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https://twitter.com/JamesSilver3/status/863307662963859456
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May 13, 2017 10:33
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| # ? May 13, 2024 23:04 |
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Alternatively, photos of you pissing in your own mouth could go viral on social media and ruin your career.
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May 13, 2017 10:44
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Lid posted:Speaking of Latham The dingo is probably not the best animal to represent a movement based around racial purity 
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May 13, 2017 11:44
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Tickets for DingoCon are advertised as costing $88. In white supremacist circles, 88 is code for HH (Heil Hitler) as H is the eight letter of the alphabet.
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May 13, 2017 11:54
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Or they could wander into a magical wardrobe, meet a talking lion and become King of Narnia.
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May 13, 2017 12:03
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Or photographed performing a sex act on a labrador.
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May 13, 2017 12:08
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I hear sticking your dick in the mouth of a dead pig is a sure fire way for advancement.
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May 13, 2017 12:10
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Andrew Hastie killed not one, but two kids.
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May 13, 2017 12:15
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Bogan King posted:Is this the event with no actual agenda set but is also selling tickets for $300+ That one's on the gold coast, probably. The talks are 'topic TBD' but there's definitely an agenda. There have been other AVFM conferences. http://www.gq.com/story/mens-rights-activism-the-red-pill quote:A Voice for Men’s first International Conference on Men’s Issues convened a month after the killing. The issues were as varied as the manosphere: fathers’ rights, suicide, and circumcision (a.k.a. male genital mutilation), and also false accusations of rape, male victims of rape, and unfaithful wives "cuckoo for cocoa penis puffs," as one speaker would put it, plus "mangina" journalists who "cherry-pick" quotes such as "cuckoo for cocoa penis puffs" out of context. I'm mad for mayo man meat, myself
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May 13, 2017 13:08
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My first car was a stick
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quote:"unfaithful wives "cuckoo for cocoa penis puffs," These guys watch too much porn.
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May 13, 2017 14:04
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I would blow Dane Cook posted:Andrew Hastie killed not one, but two kids. What? Source?
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May 13, 2017 14:24
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The real reason is that most Rugby Union players are going to a fancy private school and are about to railroad their way to success.
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May 13, 2017 16:14
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I would blow Dane Cook posted:Tickets for DingoCon are advertised as costing $88. In white supremacist circles, 88 is code for HH (Heil Hitler) as H is the eight letter of the alphabet. Is that including GST?
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May 13, 2017 20:55
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May 13, 2017 22:48
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I knew there was a reason we were in Eurovision.
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May 13, 2017 23:08
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Australia needs to collectively apologise for it's behaviour since federation.
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May 13, 2017 23:39
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What a way to bury the lede
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May 14, 2017 00:36
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May 14, 2017 00:47
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To be fair, they were playing the Warriors, so the Panthers always had that game in the bag.
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May 14, 2017 00:48
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Just FYI on the schools thing Sarah Hanson-Young is a gigantic idiot and going rogue
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May 14, 2017 00:55
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Waaaah the Christians are out to get me
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So clearly he was holding the team back. They need a policy to eject him from every game.
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May 14, 2017 01:00
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Quantum Mechanic posted:Just FYI on the schools thing Sarah Hanson-Young is a gigantic idiot and going rogue Hasn't anyone warned you about splits bro? The ABC posted:A 29-year-old inmate of Canberra's Alexander Maconochie Centre died in custody overnight, with another inmate reporting they were concerned for his health. So glad we live in a country where the state broadcaster feels compelled to add this to an article about someone dying in prison.
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May 14, 2017 01:00
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Woman maces creeps in pub and gets venue evacuated as aircon recirculates it [ABC]
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May 14, 2017 01:04
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Speaking about how poo poo NSW is, here's a cool analysis about the new NAPLAN component of the HSC.
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May 14, 2017 01:16
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Band 8. Didn't want to offer cartoonists any easier puns there did you guys?
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May 14, 2017 01:21
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WhiskeyWhiskers posted:Band 8. Didn't want to offer cartoonists any easier puns there did you guys? NAPLAN is so weird and dumb it's hard to think of it being made by anyone living in this reality, let alone life forms able to comprehend satire or ridicule.
