24/10/11

http://www.jittery.com/quotes/government-quotes-c-1.html

Few academic Australians under fifty years of age would remember Hitler’s infamous propaganda minister, Goebbels, and why his name became as reviled as his Fuhrer, yet on the contemporary fascist scene all Labor backroom sycophants from $1,000 a day vermin like Mike Kaiser, to tyro cadres like Tery O’Brien would have short stasi lives if they didn’t follow his dictum of repetition, “Tell the people a lie often enough and they’ll come to believe it. This old news dates to the Ark but I get shit-off when mealy-mouthed Bligh overdoes it. Poor starving pensioners is more a Federal favourite, I’m thinking. The George Street pus likes offering tributes to pensioners in electoral euphoria, then jamming the finger up us the rest of the time.

My place of abode is a 12 unit government housing precinct, sited between Wongaburra Aged Home and Mt. Lindsay highway. ideal place from which to observe human behaviour. Most fellow tenants are recidivist crims slowing now, but only by the dictates of encroaching age. These systematic bludgers have a history of petty crime and stand-over tactics and now collude with Woodridge white-collar criminals; Rebecca, Murphy, Jean, Kimberley, Terry O’Brien, and Turner, led like lambs most likely by the epitome of a Labor Government rectum dag, Charmane Schoutens.
————–
Most fellow tenants are recidivist crims slowing now, but only by the dictates of encroaching age. These systematic bludgers have a history of petty crime and stand-over tactics and now collude with Woodridge white-collar criminals; Rebecca, Murphy, Jean, Kimberley, Terry O’Brien, and Turner, led like lambs most likely by the epitome of a Labor Government rectum dag, Charmane Schoutens.

Schoutens made a determined, but unsuccessful and illegal attempt to bring me down for having repulsed a physical attack by major RSL boofhead and troublemaker, Keith Garvey. Beaudesert police generally oblige every RSL demand without question but wouldn’t touch this one with a forked stick. Garvey then appealed to card-carrying NLP stooge Victoria, dumb pal of reviled Labor apparatchik, Woodridge Housing employee, Charmane Schoutens, who obliged with the failed, out of order eviction attempt. them form offence to think for themselves, that using common-sense is possible if the motives of Labor Government public servants can be monitored from straying off the track without petty State public servants seeking retribution unless on dissidents. But the present Australia Labor Party is as mind-controlling as was the German regime in 1933 which formerly declared its hand in 1938. Independence A dirty black adjective that one word to the Welfare State Whatever became of that Governmentsobvious, in your face brain-washing right from the top where Gillar bemoansthe advice should be to get off arses, cultivate common-sense by doing your own thinkingand think for yourself nothing subliminal about Gillard’s condemnation of common-sense works best on welfare recipients from

The nanny-state mentality is stuffing Australia. It has stuffed the economies of those countries whose unctuous legislators have corrupted a once grand welfare concept for the false, feel-good theorem of instant gratification, not unlike the laziness that follows an acceptance of masturbation over the real thing or being satisfied with a rare poker-machine win. While the subject of aging and its consequences is anathema to commercial TV broadcasting, ABC TV conversation programmes like Q&A et al often feature the views and opinions of widely accepted interviewees who all stress the need, indeed the necessity of keeping the brain as stimulated and as tuned as the body should be. Active older minds are induced into a state ordered comatose condition, and working, still active minds of self-reliant oldies like the writer spits on Gillard’s rhetoric picture of life’s,”…hard done-by pensioners suffering deprivation,” surviving on cat-food, pitifully attired in rags seeking alms by rattling a rusty jam tin. Melodramatic violin straining heartstrings in the bare, cold attic where our poor little hands stay cold until summer’s zenith when the air-conditioner breaks down on cue. Don more socks or remove them to suit the climate. It works for me. I keep a late model Falcon in better than legal and safe condition, get regularly ripped-off by computer parasites, eat too well by utilizing the major retailers to my own advantage, won’t recognize fast-food establishments, last partaking of their overpriced and overblown product post-funeral in 1997.
==========——
—
Geo St Pox and Geo. Orwell; http://wp.me/pReYN-7i

Queensland’s inarticulate Premier admires the pensioner’s integrity. Came from her very own mouth on Rudd’s election night celebration, so it must be a gen-u-ine and considered observation rather than an impulsive, spur-of-the-euphoria moment. Gee! Was that early spin you say? Must give her my vote. I hope she reminds us frequently of our value. The offensive and venal Bligh doesn’t remind us often enough of our unforgettable contribution to the nation and I tend to forget.

As the older residents of this pensioner-intended Government flat precinct fall off the perch, they are replaced by lazy and fiftyish, anti-social, mobile-phone obsessed idiots. The latest morbidly obese crazie sits on her veranda pre-dawn scooping porridge into her maw between screaming into her phone. She is engaging the only asset she has and knows…her rank stupidity. Her very presence and mien has one wondering if she is not Myra Hindley reincarnated who will resume gnawing into a baby’s corpse after the porridge.

During the day she will prop outside my flat ditto. I reminded her of the 50 unfenced acres surrounding us which must have a good reception spot somewhere. ” Go get a life , ya so and so,” she kindly advised. This is a preferred tenant, who moved in at 10 P.M. with a loud party of gomeral assistants, leaving the diesel running for the duration of the unloading.
—————-

————–

http://wp.me/pReYN-c2

“The car eased into the parking area where Lorna and I were exchanging pleasantries after having checked our respective mail boxes. The driver was an amiable fellow of some forty years. The tubby, older passenger had the demeanor of a chronic haemorrhoid sufferer and a lifetime of rehearsing, a pouting, sullen lower lip, fashioned to trip over. Was he a failed dramatic actor; an embittered artist in the Hitler arch-megalomaniac mould? A studied straight ahead look to avoid eye contact completed the instant character summation. Here is one tubby and very petulant, unhappy drama queen who won’t clear his rear impaction until he finds a new way of shafting an opponent.

And another bombastic bastard; as if this variety wasn’t over represented already. Contrasting vividly with his passenger was his young driver companion who was without a doubt, Pettum’s parole officer, an amiable and polite fellow who sought the location of the flat they had come to check out.

