acknowledged and appreciated.

Now that I have unarguably proven with facts and science that chicken salt is a mandatory inclusion with all chips, I make the following demands:

1.       You legally make chicken salt a mandatory inclusion with all chip purchases.

2.       If any chip vendor is found not providing chicken salt on the chippies to be sold to customers, they will be fined 242,120 penalty unites and put in jail for 17 years.

3.       If any person if found refusing to consume chicken salt with their chippies, they will be fined 242,120 penalty units and put in jail for 17 years.

4.       The above requests are to be ratified in both:

a.       a new legislative act (tentatively titled ‘Chicken Salt and Chippies Act 2023’) to be enacted by the end of 2023; and

b.       the constitution.

Parliament I implore you, do not allow the cries of the Australian people to be unheard. If our demands are not heard, we will get cranky and maybe egg parliament, but that isn’t an actual threat, please don’t hurt me.  Ok bye. How do I turn off this speech to text thing - oh damn it, I can’t find the button. Is this it, or?

Author: Tom Cockburn | Editor: Dana Heriot

A suburban law firm has proudly welcomed the newest addition to their team - Stephanie Backward-Smith, a second-year law and arts student.

The firms’ announcement received a lukewarm reception from the public, garnering 17 likes on Instagram. However, managing partner Hugo Taylor was palpably excited by this latest addition to the firm’s resources. 

“We are really excited to have Stephanie join our team. She brings enthusiasm, talent and of course a university log in to an array of important databases and resources.”

“It’s all about planning for the future. We want our law firm to have the best talent, and we want that talent to be able access and print out authorised copies of cases which are only available with a hella spenny LexisNexis subscription.”

When asked about her view on her new role, Stephanie expressed that she was excited to be offered a part time legal role which will enable her to gain valuable experience whilst completing her studies. She did however express some concerns.

“I thought it was a bit weird when Mr Taylor asked me to send a firmwide email with my university student password in it… I guess that just comes with the territory. Besides I’ve already told them my grades, so there’s really nothing else they can access that is personal.”

Later that evening, Ms Backward-Smith was celebrating her first day on the new job by having a quiet drink with friends, when she received a desperate phone call from Mr Taylor asking if she had ‘received a two-factor verification password in the last two minutes’.

Author: J.R.R. Toucan (pseudonym) | Editor: Dana Heriot

As the dust settles on a sudden and violent war, the injuries are being tallied.

Bruised egos, disappointed daughters, red eyes, fury at ten second timers, and wasted Friday evening plans. In-office friendships have grown tense at one firm due to folklore that an unnamed person in the office successfully snagged four tickets to Taylor Swift's concert in 2024.

At first, partners and special counsel were elated on that fateful Friday morning as personal assistants, graduates, associates, and paralegals appeared fearless in the pursuit of job excellence. Silence had clung to the office like a wet blanket since 9am when the Ticketek waiting room opened and remained that way until 5:30pm as tired hopefuls dropped like flies into the nearest bottle of wine (from which they wouldn't emerge until after midnights passing).

Danielle is a senior associate. She has been a Taylor Swift lover since lockdowns filled her social media with lyric theories regarding a scarf and Jake Gyllenhaal. She was also one of many the people glued to an office seat "working" that Friday. One computer screen filled with the Ticketek splash page for the Eras Tour, her phone also displaying the automatically refreshing page, leaning against an untouched water bottle.

"I did that on the Wednesday too for the pre-release to maximise my chances. I don’t care whether the whole thing gives me a bad reputation, I don't even care if this week affects my billings. I literally waited years for her to come to Australia again… but didn't even get one ticket."

Danielle reported that she maintained a ping-ponging stare at each device for over five hours. A dedication not shown since her days as a clerk manually comparing two documents side by side to gain praise for her attention to detail from a solicitor.

10, 9, 8…

Your turn to purchase tickets is coming soon…

7, 6, 5….

Don't refresh the page…

4, 3, 2…

Have your login details handy…

1, 0…

A pause. A refresh.

