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The Aussie Humour Thread

Buckshot Bear

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5 hours ago, Sedalia Dave said:

Only in OZ




1 hour ago, Buckshot Bear said:


What on earth did I just watch :blink:



Box Wars – They may call it cardboard…

Boxwars started with humble beginnings as a group who built armour using cardboard. It has become an epic event called a ‘battle’ where the point is to build something from cardboard, then destroy it, which destroys the point. No one has yet won a battle as there are only losers in Boxwars.


The creators of Boxwars are the Boxwars Supreme Overlords. They have been running Boxwars from the inception, and are credited with the concept and development of Boxwars. The Supreme Overlords are Hoss & Ross Koger.


The first Boxwars battle now known as Boxwars 1: The Beginning, was held on the 26th January 2002 in Melbourne, Australia. This epic encounter came about by our need for a creative outlet, whilst recognising the fantastic material which is CARDBOARD. With cardboard we quickly discovered had brilliant properties for engineering. The limits of scale and awesomeness were continuously pushed to greater heights with the arms race created by constant cardboard war.




About Boxwars

Boxwars is both art and destruction using the near perfect medium of cardboard. The point is to build something from cardboard, then destroy it, which destroys the point. The battlefield is a place of contradictions, burrowed originality which sets a perfect stage for war. There are no winners in Boxwars only losers.


It happened in Melbourne, Australia happening for the first time in 2003 and happens to be for the purposes of hilarity. Boxwars also helps the creative deprived / attuned with materials and workshops for big and little kids. However no one ever asked for that help.


1. no winners in boxwars....only losers

2. don't do to someone you wouldn't want done to yourself

3. common sense

4. cardboard

5. warrior must forfeit their suit to a minor who desires it post battle

6. Recycle leftover cardboard


Contact Us: @: enquiries@boxwars.net / M: (+61)416 014 216

Boxwars is Trademarked and Copyrighted respectively 2017

Want to hold you own event? Contact us ;)


Edited by Sedalia Dave
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14 minutes ago, Sedalia Dave said:


What's Canada's excuse???







I think I already may have mentioned excessive alcohol may have been involved.

In our case, alcohol WAS involved!


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7 minutes ago, Buckshot Bear said:

Telephone number 8 wouldn't have been to hard to remember :) 


That was our phone number back in the 50's in the small town I grew up in in Indiana!

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Party lines. Wooden wall mounted phones.

2 Ring 3 and everyone on the line knew "That's So and So's ring! Their daughter is being sparked by that fellow on Route 4. Let's listen in!"

Edited by Cold Lake Kid, SASS # 51474
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Post on another thread reminded me of this story.


An Australian Outback tourist group came across an aborigine in the road, ear pressed firmly to the ground, one leg tucked under his body, the other out at his side. One arm under his chest, the other straight out ahead.


The tour guide comments they are great trackers and suggests they stopand ask what he is listening for.


The aborigine does not move when they approach, the guide asks what does he know?


The Aborigine begins...


"It is an American car, a Plymouth Duster. Going 90 or 100 kilometers per hour, now about 20 kilometers away and going further." He pauses.


"It has Big O Polyglass tires, 60 series, almost bald. One bent rim. He pauses again.


"It is light blue, lots of dents on the body, very dirty and faded paint." He pauses again.


"The windshield is cracked. License plate TWC 572" and pauses once more.


The guide is even amazed, and a tourist asks "you can tell all of that from listening to the ground?"


"No," says the aborigine, "he ran over me about ten minutes ago. Please get me to Hospital."

Edited by John Kloehr
Otto must die
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A drover from a huge cattle station in the outback appeared before St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.
"Have you ever done anything of particular merit?" St. Peter asked.
"Well, I can think of one thing," the drover offered.
"Once, on a trip to the back blocks of Broken Hill out in New South Wales , I came across a gang of bikers who were threatening a young sheila. I told them to leave her alone, but they wouldn't listen. So I approached the largest and most heavily tattooed bikie and smacked him in his face, kicked his bike over, ripped out his nose ring, and threw it on the ground.
I yelled, "Now, back off!! Or I'll kick the sh#t out of the lot of ya!"
St. Peter was impressed, "When did this happen?"
"A couple of minutes ago"

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Anybody know what she was saying in that first one?


The second one she was singing you're the best. I've heard that song. I don't know that song, but I've heard it. I recognized it.


The first one - I recognized her voice. Did not understand one single word. It's like she was singing in a foreign language.

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27 minutes ago, Alpo said:

Anybody know what she was saying in that first one?


The second one she was singing you're the best. I've heard that song. I don't know that song, but I've heard it. I recognized it.


The first one - I recognized her voice. Did not understand one single word. It's like she was singing in a foreign language.



They weren't the best sound clips, her voice was just unbelievable for those football promos.

Our football down here is a tough tough sport.....broken bones, doctors on the field and ambulances taking players off mid game is the norm. 

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The Man from Snowy River
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from Old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up —
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast;
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least —
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won't say die —
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend —
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."
So he went; they found the horses by the big mimosa clump,
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."
So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where Mountain Ash and Kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull -
It well might make the boldest hold their breath;
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint-stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timbers in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat —
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the farther hill
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely; he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges - but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reed -beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
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14 hours ago, Alpo said:

Anybody know what she was saying in that first one?


The second one she was singing you're the best. I've heard that song. I don't know that song, but I've heard it. I recognized it.


The first one - I recognized her voice. Did not understand one single word. It's like she was singing in a foreign language.


The song is "What You Get is What You See".

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I prefer mine grilled in nice steaks!!

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Now I get it. "Bird-eating spider" is the name of the arachnid. The spider is eating the bird.


I thought it was "bird eating spider" like "horse eating oats" or "boy eating ice cream". And it sure looked to me like the bird's beak was off to the side - could not understand how the bird was eating the spider.

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