Larry Pettums moved in within days and was quickly self-promoted to king of the kids.

Larry Pettums wasted little time taking over the podium, and having secured the limited audience with tales of undercover police work in the “States,” quickly segued to his preferred subject; his sexual frequency and up-standing potency. This was an old jail-bird positioning himself on re-admittance to the inside and an unabashed and serious ego-tripper, soon to be revealed as an intimidating moron who had lived as such and gave no indication of self-doubt, given his six decades of stupidity. I walked from this boor before he relinquished the soap-box and in à la classic jilted lover, won his eternal enmity.”

…and ad nauseam. ( approx. 1100 words on this ugliness.)

—————-

http://wp.me/pReYN-c2

Dealing with egos and the actions of the vacuous minds of most of these inhabitants stimulates the brain as does the two daily crosswords, simple enough to whet my average intellect for the day. The real and tilted challenge comes from the easily biased and vindictive Housing Commission sycophants, one of whom introduced herself as Kim on Tuesday, April 23, 2009 at 1445 hours, and went on to make offensive comments in a phone call and I focus on that particular incident later. It is mentioned now in relation to the present anecdote.

A hymn of hate. The words just came from the past; undoubtedly a phrase from my childhood. A Wiki check has its origin as WW1 Germany against their hated detractors, the British. Its usage carried over to WW2 parents and older relatives trying to pacify squabbling siblings and the observation made in a fit of great vexation and despair. Am somewhat perplexed at convincingly transcribing the task I have set myself. It’s about hate, would you believe and like Churchill’s lesser concern of four columns of enemy troops about to demolish his men, of greater concern was of the enemy within his own tent whose acquired tactical knowledge could inflict terminal damage. The term fifth column came about and was earnestly adopted and applied by the Queensland Housing Department to become an integral cog of their M.O.

Hate is what? I don’t have the nous or the spare decades to delve too deeply into the dark side of envy, but this Housing accommodation precinct fronting Beaudesert’s Wongaburra Convalescent Home must be the micro-harbour of exacting retribution on those perceived as a threat to the rule of the megalomaniac.

———————

Less resolute people capitulate to the never-ending mantra of Australian politicians. The rhetorical asks what is more repugnant or depressing than Gillard’s constant reminder to all welfare recipient of their gullibility. Will they ever get the message to get off their fat butts and help themselves? Greece is today’s model of Australia twenty years hence. Much sooner if primary exports fall over. Mandatory, State-enforced helplessness; compulsive compliance of nannyism is not helping the independence of conscionable oldies like me in conflict with a State Government which throws millions more into self-promotion, we care for and lovconsiderate’ look-good, anti-smoking advertising, but behind the bull-shit, an entirely different scenario. I am reviled by Queensland Housing because of my opposition tThroughout life Ive striven to sort-out my own problems, an early manifestation of the ‘trust no one’ philosophy. Being extraordinarily perceptive which means my shit detector was well-honed, that the bland acceptance of deceit as the template of the health industry easily persuaded me to avoid their practices and their practitioners.

The retailers don’t buy Dickensian nonsense either and their serious homework matches my conclusions, in that only about 35% of the pension was essential for survival which leaves more than $200 a week to skim from the “poor pensioners.” With about $900 a month to play with after rent, food and utilities I find I could drop $200 a week and walk from the machines whistling, knowing that more fun-money is always around the corner. My homework also found I could circumnavigate the globe for as few as six pension payments. Take for example the feel-good, well-meaning organisation who coerces tons of food from compliant companies

Carting around an ugly time-worn countenance, worsening into classic boofhead with advancing age and constant open mouth to assist breathing, I am seen as an easy target by biased Queensland Housing representatives. They are taken aback to learn I can manipulate the mandible into making near human noises and their vengeance knows no bounds and their retaliation is bizarre. Told one how the prevailing winds carried cigarette toxins 24 hours a day into my government rented flat was giving me health problems answered with, “Why don’t you just get out”? Another replied she would inform the police if I followed through with my consideration of sleeping in my car to escape cigarette smoke. Yet another of Housing’s inflated public servants declared she was prepared to ignore QBuilds verifying my doorway wind deflectors and remove them simply to satisfy spite. Elsewhere is described a tenant union representative’s opinion of the dim thinker that I must be.

I choose to remain in this unhealthy environment not especially for the cheap rent, though the saving provides more poker-machine play money, but at life’s end, moving camp is too bloody tiring and battling the harpies an ongoing mental exercise.

Assist the really needy, decisively and meaningfully rather than loading the bludgeing filth who scream poor after stuffing machines till they have to scrounge a lift home while polluting the atmosphere with stale nicotine stench then spreading take-away residue where-ever the fortnightly fling came to its conclusion. In Australia I see a Greek repetition within two decades, sooner if primary production goes arse-up. The proposed anti-gaming machine reform is more bullshit, designed to mean and achieve sfa. Remind these chronic losers somehow, that the friendly mine-host is a cunning and conniving crook who smirks at the dickheads who make doctors and accountants of their kids while providing frequent overseas trips and up-to date cars for their families. Even the owner/managers of tiny bush pubs attests to this.
Recently on this site, I praised the computer imps for their adeptness at freezing my working document file and then, on recovering same, discovered that the only text missing was the story I was working on. When file-zapping started about a year ago, the whole lot usually went west reducing a multi-page file to one blank page with its title the only visible evidence of that hard-won, smart-arsey prose. Subsequent and extensive searching in the document folder and in the bin and under full stops and where-ever else came to naught with the only logical conclusion that cyber heaven had claimed another victim. Those of us who struggle to string a few words together know the impossibility of exact replication and after a period of mourning, gets back to the same story if the writer is compelled to make known a grievance. It is true what the pundits say about external hard-drives; that the pc owner swallowing this ‘back-up’ drivel is oft left in the shit without a paddle when confronted with drama.

I took the bait, bought and installed Seagate/Memeo external for $70, without seeing advice I had just paid for trial software and was soon advised the “free” trial was about to finish and to send cash to retain these wonderful benefits. Ignoring the message, thinking it referred to another app. thing, I found that by failing to remit more cash, I was denied access to whatever data it held. So, in effect, the only loss was my current text file: a major inconvenience for sure since we all think the shit about to go to screen is the ultimate. All program discs are reusable so it’ll be another slow day before I’ll fall for the bull-shit of back-up.