10, 9, 8…

Lanie also retells how she diligently stared at the screen on that fateful Friday, desperate to secure seats that represented mother-daughter time without teenage eye rolls and monosyllabic answers.

"My first concert was in 1989, and it was never this hard. You just paid $15 at the entrance and snuck in alcohol in a flask. Thankfully, after three hours I got the two seats I need. I also bought two extra just in case her friends want to come. I have a secret goal to be the favourite mum of their group."

On revealing that highly sensitive information, Danielle popped up from behind a nearby plant clutching a coffee with a fellow associate in tow. Their eyes narrowed to daggers.

"Lanie, Lanie, Lanie, my favourite paralegal. Extra tickets, huh? Speak now and no one gets hurt."

For safety reasons, ticketholders should keep their success confidential until further notice.

Author: Ryan Aikens (pseudonym) | Editor: Dana Heriot

Tim, an associate-to-be, accepted a new role just before the end of the financial year. After spending the last ten days of June covertly making the move using techniques reminiscent of sneaking out of the house as a teenager, he is ready to go back-to-back on a job change - once his notice period runs out.

Tim used two sick days to attend interviews, which she validated by joking to friends that she was sick, "sick of my job that is, haha". The comment had been received to a mix of chagrined smiles and supportive nods. 

The job has set a start date of 17 July, which means that Tim will have accrued just enough leave by the Christmas holidays to take ten days off.

His plans?

Flying to the exotic lands of Rockhampton where his parents require an annual visit laden with the guilt that he does not call his grandparents enough.

Tim gave up trying to explain to his mum that Christmas in Rocky stressed him out more than a solo elevator ride with a senior partner. In fact, last year, he begrudgingly accepted that despite being 29 years old, he will continue to sit at the "kids table" with his primary school aged nieces until further notice.

"I am thinking ahead though" he shared over coffee, pulling out his phone calendar.

"If I tell everyone I have COVID in April next year, I'll get all the public holidays with some extra sick leave thrown in. Then I can actually spend my time off the way I want. Binge watching TV shows in my boxers and ordering enough food to my door that my delivery driver thinks I'm having a party."

"Success to me is securing time alone. Especially after I will have used my paid vacation in a dustbowl being told that I need to get a girlfriend, a haircut, and should have voted a certain way on the referendum."

"I'm so looking forward to my lounge room being a bach-pad for one!"

Tim's housemate could not be reached for comment.

Author: Ryan Aikens (pseudonym) | Editor: Dana Heriot

Diana has spent the majority of her university life trying to get her foot in the door is now stuck, and now cannot seem to remove it.

“Yeah, it’s a little ironic isn’t it”, she sweated, between bouts of swearing. “It’s really wedged in there”

After grinding through hospo, retail and volunteering, Diana has finally scored a cushy law job in a small conveyancing team, only to have been horrified.

“They get excited about wearing jeans on Friday. I’m jammed in like a sardine on the train commute. I had to take a shit in the cubicle next to my supervising partner yesterday. I have to chip in a gift for someone I’ve never interacted with. There’s a permanent nest of cockroaches under the kitchenette. Everyone has stale moccona breath. There’s a social club that take 4 bucks a week out of my pay”

“I just want to go back to hospo, where at least I could enjoy a few free knock offs after a shift”, she moaned, trying to pull her leg out of the door.

A moment later, a partner walked around the corner to see Diana in her dishevelled and painful state.

“Haha, looks like you’ve got your foot in the door now! We’ll take care of you youngblood, we’re like a family here.”

Diana looked at our reporter mournfully and let out a primal scream.

Nothing more to come (probably).

Author: Christian Coulthard | Editor: Dana Heriot

About

Denuto’s Vibe is an online publication that produces informative, witty, comedic, and creative content written by lawyers, law graduates, and persons providing support services to the legal profession. The publication aims to foster creativity and good mental health within the legal industry for those with creative writing passions.

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