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May 14, 2017 01:25
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I think there's a lot of problems with the interpretation and use of the results of the tests. I think testing kids is okay as long as its done properly, but I'd rather that the testing not actually take place if it can't be done properly. Maybe its because I have this bias against Education peeps or something but man I got ~lectured~ on the use of psychological tests by some 3rd/4th year Ed student at uni a week or so ago. Truly some amazing levels of the Dunning-Kruger effect
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May 14, 2017 01:26
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What were they arguing?
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May 14, 2017 01:32
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It was some confused "psychological tests are all bad" and also "we can use a test and find out $thing about the child", which I kind of take issue with because it's all bout the interpretation of the scores, and also understanding what you really can/can't use the test for. Like I'm sure that Ed students learn about testing but idk hey, anyone can give someone else a test but thats not really what we are arguing about
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May 14, 2017 01:37
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 Look at the difference between two categories. We are not wanted in Eurovision by the punters.
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May 14, 2017 01:57
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Bogan King posted:
Should have sent Nollsy.
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May 14, 2017 02:07
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Not linking as it's Devine posted:Our politically correct, feminised public school system now creates a vacuum of values and certainty that is failing teachers and students alike. It is fertile ground for propagandists, whether Islamists taking over Arabic language Koranic scripture classes in schools or the cultural relativism of the ABC’s “Behind the News” education program which is screened in class. Catallaxy poster on said article posted:The dead tree version has a photo of a mother collecting her child from school. She’s wearing a black niqab. And her eyes are pixellated, just in case we identify her. They would have been better off pixellating her little girl’s distinctive backpack with matching umbrella.
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May 14, 2017 02:26
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After living in the western suburbs of Sydney for a few years I was always looking for an opportunity to get away. I was always gazing at those distant Blue Mountains and dreaming of what I knew was on the other side. I had a romantic notion of life in the ‘bush’; so too did my wife. We had both experienced it many times as children and had often been lured back on holidays, weekends and just about any chance we got we would head due west over those mysterious Blue Mountains. We had both nurtured this love of the ‘bush’ within the hearts of each of our three daughters and we were always taking them somewhere. It was always somewhere I had been before in an earlier time in my life. This time we were in the Lue Hotel and I was talking to the publican. “Bob!” I said “I can remember a day when I was in my uncle’ store, next door, and these ... well these two blokes came up the road out here in this old truck and well...” Before I could finish my sentence I could feel the smoothness of an old set of keys in my hand. “John! would you like to have a look in the old shop mate?” said Bob, the publican. Before I knew it I was with my three daughters and I was putting the long silver key into the lock of the front door of my uncle’s old general store and turning it. Click, went the lock, as I pushed the door open and stepped inside the doorway. It was darker than I remembered and it was almost empty and there was a musty smell. Suddenly, my eyes fixated on the intricate patterns of the pressed metal ceiling. Gazing down the shelves I could see the familiar colours of the old Arnott’s biscuit tins arranged in alphabetical order. In bold lettering I could read ‘Arrowroot’, Iced Vo Vos’, ‘Monte Carlo’, and of course, the old favourite and most popular seller; the ever versatile and adaptable ‘Sao’. The wooden shelving seemed to stretch forever filled with all sorts of tinned fruit, corned beef, ‘Bushells’ and ‘Billy’ tea and boxes of Sunlight Soap. Momentarily, my attention was drawn to the beautifully fashioned wooden display cabinet, lavishly varnished, highlighting the gold lettering ‘Silko’ thread; behind the glass a kaleidoscope of colours neatly arranged, row upon row, as each wooden bobbin revealed its magical contents. Across the room shelving from floor to ceiling, holding row upon row of boot boxes. The smell of leather was strong in the air and I could see leather bootlaces hanging over racks, like thick brown and black strands of hair. Broad brimmed ‘Akubra’ hats, and lots of heavy duty denim work pants and shirts were stacked upon the shelves that disappeared around the corner to a small office of partitioned timber. Like a flash of lightning through the bush on a rainy winters night and without notice the silence and my engrossed state of observation was broken by the singular sound of a bell ringing. First once, then again, and then once more. My attention was drawn to an old Bakelite telephone