I dared not ask why, or even delve into the computer for answers, my old age a constant reminder of my stupidity and non-person status, the subject, incidentally on which I was working, with the confidence of having made a reasonably good fist of apologizing for my idiocy and ignorance and for my very existence. Researching beyond three Google pages is a tiring task, a tardiness that has allowed devious, immoral Queensland Housing gorgons, one of whom, Charmane Schoutens tried to have me evicted for defending myself against attack by a favored tenant. She and the ultimate hate-merchant and practitioner, Kimberley Hillhouse, long ago relinquished any right to manners by me, their fair treatment never offered the writer. I was rather taken aback on learning I was supposed to be contrite in the presence of this ill-mannered crap; that he, the nice QBuild representative was not to be feared, that Housing were the heavies.

Stasi area chief Paul Gladmann, using annual premise inspection as a pretext to do inspections of another sort, was taken aback that an obvious retard should ask him to formally identify himself, but the assumption by biased Housing “officials”that a classic I am a lolling-headed helpless dolt was shitting me. has left me with no alternative. Previous annual ‘inspection’ visit by piranha, Celeste Turner on Nov 25 2009 found her on the defensive and confrontational, most unexpected, having never before met her. Her behavior apparently, a result of colleagues feeding a scattery head.

Bligh continues to have Murdoch’s editorial support it seems. Had another letter rejection by the Courier in which I again pleaded for smoking restrictions in aged flat precincts. Their opinion is shared by the tenant union’s LANARTA JEAN, who is evidently just another despicable Government lapdog who finds assisting retarded tenants bothersome, as are cigarette smoke toxins in aged flat precincts, to quote her, not of her concern.

One looks at the bullshit surrounding the talentless druggie, Amy Winehouse and the 27 club nonsense with ho-humity. Good and proper age to go out, what with diminishing sex appeal inducing soft-ons. What concerns me a great deal is how supposed adults who mourn this no-hoper, with Queensland Labor Party support, can demand entrance til 8 p.m. with instructions to quit griping about cigarette smoke and the unnecessary noise of fellow tenants.

I expect retribution from Qld. Housing’s stasi section after I found a way to circumvent the hacking of my document files. Only time will tell of course, if I crow too soon.

Schwarten look-alike no. 10 with obese baby-eater talking loudly and earnestly as I awoke Sunday arvo. His reappearance after a couple weeks absence, allowed nasty and venomous loquacious queen Woodward to sneak away early Mon. a.m, creeping back little while back bit after 1900. hrs. This sick prick eviction Judas-tenant running out of luck and in need of retraining; huge failure with too smart a competitor this time around. Kisses, Les.

The mind has more diseases than the body.

A hundred metres to the east runs the Mount Lindsay highway and certain units become the repository of its ever-increasing carbon-monoxide content while the ever-decreasing westerlies only a brief reprieve. For a couple of weeks in August, the winter wind blows in a rare whiff from the nearby fertilizer plant, but has no adverse effect on health. The cigarette smoke and visitors who leave cars idle are a problem, and my plea that parking should be well away from our residences induced a nonsense, bullshit letter of admonishment of speeding within the precinct grounds. Unless the renter is part of the fifth column, suggestions from outsiders are sneered at as part of the belittling ritual and explains why my protests and complaints are chronicled in this forum.
By far though, the greater offender to the senses, and more importantly to the dignity, is the flamboyance and arrogance of the cigarette smoker with the poisoned, sickening fumes of rotting and tarred, ever-coughing bodies of the dying lungs of do or die smoking sickos who, like aids-infested sexual predators, are compelled to inflect their toxins on whoever they can, while they can, and on as many as they can before their hate of order and decency brings them down. What doesn’t get trapped in our pillow-slips and curtains and lungs and books, our walls and our carpets is swept into the convalescent home of 120 plus old people on whose ailing, frail bodies these poisons must be having an adverse effect. Of far greater consequence to any human body are the toxins exhaled by diseased bodies in the form of used cigarette smoke that I am forced to inhale.

http://moreintelligentlife.com/content/tom-shone/when-novelists-sober Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I’ve come to learn, is women. – Charles Johnson, Middle Passage (1990)

Read more: http://www.pantagraph.com/news/article_a125216a-649f-5414-88b5-76a688ea3b6a.html#ixzz1TKZcVRTf

Was pleased the Indonesian authorities refused to be swayed by arguments for a soft landing for the big-shot 14 y.o. smart-arse who boasted of having a massage after buying dope in Bali. This rising arse-hole will be defended as the best little kid in Christendom. I have in mind impure brothers, both swill, off-spring of shit-parent milk deliverers whose path this kid might have followed, and who should have ended their lives being pulped in a commercial sausage-making machine. This newest refuse, an accomplished hoodlum at age 14 replicated them and six years of hard with weekly lashings as a reminder of why he was slotted, wouldn’t have been too bad an outcome.

This story was plucked from the “A Letter From Les” site.
 
Well before the computer came along to compliment the great wisdom of man, I had accumulated a fair bit of ballast. Cheap hard-back reprints of the classics became poor-mans collector’s pieces in the early sixties, and my sets are packed away awaiting a like-minded receiver or a genuine donee of such stuff. Kin, typically, aren’t much help. When a practicing member of the 1st estate, acting like a possessed ascetic, or in the style of his elder brother, a true abstinent, rejected outright the idea he take care of a century old, ten volume encyclopedia.

A loud thought at the time that the few remaining relics of working-class ancestors might interest future generations didn’t cut any ice. Another fellow, once a knock-around sort of chap, would take a certain object off my hands, he offered, if I sign some legal bullshit absolving he and his family from damages should that object come to grief while in their ownership. What with the quaintly named con-man, Beamish-White giving me a hard time, it has slowly dawned on me that given such crass pricks as relatives, I must have ran over more than one Chinaman in my time. These relatives, unless I suffer a comprehension problem, have a reason for hating, after all they know me much more intimately than do immature and illiterate Queensland Housing silly fillies.

