Garybarry

The Mysterious Case of the Incorrect Picture Caption: How Did It Happen? Police watchers were baffled this morning when, over their toast, they saw a report on page 7 of Teh West with a photo allegedly showing Assistant Commissioner Gary Budge. “Gary? Is that Gary? It looks like Inspector Barry Mann.” Gary, Barry – what the hell! No stress!

garybarry

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7 Responses to Garybarry

  1. This is getting confusing. Is this a convoluted reference to Nurries’ gayberries ?

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  2. My Ning says:

    Parent needs to grasp his pole (literally)
    By Griffo Longtube

    Yesterday, the editorial of this newspaper called for a greater focus on literacy in our schools, citing the alarming number of WA school leavers failing to achieve English language competency benchmarks.

    Well, as you can probably tell it’s not football season as I’m not writing something about the Eagles or the Dockers, h’yuck, h’yuck, h’yuck.

    And, given it’s holiday season, banging on about generation Xers (or generation whatever – sometimes that shit even confuses me) will probably get lost as we all work through our festive booze supplies.

    No, instead I’ve decided to reach into my bag of Murrayisms and steel an idea from the nearest possible source – that being yesterday’s rag.

    OK, did you see what I did just then? I used the word “steel” instead of “steal” to make my point, which is something about the poor state of literacy and how it relates to competence.

    Now I know there are many of you out there who are asking yourselves: “What’s that Griffo wag up to now?”

    Well, h’yuck, h’yuck, h’yuck, I’m going to impress you with some fancy word play about states, abilities, possession and concepts.

    For example, if I decide to write a bunch of useless blather for the sake of making up my word count and someone says: “But you have a poor grasp of useless blather,” does it mean I have a poor state of useless blather or that they possess a poor understanding of the concept of useless blather, which is far more serious?

    If I say I didn’t actually understand yesterday’s editorial without re-reading it 20 times, does that mean I don’t understand English, or does it mean the piece in question was, in fact, blather. Certainly it could mean the latter, given the rot our boss crapped out a few days ago when he banged on about WA’s “can do” attitude and our pioneering spirit. Honestly, it sounded like one of Colin Barnett’s speechwriters wrote it for him. Plus, h’yuck, h,yuck, h’yuck, I’d like to see those poor schleps down at the Salvation Army who don’t work in the mining industry get force fed this clichéd muck.

    But (and let’s never start a sentence with but, even if we do it all of the time but think we are somehow exempt from the rule because we adhere to that white trash of literary style known as journalese) as I live in a grammatical glasshouse (not sure I understand that one, but it sounds funny h’yuck, h’yuck, h’yuck) I will cease this naked word yoga (ditto).

    It’s unseemly, highlights my own inadequacies and will no doubt lead some clever person to explain to me that grammar is important, as the saying goes, because it is the difference between knowing your sh.. and knowing you’re sh… (WTF? Now I AM starting to get pissed off – ed.)

    Anyway, I find this fixation on the rules of journalism rather limiting as they specifically say something like KISS, avoid clichés and – more importantly – don’t write blather.

    So the question is: why are WA students doing so poorly in their English exams?

    There is merit in asking whether our education resources should be focused more on the basics, but there is another question – an elephant in the teacup or, if you will, a storm in the room (fuck I’m both clever and funny, h,yuck, h,yuck, h,yuck) – that is rarely remarked on.

    In essence, are our kiddies failing English because they take the standard set by this newspaper seriously? If so, then shouldn’t we stop them from reading this page after page of irrelevant drivel and give them something less mind numbing?

    Maybe, but I have to reach some kind of conclusion regarding this blather, so I’ve decided on finishing with this – parents should take more interest in their kids’ education.

    And they should talk to them more.

    Sure, it’s hardly original, and I’m not sure it justifies a thousand word column, but as I said, there’s not much else to bang on about when the footy season is in remission.

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  3. My Ning says:

    Caught this one in the “opinion” pages of Teh Worst yesterday …

    Tenuous link to allen key helps fill intellectually empty newspaper column
    By Griffo Longtube

    School holiday boredom is best beaten with an allen key. I know this because I was overcome by an urge for Swedish meatballs in gravy and red jam stuff and so found myself in Ikea.

    Actually that’s not really the case – we needed desks, chairs that roll (don’t you mean chairs with castor wheels?; I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rolling chair – ed) and little drawers for our teenage daughters rooms to help them study and to liberate the kitchen from the spray of pencil cases, graph paper, metallic gold pens and glue (seen a cat spray, but I’ve never seen a pencil case spray, nor graph paper for that matter – ed).

    Is glue really necessary for learning trigonometry? And was my opening jokey line about the food really necessary or relevant to the rest of this yarn? (h’yuck, h’yuck, h’yuck).

    We fought our way through the unholy maze of prams (can prams be holy, or do you mean unruly? – ed), relationship breakdowns (oh come on, we’re not talking about house renovations here – ed), and garage-sized display rooms capable of comfortably sheltering a family of four. And we made it home alive with a car full of boxes, which we presented to our daughters and said “there you are girls, furniture”.

    They seem unconvinced.

    “It is basically a very large jigsaw puzzle you can sit on,” I explained in the full and happy knowledge that this was the start of yet another life lesson that would help secure a happy and fruitful future in a world where soon cars would arrive flat-packed (Life lesson? Are you suggesting you are teaching your daughters to sit on things that are meant to give them some form of gratification? Do you have any idea how a sick mind can extrapolate on that? Furthermore, why are you starting to sound like Yoda? – ed).