mounted on the wall outside of the office. Suddenly, I heard footsteps across the broad wooden floorboards, as leather shoes rapidly made contact with the grey shiny boards. Seconds later I could see a short but stoutly built man standing in the doorway and at the same time the telephone stopped ringing. I heard the familiar voice of my Uncle Ken, “Hello! ah yes, how are you mate? Good so the order will be on tomorrows train. Thanks very much for letting me know. Goodbye for now!” The telephone handpiece was firmly placed down upon the receiver and the man went back into the office and out of my immediate sight. As I walked towards the front of the shop the light from outside started to penetrate the opening until the wood and glass doorway seemed huge and I walked out over the curved and well worn step onto the veranda. It was a hot summer’s day, the sky was just blue, nothing else, no clouds, just blue and the dry yellowing grass and the greenie/grey gum trees seemed to silhouette themselves against the sky as only gum trees and the blue of an Australian bush sky can do. As I looked across the dirty worn canvas of the fettlers tents spasmodically erected between the railway line and the rusty barbed wire fence, on the other side of the street, I could see the long platform and a small building erected in the traditional railway architectural style. I gazed along the platform and I could see a large wooden board on posts. On the board I could clearly read the letters emblazoned in black lettering, LUE. I was standing outside of my uncle’s general store. I was on school holidays, I was about 8 or 9 years old and it was January in the latter 1950’s. As I looked out across the hills to my left a long dusty curtain seemed to curve its way through the paddocks. After a minute or so it disappeared out of sight, behind the wooden railway bridge, and then re-emerged at the end of the dusty street. An old blue table top truck rumbled its way up the dusty gravel road and came to a clattering halt right in front of me. As the dust cleared I could see two men climbing down from the cabin of the truck. Their battered and sweat stained hats and their creased and ragged shirts and pants gave way to sun hardened faces, tanned and wrinkled with squinting but sharply focused eyes. “Gooday young fella” said one of the men as they walked past me and through the doorway of the general store. Suddenly, I could hear voices. I could hear the familiar voice of my uncle and then the voice of the man who only moments before had spoken to me. “Johnny, Johnny can you unlock the petrol bowser and fix these coves up with some petrol for the truck?” called my uncle. I turned and hurriedly went back into the shop. I could see the dangling bunch of keys hanging from a hook just inside the doorway. Without a thought I slipped the large roughly formed wire ring over the hook and walked to the petrol bowser. Within seconds I had opened the padlock and as I gazed up to the glass bowl at the top of the bowser I could read the words ‘imperial gallons’. There were several markings evenly graduated vertically along the glass. One of the men walked out of the shop and said “You’d better put 10 ‘gals’, in the old beast young fella”. In those days it was not so easy. Firstly, you had to pump with the handle until you had filled the bowl with the required quantity of petrol. One gallon, then two gallons and so on until the bowl was full. Place the nozzle into the petrol tank of the truck and release the petrol. Shear gravity took care of the rest and before I knew it the job was done.ore I knew it the job was done.ore I knew it the job was done. “Ken, can you put that on the ‘tick’” said one of the men. “We are going into the pub to cash our cheques; we’ll be back presently, to pick up some tucker.” After handing my uncle a creased and stained paper envelope with some, almost illegible, words listed on the back both the men disappeared out of sight and into the hallway of the next door pub. I was left standing by the truck and as I looked around the exterior of the body and the tray I could see that this piece machinery had seen many a hard day’s work. There was not a panel of the body of the truck that did not have a dent of some description. The faded blue colouring of the cabin frequently gave way to large expanses of rust, dust and caked on mud. The tray at the back of the truck was full of heavy chains, ropes, railway sleepers, axes and hand saws of various shapes and sizes. There were several drums of all sizes and all sorts of other steel wedges and hand tools strewn around the tray. This was a real truck, a working truck, a truck that had spent the majority of its life around bush camps and used by men that worked had with their hands and their backs. I could feel myself being drawn closer to the truck. It was mesmerising, it was intriguing, it was interesting. It had a strange smell, many strange smells. Petrol, oil, dust, grease, the smell of freshly sawn timber and above all it smelt old and musty. Just then I heard my uncle call me, “Johnny, best come into the shop and we’ll start getting some of this tucker together for these blokes, they’ll be a while yet but we might as well get a start on it presently”. It wasn’t long before we had a couple of weather beaten crates up on the smooth pine shop counter. “Johnny, grab a couple of those brown paper bags over there, we need six pounds of sugar in one and four pounds of flour in the other.” Can you weigh it up on those scales and I will tie it off for you with some string?” Quickly and