It was not an unexpected response with handed down and family photos getting the finger two decades before. I am too selfish for my own good for wanting a happy result for what was once the centrepiece of our parents limited library, a curiosity admittedly, which never got anywhere near the number of ‘hits’ as did the Arthur Mee Children’s encyclopedia.

My appreciation and thanks to David for taking custody of this and a few other small tomes and regret losing touch with his Mum, a letter-writing devotee, who asked the fate of the popular well used and tattered Arthur Mee Children’s Encyclopedia. Its attraction to the kids of that era probably led to the trivia craze of a few decades later, passé nowadays what with the P.C. taking over. Most of us have to answer for our misdeeds, and I wasn’t at all happy to admit my folly in not checking a caravan’s roof until it was far too late.

Our parents encouraged ‘quiet times’ during which we sat at the dining-room table, well-worn lead-pencils and scarce pieces of stationary our tools, the smart one of the day lording it over the other whoever got the pencil-top eraser. War-time austerity it was called and notwithstanding one’s material worth, we were in the same boat when it came to commodities. Funny the things you remember; when an accidental on purpose, bump to my elbow made a scrawl across the page, I was quick to report its cause to the intended receiver, Aunty Maggie, who with Uncle Bill, were popular Mundubbera cream producers at the time.

Aunty Mill laughingly retold that story on gatherings that thinned as memories of the second world war receded. A child’s farm experiences ! Pushing a flanged-wheeled flat-top loaded with cans of separated milk up milled timber tracks to condemned pigs a favourite, a far greater preference to the Doppelganger Hornsby. The farm’s party-line phone number, an un-forgettable 4U. Was much later I learnt the farm was our ‘safe’ home, to which we were shipped when imminent Japanese occupation seemed possible. A false belief that a remote spot would save western kids from mutilation by bayonet. The nips much preferred stringing their prone victims above quick-growing bamboo and watch the fun as bellies were pierced. In the dry inland, the slitty-eyes would resort to another favourite in which rats in a tin were affixed to the victim’s stomach.

I reckon Dave’s Mum, the letter-writing devotee would have been happy with herself had she utilized the document part of the p.c. I persevered with elementary stuff like getting a page up despite the strong advice of two ‘instructors’ that watching tv might be my technical limit. Will send her an old-fashioned letter to test the waters.

The need to work and eat, to play up and be ‘normal’ pushed writing to the back-seat, but with retirement, its genesis reborn and given another span of life. Since those times, letter writing became a dark art and its followers censured by the finger-pointers for being different to the herd. And so, with my embracing of the computer a couple of years ago, I began this nondescript little blog, “A Letter From Les,” simply to sate my limited literacy skills.

I’ve never denied my dimness, but unhelpful attitudes always astonish me when confronted by them, and this morning when I heard how the deaths of many local horses, about twenty I believe, is now looked upon as suspicious. Many hard to explain and diabolical things happen in this area and vengeance crimes against animals surprises few locals; it’s happening in the most appropriate place and where at my late stage of life, discovered how hate and personal vendettas are an accepted nay, an expected part of surviving in a Schouten/Hillhouse vendetta-driven Housing Department.

One morning a couple of weeks ago, I was momentarily stunned to find my bedroom or north-facing fly door was on fixed lock. This can happen only by using the key on either side and I don’t sleepwalk. Had a fire or an emergency occurred necessitating a hurried exit, I would never have realized I was locked in. I’ve lived with acts like this since trained eviction tenants, Woodward and the diseased Hidee intensified their hopeless little mind games, Departmentally stasi approved bullying stunts, condoned, approved and encouraged by Schoutens/Hillhouse.

There are some 60 files on Queensland Housing and QBuild operations in my computer, their rorting actually of little concern to me. I am much more concerned how accepted freedoms been gradually removed from Queensland public housing tenants by nanny state Sister Ratchets. My plan is to clean out a disorganized document library and make an on-going working file on the neglected sub-domain, “Comment On Queensland.”

From here onwards begins my “working file.” Names used are not known, simply plucked from imagination. Should they coincide with and offend another, an apology!

ooooooOOOoooooo

This accommodation precinct was promoted as a 55+ place of habitation. Currently, the gross and the loud-mouth and the trouble-making bully swagger about in a predatory manner, loud of mouth and demeanour, their low mentality a guarantee of official nurturing. The covert, mind-game bully, a far greater danger to the gentle who must make extraordinary efforts to combat the daily effects of confrontation. The latest Housing Commission scat foisted upon this precinct presented herself at 10 pm on Wednesday, March 17. Her son-in-law’s aging diesel truck left running the duration of the unloading amidst a bedlamite party atmosphere; a definite here we are, love us or hate us, the hell with you message being emitted.

Early the next morning, well before the light of dawn, a forced, loud-mouthed ‘pet talk’ started outside my work-station window. She can’t be all that bad, I erroneously reasoned. Autumn was nearing, days noticeably shortening with windows shut early to contain the warmth and to exclude toxins like cigarette smoke and carbon monoxide. An up-lifting and promising time of the year for xxxxxxxxxxxx decent people. A feeling of impending good health, of xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The same feeling of expectancy, like a child’s anticipation of Santa’s presents, or with young adults, the first waves of road heat auguring the best possibilities of the day; welcome youthful pleasures. In old age, the prospect of the coming winter months affording some free-breathing nights engendering an extraordinary optimism, a new hope.

The behemoth was shovelling porridge into a gaping, blubbery hate-hole, as is her habit, she explained, when we made our first hesitant overture during which her cat’s peculiarities were raised, one of which was its running for home when a third party entered its sphere. She wanted pet hatches installed on the fly doors. Looks like you start off doing so and so, I suggested. ” You don’t do it like that.” she snapped. ” Sorry,” I told her, ” Can’t do it, well beyond my scope.”

Walking by her flat early the next day, my shit detector failed me when I stopped and exchanged hesitant chit-chat. A woman over the way who I offer a lift into town if our departure times mesh was leaving her abode when I made my usual offer. At this, the pushy cat woman demanded, “I want to go into town too. Don’t forget to ask me,” she demanded of me as I quickly decamped the presence of this despicable cancer. As with her ignorant type, she might discover a contentment of sorts if she redirected energy to sane, kind-hearted and beneficial movements, and those around her might be spared a hateful environment.