    As the kiddies worked their way through the instructions swearing their fucking heads off and sweating like greased pigs, the missus and me had a bottle of wine and laffed in memory of our own struggles with allen keys (hardly a political struggle – ed) and happy in the knowledge that if it didn’t kill them it would make them stronger (handling an allen key is hardly akin to running a marathon race or learning the piano – ed).

    Sure we had to step in every now and then and say useful things like: “If it doesn’t fit, it probably isn’t the right part” and “have you read the instructions?” (Wait a minute; I thought we employed you to be funny, not fill your column up with this blather … besides, didn’t you say they were teenagers? Sounds like you are talking to seven year olds – ed).

    In hindsight it may have been easier to put them together ourselves, but as a father I know that allen keyery (h’yuck, h’yuck, h’yuck) is just one of the fundamental man skills it is my solemn duty to impart to my children.

    It is their mother’s duty to teach them that all human beings are divided into 12 personality types depending on the alignment of the stars at their birth. And so it is that the gravitational pull of Mars dictates that today all 508,108,333 of the world’s Aries are longing for a career change, or maybe to travel, but must temper their inner ram with knowledge that sometimes patience is a virtue. (What the hell has this got to do with anything? But now we are on the subject, my zodiac book by Linda Goodman says the ram is only conscious of himself, which makes me think that whacky ol’ Griffo here is a ram as he certainly isn’t thinking of his readers – ed).

    This is why it is important that fathers take their children with them to Bunnings at the weekend, give them a hot dog, a can of carbonated sugar and then ask them to find a 40mm, 10 gauge self tapping masonry fixing (Stop trying to sound like fucking Peter Ruehl; it’s just not working – ed).

    This is a lesson in manual dexterity and ultimately a test of their commitment to common decency (how is drilling holes into cement or brick a reflection of decency? Besides, you haven’t even mentioned the welsh plug – ed).

    Blather, blather and more fucking mind numbing blather … until we get to the bit about the urinal.

    You are in the office toilet and the boss comes in, stands at the urinal next to you and starts asking you questions (no, the boss starts asking himself questions, such as: “Why did I employ this clown?” – ed).

    This in itself is awkward, but if your flow finishes before his, what do you do? Do you linger at the urinal, wash your hands for longer, or make your apologies and leave? (Apologise? Apologise for what? For not standing around and watching him as he finishes his slash? Or maybe you should apologise for not asking if you can suck his dick when he’s finished? – ed).

    Many important deals are done in this way and it is something every father should cover (Deals??!! Huh??!! Just what are you suggesting? Are you really considering telling your daughters this? All things being equal, I don’t think they’ll be using urinals – ed).

    But I’d recommend starting with an allen key exercise (the one where you stick it down your throat so you can throw up – ed).

    Yes, as I said at the start – school holiday boredom is best beaten with an allen key; in fact killing holiday time doing just about anything is more rewarding than reading this pathetic crap.

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  4. My Ning says:

    More from Teh Worst’s “opinion” pages

    Noodling on a bad copy day
    by the paper’s token woman writer

    A haircut is not a trifling matter. This men do not understand.

    Actually, haircuts are in the “mind boggingly insignificant” category.

    This men do understand.

    At least my fashion nerd husband thinks so, who broke from his usual Shane Warne tirades at the breakfast nook this morning to whinge about how a newspaper – which purports to take itself seriously and calls itself the state’s mostly widely read rag by virtue of the fact it enjoys a monopoly – can publish a 1000 word column about haircuts in its most widely circulated edition.

    “Your meant to be writing opinion,” he moaned,”things that matter. And this is the best thing your paper can come up with?!”

    My self esteem shattered yet again, I had to ponder his criticism for a while before realising, yes, what the fuck am I doing?

    As I’ve explained before, when I took on this job the editor said he wanted me to write about womens’ issues, but in a way that men would want to read.

    It seemed straight forward enough – feminism, sexism, menopause, single mothers and Newstart, the male hegenonomy, gential mutilation, Indian rapes, political expediency, masterbation, pornography … plenty of grist in that mill. Hell, I thought, if that bitch Emma Tomm can do it, why can’t I?!

    Then I was told to read all the crap spat out by Teh Worst’s so-called writer’s group circa 1999/2000 (back in the day of Bare-arse, that boring as batshit bush poet Scourface and Normie Aisbett) and emulate some of their stuff.

    You see, here at Teh Worst there is an underlying assumption that the public are pretty much dimwitted and share the same cultural sensibilities of our media leaders like Stoksie and Croninism, who seem to think that evolution stopped somewhere in the second half of the 1980s. There’s also the assumption that people enjoy the cul-de-sac noodling of hacks like Paul Murray. Our readers don’t want sophistication – they want their stories to focus on the more mundane things in life that affect us all such as shopping malls, shoe laces, wrapping paper, the whacky difference between men and women, parking spaces, mops and, of course, haircuts.

    Given this, I thought I had nailed it when I went on (again) about my insecurities as a teenager, the female penchant for self-loathing, our lack of appreciation of not living in the third world (where people really don’t give a shit about their hair), and the fact my best friend’s father wanted to bang me when I was 15.

    Post teenage disfunction stress, I thought, would corner a market hungry to read about self loathing, psychosis, vanity – all written by a woman in her mid 40s.

    Taking all of this into account, I went about churning out my latest crap, even managing to throw in a reference to my “pussy’s bow” as a sort of half-arsed attempt at double entendre.

    “You finish by saying the upside of death is that you’ll never have to think about hair,” hubby said.

    “Anyone who enjoys a good read are probably saying the same thing about this piss poor excuse for a rag.”

    He then went back to the sports pages.

    Alas, he may have a point given, as of next week. I’ve been reasigned to the colour supplement. That in itself may not be so bad – at least past copies are found in laundromats, meaning my audience may yet expand.

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