methodically I opened the large wooden flap of the bulk sugar store from under the counter. Shaking the dark and sturdy brown paper bag opened I scooped the sugar from under the counter into the bag and then placed the bag and its contents onto the scales. The red needle of the scales shot up and wavered for a moment then it rested on five pounds and six ounces. Carefully I dipped the well worn metal scoop into the sugar bin and slowly drizzled a steady stream of sugar crystals into the top of the brown paper bag. The needle of the scales moved ever upwards passing the ten ounce mark, then the twelve, then the fourteen coming to rest on the six pound mark. I quickly folded the sides of the bag along its creases as the sugar expanded its capacity folding the top of the bag over a couple of times to make a neat little parcel I quickly reached up to the bale of tying string. Wrapping the string around the bag horizontally and then vertically I cris-crossed the string tying a secure knot. Now carefully running the string around my finger and pulling one piece of the string against the other I gave the string a sharp pull. “OUCH!” I exclaimed as the string pulled across the soft skin of my right index finger. I looked up. Uncle Ken was standing there with a grin from ear to ear. He chuckled loudly. “Well Johnny, what did you do wrong?” I could not answer. My finger was sore and throbbing. Uncle Ken took hold of the bag of sugar placed it on the counter took the string in both hands and like a flash he pulled on the string cleanly severing the string and leaving a little two inch tail of string running from the knot on the sugar bag. “How did you do that?” I said “It’s a trick; well, not really. It’s more about having the string in the right place at the right time and then snap.” Whilst he spoke he had broken another length of twine. He just smiled at me and said “a bit more practice and you will work it out mate, it’s not that hard, I have been doing it since I was your age.” We quickly got about our task and before I knew it both wooden boxes were filled with all manner of foodstuffs, including bags of Arnott’s biscuits, tins of fruit, corned beef, baked beans and Billy Tea and, of course, the sugar and flour. Alongside of the boxes sat four pouches of Champion Ruby cigarette tobacco and several packets of Tally Ho cigarette papers. Leaning against the counter my uncle had just finished writing the items into his docket book and adding the total. As he tore the top page from the docket book, placed the piece of carbon paper behind the next docket in the book and placed the completed docket on top of one of the wooden crates the two men from the truck suddenly appeared in the doorway of the shop. “There you go, you blokes, that should tide you over till next week’s mail run.” said my Uncle Ken “Thanks Ken, we’ll fix you up at the end of the month and we will probably see you on the track next week when you do the run.” said one of the men as they picked up the crates and started to walk out of the store. “Right you are Reg. Ah, Jack I should have those boots in tomorrow on the train so I’ll bring them out with the mail next week.” replied my uncle. “No worries.” said the other man as they disappeared out of the doorway. “Johnny, fetch that tobacco and papers off the counter. Those coves left it sitting there. I reckon they’ll be looking for that later on.” called my uncle. I picked up the pouches of tobacco and the small packets of cigarette papers and ran out to the front of the shop. “Excuse me Mr Walsh I think you have forgotten these.” I said as I held out the small parcels in my hands. One of the men turned around and as he focused on the items put his hand out to take hold of them. “Thanks young fella.” he said as he firmly grasped hold of the tobacco and papers in his large and callused hands. Both men then climbed into the cabin of the old truck. Moments passed and then I heard the groaning of the truck engine turning over, slowly at first, and then gaining its ‘revs’. I watched the truck rumble down the dusty road towards the wooden railway bridge. As I stood there I watched it disappear into the dust only to re-emerge on the other side of the railway bridge. As I followed the stream of dust up and over the hill I saw the truck finally vanish from my sight. Within a few minutes the dust had settled or wafted away in the very gentle summer breeze, the blue hazy sky as the backdrop to the greenie/grey of the gum trees and the endless contours of the dry yellowing grass once again unaltered, constant and almost timeless. I pulled the old door to the store closed and turned the key. Click went the lock. This time locking the door between me and the past. “Dad, are you OK?” asked one of my daughters. I looked over my shoulder to where the old petrol bowser had stood. It was gone. I looked down the road and there stretched before me, only bitumen, as far as my eyes could see. I looked over towards the front of the old weather beaten pub and saw my shiny new four-wheel drive. I looked over towards the old railway station platform, the buildings now dilapidated and in need of paint. The fettlers tents all gone. I looked up over towards the hills, the blue hazy sky as the backdrop to the greenie/grey of the gum trees and the endless contours of the dry yellowing grass once again unaltered, constant and almost timeless so that it was almost as though none of this had ever happened at all. But it had happened in my memory and in another time; a long time ago. “Time to go girls, it’s time to head for home” I said.