My place of abode is in an unfenced Government flat precinct on Beaudesert’s northern outskirts. Most long-term locals assume the 1950 circa army camp buildings are part of the Wongaburra Convalescent Home and its inhabitants their sedated, tamed inmates. While the assumption is not correct, it isn’t totally wrong either. From a distance, we are the average unpretentious and drab, end of life, uneducated, boring working class yobbos, a microcosm of suburbia worldwide but yuck, over fifty-five and old; an age well beyond the tolerance expectations of Bligh’s crooked own-interest Housing fiddlers.

The mental home analogy is on-track at least. Woodridge Area Housing Staff collude with the local police-friendly, crime-soft RSL for a covert and seamless take-over of this precinct to accommodate their profusion of brain-dead. The aptly and delightfully sur-named Victoria, a long-time rsl flunky and NLP yes-girl maintains a fawning two-way relationship with Housing acquaintances for them to better facilitate the quick transfer of nut-jobs to 220-226 Brisbane Street.

Housing Commission areas are the fiefdoms of public servant megalomaniacs who, having found their vocation now wish to establish and develop their dominance and hone their manipulative skills. Spawned in the storm-water drains of impoverished areas of Inala and Woodridge and generally culturally deprived, these single-celled leeches manipulate their needy, working class clients and get snarky indeed on those who oppose Government stupidity and the Housing cretins who thrive on it. But we pay!

I remain the eternal optimist and enjoyed the morning walk along a main road to get the paper until I became carbon monoxide winded. The then immediate upwind neighbour, Ryan, used aerosol air-freshener as a universal house cleaner in lieu of water and vacuüm cleaner and my request to ease off alerted him to my problem. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXZ Thank you again, indifferent and lazy Queensland Health(?) bludgers. The XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX led to an intolerance to spent cigarette smoke and the beginning of the Queensland Housing Department’s war of attrition against me. My guess is the Government’s white-washing to maintain its tidy front of shop image, had their Housing Department instinctively go into protective, disclaimer mode, by discrediting my charactorXXXXXXXXXXXX any legal claims that I, a XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx as a plaintiff.

A daily journal kept in a computer can be altered to suit the occasion and in law its content isn’t worth a pinch of shit, a fact I never forgot after my late partner’s hand written notes delivered us a win against prominent thoroughbred horse thief and common fraud, Barrie Rogers and his drug dependent daughter, Sally. The law accepts that a running, handwritten diary is near enough impossible to doctor. My notes contain date and times of phone calls from the strident Housing nose-picker, Kimberley, and an extraordinary visit by Housing stand-over message boy, Terry O’Brien delivering threats under instruction of his Woodridge controllers; threats that they wouldn’t dare make on hard copy. Times and car registrations, gender and other relevant information is noted when actual data is difficult to obtain.

The fore-mentioned Ryan, was a devoted garbage nazi who once moved me, in my great alarm to call him a three word expletive. It came about one pre-dawn moonless garbage day when, en route to get the paper from the early opening service station, I was about to deposit my small bag of refuse when he boomed from his darkened doorway, ” Filling up me bin, are ya.”? He awaits hidden, he had explained in an earlier confrontation, to surprise and frighten the crows away by beating on the veranda rail or fly door even while the morn was very dark. His fellow tenants were loathe to complain for fear of reprisal eviction notices.

I objected to his unusual behaviour and he replied he would sue his Department friend on to me. A day or two later, he proved his word and the apparent misandrist, Schoutens, with a male colleague called on me without notice. She heard me out and declared Ryan’s longer tenancy was proof positive of his lamb-like innocence. Her male companion was taken aback by this kangaroo court justice.

The hard done by Ryan moved to his recently deceased mother’s flat in the same precinct ostensibly because of its telephone plug, but it was on a whim to avoid my presence and was granted instantly by biased Housing staff. Every attempt I’ve made for a move to escape motor vehicle, industrial and cigarette smoke toxins are met with demands for a doctor’s certificate to justify such a move. Ryan’s level of credulity intrigued me from the beginning and his myriad peccadillo made a novella.

The very offensive Bruce was next to occupy No. 6. In another life he might have been master of making a clean snot with a thumb against one nostril, but every tilt at this practice nowadays ends drastically with the matter being wiped on to railings or walls and his expectoration lobbing where-ever it may. His inadequately rinsed, hand-washed attire created great stench in summer as it dried over veranda items. The general unrest with his hygiene shortcomings and their possible flow-on consequences led to a tenants meeting which, on its conclusion, a female staff member privately admonished me for my intolerance as Bruce was, she stressed, a relatively new tenant and I could have been more sympathetic to his needs.

For a Qld. public servant, her co-chair was unusually enlightened, an outsider amongst the ruffians, drug users and drunks and was probably sent to Coventry and then to Quilpie for telling the sanctimonious Bruce and his new best genteel friend, Ryan that their cussing complaints paled into insignificance when compared to that emanating from any primary schoolyard in the country.

The rsl endorsed love-child of the decade, Garvens was the next major trash to enforce my acceptance of the Hindu sect’s belief that hell is life as we know it; being suffered right here, on Earth, in this lifetime, this minute and with death, Nirvana brings eternal reward. Why this cunning and conniving, criminal psychopath and cherished bubble-wrapped excreta is admired while many genuine RSL people could be honoured has been featured elsewhere, but there’s a few thousand unused words awaiting in the wings. Even the police who work hand in glove with the crooked rsl were unable to falsify an assault charge against me to appease Garven. RSL criminal associate and NLP stooge, Adelaide, then talked the situation over with her crooked Woodridge compatriots and dredged-up the oft-used scare tactic of Housing sycophants, by issuing an illegal eviction notice.

Garven’s psychosomatic diseased mind and body brought about his premature departure. QBuild, followed Murphy’s instructions to the letter and propelled by the joint animosities of Kimberley and Schoutens and other shit had the ideal chance to inflict on the residents, but essentially on me, more of that which has such an adverse affect on the XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx toxins, long barred from use in areas habituated by pensioners, but in all complexes, I suspect.

The garden contractor, for the first time in memory was instructed to use poison on the lawn-weed bindii. Another costly Qbuild Maintenance move to use up and dispose of a gross abundance of maintenance money. No bare children’s feet will disrupt a blade on these treated grounds.
What follows are my p.c. observations on the stasi queen who took Garvens flat:

Monday, November 15, 2010.

Something cooks! The most unlikeliest candidate for H.C. accommodation today. Far too polite and ever so cultured. His brag list, the usual ; 25 y. resident of the States; a daughter pictured with a formerly top sportsman,or was she the sportstype? his prize-winning portrait and association with the arts and abiding attachment to American football. You could well and truely say, ” more of the same.” Another unmitigated ego-tripper who knows not shame, introducing the morons to how life should be led. All this from a newly arrived H.C. dweller.

Convienently deaf woman friend Lucy, sat on top stair while he kefuffled about. She and I exchanged forgettable niceties. He was very quick to chat with Yvonne, and I’ll bet my ugly visage graced a few of his new surrounds pictures.
He, Dale, represents whom–what? If it smells like stazi, it probably is. In a POW camp, he’d be cold meat by now.
His curiosity as to true north interests me also.
My admission to owning a car pleased her and I soon learned that the vehicle they arrived in was hers.

Sat. Nov. 20: Dale brings in bits and pieces. A huge removal truck with the rest of his shit on Tuesday 23.
This Dale much different, yet much the same as all others. Everything must be about him and how his arrival brings with him enlightenment and knowledge to be shared among the uneducated rabble. Making out he didn’t know the masthead diff. of CM & B.Times adds to the query.
It was agreed that after his new frig. was delivered on Wed that I would take him shopping. During the day he knocked on my door and asked me to accept delivery of frig while he went off with his shopping trolly to pay for the frig and do shopping, so I don’t offer him any assistance now.

Claims he bussed to Bris. Thur 25. Was back at 1300 hrs. round trip takes 4 hrs without conducting business and no bus to accomplish the return trip. The Dale is just another fraud. Have printed time-table to produce at the appropriate moment.
His fly-door slamming is unnatural. Deliberate? Ryan did this, if its planned, then a battle will ensue. The ignoramous’s actions are rsl template and sanctioned, I’ll wager.

Mon. 29. Four return trips between slamming fly doors this a.m. The peace was short. He inveigled his way into Yvonne’s after the door slamming, or is it job buddies exchanging notes?

Tues 30. … he be stasi or independent. It’s about him, a know-all and apt Larry Pettums buddy who should, if they haven’t already, come together and discuss joint Amercian exploits. Slamming fly doors; outrageously loud mobile manners. (I’m important, just listen to my transactions!) Who gives a rats about his self-importance?

The annoyances of this fellow echo the irritations of the former occupier, Garvens. I laid the bait when I let-on that the carpet was heavily and irreversibly stained with my blood. The next inspection will undoubtedly include an under mat search seeking out the errant bit.

Tues arvo… Asked Dale if his noise was a message and he, in actor mode, was surprised that he had created such an impression. Things have settled into relative quietness.

Sat. Dec. 4. When leaving to visit Cath. he declined invite to accompany me, mentioning a phone call.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Bligh’s Labor Stasi Inspects Your Sheets For Pubes And Skidmarks. | Leave a comment | Edit

————————————–QQQQQ

ADD= the stench of ‘officials’ on the take.

Did a media commentator hope to convince himself or did he reference the great unwashed for wondering if the ABC has sumpin’ to do with readen’ and writen’ like, when he asserted that a government’s very existence, their raison D’etre, to fancy it up, is to protect the vulnerable and needy. In Queensland, I’ve seen a variance of Bligh concern for the AAA goodness that might be right Governments are set-up to protect don’t employ discredit authorization behind the conspiracy theorist

Government “help” to business is just as disastrous as government persecution… the only way a government can be of service to national prosperity is by keeping its hands off.
- Ayn Rand
—————————————-
7/10/11
Fourteen Defining Characteristics Of Fascism.

Was clicking through StumbleUpon when up bobbed an academic’s ranking of Fascism and with the continuing harassment from Bligh’s Housing’s thought police, it was once more unto the fight, dear friends, once more. “Christ, here we go again,” I could have uttered as I yanked the four most relevant points over to a page and rearranged the importance order.

They lead this post with the URL address and the article a click under the head. I ought commit to the definitive, ‘he said, she said’ treatise on this cliquey, distasteful organization and its fifth column links to this precinct and be done with them.

Dr. Lawrence Britt has examined the fascist regimes of Hitler (Germany), Mussolini (Italy), Franco (Spain), Suharto (Indonesia) and several Latin American regimes. Britt found 14 defining characteristics common to each and which could be added (Bligh) Queensland. I’ve added relevant comments XXXThe first four mentioned are important to the writer:

1. Disdain for the Recognition of Human Rights – Because of fear of enemies and the need for security, the people in fascist regimes are persuaded that human rights can be ignored in certain cases because of “need.” The people tend to look the other way or even approve of torture, summary executions, assassinations, long incarcerations of prisoners, etc.

2. Identification of Enemies/Scapegoats as a Unifying Cause – The people are rallied into a unifying patriotic frenzy over the need to eliminate a perceived common threat or foe: racial , ethnic or religious minorities; liberals; communists; socialists, terrorists, etc.

3. Supremacy of the Military – Even when there are widespread
domestic problems, the military is given a disproportionate amount of government funding, and the domestic agenda is neglected. Soldiers and military service are glamorized.

4. Powerful and Continuing Nationalism – Fascist regimes tend to make constant use of patriotic mottos, slogans, symbols, songs, and other paraphernalia. Flags are seen everywhere, as are flag symbols on clothing and in public displays.