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May 14, 2017 02:28
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May 14, 2017 02:53
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Sad story about people being kicked out of a caravan park near where I live because DEVELOPERS https://www.theguardian.com/austral...ng-homelessness
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May 14, 2017 03:10
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You Am I posted:Sad story about people being kicked out of a caravan park near where I live because DEVELOPERS https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KMU0tzLwhbE
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May 14, 2017 03:17
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ACCUSED drug smuggler Cassie Sainsbury has discussed the rift between her and her family as tensions mount over a TV bidding war for her story. Speaking to news.com.au from behind bars in El Buen Pastor women’s prison in Bogota Colombia, the South Australian sounded frustrated when asked whether she was looking forward to a visit from her mother Lisa Evans and sister Khala Sainsbury. “Yeah, I can see my family. We’re sorting out some stuff,” she said over the prison phone “Stuff between whatever’s been going on with the two stories.” Ms Sainsbury is clearly angry at her mother and sister for singing up to a lucrative deal with Channel 9’s 60 Minutes for a tell-all interview, without her knowledge. Meanwhile, her fiance, Scott Broadbridge has inked a deal with 60 Minutes’ main rival, Channel 7's current affairs show Sunday Night. B O G A N S
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May 14, 2017 03:28
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You Am I posted:Sad story about people being kicked out of a caravan park near where I live because DEVELOPERS Half the Knox council are in real estate, surprise, surprise.
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May 14, 2017 03:30
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Lid posted:ACCUSED drug smuggler Cassie Sainsbury has discussed the rift between her and her family as tensions mount over a TV bidding war for her story. Schapelle will be back soon to soak up all the limelight.
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May 14, 2017 03:51
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| # ? May 13, 2024 23:04 |
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Gower has been involved in a number of alcohol-related off-field incidents. In 1999, Gower exposed himself to a female Irish tourist in a Coogee bar, blaming his behaviour on alcohol intoxication. He was dumped from the Kangaroos squad and fined A$2,500 by the NRL and a further A$500 in court after pleading guilty to indecent exposure.[21] In December 2005, Gower was fired as Panthers captain[22] after incidents at a charity golf event where he argued with several guests, groped the teenage daughter of former league player Wayne Pearce, chased Mitchell Pearce with a bottle before vomiting on him, streaked nude around the resort, stole and crashed a golf cart, held a butter knife[23] to the throat of a Sydney radio personality before throwing it at resort guests, and engaged in a brawl with resort security before being ejected from the official function and detained by police.[24] He was handed a "final warning" by the National Rugby League and fined A$100,000, with A$90,000 to be paid to an NRL programme encouraging the responsible use of alcohol by league players and $10,000 to replace the destroyed golf cart.[25] Gower was "deeply unhappy" that the Penrith Panthers club did not defend his reputation, and at one stage threatened to "walk" from the club.[26] Allegedly inebriated with alcohol in a bar at Kings Cross on 11 February 2007, Gower allegedly tried to kiss one man before biting him on the neck and sparking a brawl, and is accused of assaulting another man.[27][28] The Panthers club controversially reappointed Gower as captain in 2007, claiming the Peppermint Lounge incident was just a media "beat-up".[29] Australian swimmer Dawn Fraser said Gower was unfit to be captain, due to his alleged lewd behaviour at the charity golf event which she attended,[30] and Sarah Maddison, spokesperson for the Women's Electoral Lobby, said "reappointing Craig Gower would send all the wrong messages."[31]
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May 14, 2017 04:25
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