————-
When lying is practised on me by a clumsy amateur or a so-called person of integrity, like a cancer surgeon, who shamelessly insisted the prognosis on my partner looked good when her outside doctor confirmed the opposite, leaves me disappointed. Lying is not part of my makeup and am annoyed when misguided, corrupt little rumour-mongers like Hillhouse, hiding behind the Housing mantle, use such a practice at braggart, Larry Hurst’s (sic) behest in an attempt to demean me and my name, from whom I walked mid-sentence, revulsed by his self-aggrandisement 5/10/11
—————-

Metro bus travellers have restructured their city excursions to avoid the
Beaudesert people don’t seek admittance to 220-226 Brisbane Street, or is have gained a fingle status Beaudesert locals might have sought residency at this address but only trained antagonists from Bethania/ Gold Coast area have been allowed entree. Funny innet? I and fellow tenants of the precinct don’t exchange too much general talk let alone XXinformation not too What has occurred a been going on at this block of flats can’t be slanted at passers-by, hungry intransigents, or blacks who get the pointed finger. and explains the use of the personal in my condemnation of Judas tenants.

My experiences with the vindictive machinations of Queensland Housing and the on-going effect of a Schoutens instigated vendetta extend to kids who arrive here on ‘inspection’ occasions, confrontational because their leaders told them to act like that. alien-like body probe increases with time rather than diminishes. One of those diminutive bolts is about to be replaced with something more robust. Not for my indoor protection, I hasten to add, I have never entertained concern for my physical safety; not here where the ‘men’-bitches retaliate with spiteful tongues, phone calls Woodridge Housing and various girly acts of attrition. No! A forced bolt damages door surrounds, a chain and padlock will deter entry via the other door.

Such is my naivety that even as I was becoming aware of monkey business around me, it wasn’t until I connected the dots that evidence of impropriety became too strong to ignore. I reacted by commenting on their intrusions and exploits through this blog-site. A surprising insight to officially sanctified prying came to light and with well-practiced and protected deceivers as opponents, I turn to a fictional concept. It never occurred to me to use one of those bolts, but a bank of locking devices, New York style, is no barrier to officially supplied keys. I thought the little lady opposite, was drama-queening when she locked-up to check her mail or collect washing, but I now do the same. A mutual trust might still exist between some tenants, but Housing provides master-keys to selected criminal hyenas like W.and H., giving them the authority to enter flats of recently deceased tenants to peer at papers and cherry-pick valuables as they perform their officiallyXXX of packingwould never illegally enter a private flat unless in emergency. But why delve and snoop? Is it to denigrate and demoralize? Demoralize by discreditingXX Not especially
——————–
L.A.N.A.R.T.A. Jean masquerades as a caring member of a Government backed tenant’s union. Anyone got an idea where went the much cliched word, oxymoron? This person is typical female Housing, dim with well-practiced put-downs. Like any ridicule, it is intended for shy, decent people uncomfortable with confrontation of any kind who are expected to walk away, unheard. A month or so before Jean’s advice, I had defended myself against attack by a neighbor whose assault happened on ‘my’ verandah. He wanted me charged. A recorded cctv of me trying to avoid Garvey would have absolved me in an instant, but Jean forbade discussion on cctv as she did on cigarette smoke intrusion and mobile phone noise. She hadn’t strayed far from the sloth of Housing’s safety net. Local police overtly aligned to the rsl declined intervention. Please click l.a.r.n.a.t.a Jean for detailed story. “People like you,” she advised, should accept their retardation, learn how to operate a tv set and suggested I read a proffered brochure on electricity saving.
If you were compelled to read two attached notices laying flat on a neighbors veranda floor and saw such words as stasi fag-boy and of female acquaintance obese baby-eating, etc how would you handle such ruthlessness? Woodums

THREE PARAS. OK

—————

L.A.N.A.R.T.A. Jean masquerades as a caring member of a Government backed tenant’s union. Anyone got an idea where went the much cliched word, oxymoron? This person is typical female Housing, dim with well-practiced put-downs. Like any ridicule, it is intended for shy, decent people uncomfortable with confrontation of any kind who are expected to walk away, unheard. A month or so before Jean’s advice, I had defended myself against attack by a neighbor whose assault happened on ‘my’ verandah. He wanted me charged. A recorded cctv of me trying to avoid Garvey would have absolved me in an instant, but Jean forbade discussion on cctv as she did on cigarette smoke intrusion and mobile phone noise. She hadn’t strayed far from the sloth of Housing’s safety net. Local police overtly aligned to the rsl declined intervention. Please click l.a.r.n.a.t.a Jean for detailed story. “People like you,” she advised, should accept their retardation, learn how to operate a tv set and suggested I read a proffered brochure on electricity saving.

If you were compelled to read two attached notices laying flat on a neighbors veranda floor and saw such words as stasi fag-boy and of female acquaintance obese baby-eating, etc how would you handle such ruthlessness? Woodums

except perhaps for a few piqued Fraus acting independently of the system?

Okay, I might have got myself snared, but an animal trapped in a deep hole gets pissed off.

http://foucault.info/documents/disciplineAndPunish/foucault.disciplineAndPunish.torture.en.html

http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/the-social-thinker/201009/is-dexter-successful-psychopath

http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Unquotable:Noel_Coward

http://www.dailypaul.com/26924/does-the-census-bureau-have-the-right-to-search-your-home

http://membership.cagw.org/site/PageServer?pagename=reports_bigbrother

18/10/2011
——————————

CONTINUING…

My place of abode is in an unfenced Government flat precinct on Beaudesert’s northern outskirts. Most passers-by assume the 1950 circa army camp buildings are part of the Wongaburra Convalescent Home and its inhabitants their sedated, tame inmates. While the assumption is not correct, it isn’t totally wrong either. From a distance, we are the average unpretentious and drab, end of life, uneducated, boring working class yobbos, a microcosm of suburbia worldwide but yuck, over fifty-five and old; an age well beyond the tolerance expectations of Bligh’s crooked own-interest Housing fiddlers.

The mental home analogy is on-track at least. Woodridge Area Housing Staff colluded with the local police-friendly, crime-soft RSL for a covert and seamless take-over of this precinct to accommodate their profusion of brain-dead and I’ve been promised little effort is required to manipulate the Mental Evaluation test to demean intransigent tenants like the writer. The aptly and delightfully sur-named Victoria, a long-time rsl flunky and NLP yes-girl maintains a fawning two-way relationship with Housing acquaintances for them to better facilitate the quick transfer of nut-jobs to 220-226 Brisbane Street.

Housing Commission areas are the fiefdoms of public servant megalomania who, having found their vocation now wish to establish and develop their dominance and hone their manipulative skills. Spawned in the storm-water drains of impoverished areas of Inala and Woodridge and generally culturally deprived, these single-celled leeches manipulate their needy, working class clients and get snarky indeed on those who oppose Government stupidity and the Housing cretins who thrive on it. But we pay!

I remain the eternal optimist and enjoyed the morning walk along a main road to get the paper until I became carbon monoxide winded. The then immediate upwind neighbour, Ryan, used aerosol air-freshener as a universal house cleaner in lieu of water and vacuüm cleaner and my request to ease off alerted him to my problem. A twilight dousing of aerosol driven by the prevailing easterlies into my flat became the norm. A failure to close openings one evening, led to a three-day hospitalization and hospital records declaring me a chronic chromer, or one who gets his kicks by inhaling aerosols. Thank you again, indifferent and lazy Queensland Health(?) bludgers. The permanently damaged pulmonary led to a total intolerance to spent cigarette smoke and the beginning of the Queensland Housing Department’s war of attrition against me. My guess is the Government’s white-washing to maintain its tidy front of shop image, had their Housing Department instinctively go into protective, disclaimer mode, by discrediting as being of unstable nature, any legal claims that I, a victim of deliberate aerosol gassing, might make as a future plaintiff.

A daily journal kept in a computer can be altered to suit the occasion and in law its content isn’t worth a pinch of shit, a fact I never forgot after my late partner’s hand written notes delivered us a win against prominent thoroughbred horse thief and common fraud, Barrie Rxxxxx and his drug dependent daughter, Sally. The law accepts that a running, handwritten diary is near enough impossible to doctor. My notes contain date and times of phone calls from the strident Housing nose-picker, Kimberley, and an extraordinary visit by Housing stand-over message boy, Terry O’Br delivering threats under instruction of his Woodridge controllers; threats that they wouldn’t dare make on hard copy. Times and car registrations, gender and other relevant information is noted when actual data is difficult to obtain.

The fore-mentioned Ryan, was a devoted garbage nazi who once moved me, in my great alarm to call him a three word expletive. It came about one pre-dawn moonless garbage day when, en route to get the paper from the early opening service station, I was about to deposit my small bag of refuse when he boomed from his darkened doorway, ” Filling up me bin, are ya.”? He awaits hidden, he had explained in an earlier confrontation, to surprise and frighten the crows away by beating on the veranda rail or fly door even while the morn was very dark. His fellow tenants were loathe to complain for fear of reprisal eviction notices.

I objected to his unusual behaviour and he replied he would sue his Department friend on to me. A day or two later, he proved his word and the apparent misandrist, Schoutens, with a male colleague called on me without notice. She heard me out and declared Ryan’s longer tenancy was proof positive of his lamb-like innocence.

The hard done by Ryan moved to his recently deceased mother’s flat in the same precinct, ostensibly because of its telephone plug, but it was on a whim to avoid my presence and was granted instantly by biased Housing staff. Every attempt I’ve made for a move to escape motor vehicle, industrial and cigarette smoke toxins are met with demands for a doctor’s certificate to justify such a move. Ryan’s level of credulity intrigued me from the beginning and his myriad peccadillo made a novella.

The very offensive Bruce was next to occupy No. 6. In another life he might have been master of making a clean snot with a thumb against one nostril, but every tilt at this practice nowadays ends drastically with the matter being wiped on to railings or walls and his expectoration lobbing where-ever it may. His inadequately rinsed, hand-washed attire created great stench in summer as it dried over veranda items. The general unrest with his hygiene shortcomings and their possible flow-on consequences led to a tenants meeting which, on its conclusion, a female staff member privately admonished me for my intolerance as Bruce was, she stressed, a relatively new tenant and I could have been more sympathetic to his needs.

For a Qld. public servant, her co-chair was unusually enlightened, an outsider amongst the ruffians, drug users and drunks and was probably sent to Coventry and then to Quilpie for telling the sanctimonious Bruce and his new best genteel friend, Ryan that their cussing complaints paled into insignificance when compared to that emanating from any primary schoolyard in the country.

The rsl endorsed love-child of the decade, Garvens was the next major trash to enforce my acceptance of the Hindu sect’s belief that hell is life as we know it; being suffered right here, on Earth, in this lifetime, this minute and with death, Nirvana brings eternal reward. Why this cunning and conniving, criminal psychopath and cherished bubble-wrapped excreta is admired while many genuine RSL people could be honoured has been featured elsewhere, but there’s a few thousand unused words awaiting in the wings. Even the police who work hand in glove with the crooked rsl were unable to falsify an assault charge against me to appease Garven. RSL criminal associate and NLP stooge, Adelaide, then talked the situation over with her crooked Woodridge compatriots and dredged-up the oft-used scare tactic of Housing sycophants, by issuing an illegal eviction notice.

Garven’s psychosomatically diseased mind and body brought about his premature departure. QBuild, followed Murphy’s instructions to the letter and propelled by the joint animosities of Kimberley and Schoutens had the ideal chance to inflict on the residents, but essentially on me, more of that which has such an adverse affect on the pulmonaries of susceptible oldies, namely unnecessary use of strong paints and adhesive toxins, long barred from use in areas habituated by pensioners, but in all complexes, I suspect.

The garden contractor, for the first time in memory was instructed to use poison on the lawn-weed bindii. Another costly Qbuild Maintenance move to use up and dispose of a gross abundance of maintenance money. No bare children’s feet will disrupt a blade on these treated grounds.
What follows are my p.c. observations on the stasi queen who took Garvens flat:

Monday, November 15, 2010.

Something cooks! The most unlikeliest candidate for H.C. accommodation today. Far too polite and ever so cultured. His brag list, the usual ; 25 y. resident of the States; a daughter pictured with a formerly top sportsman,or was she the sportstype? his prize-winning portrait and association with the arts and abiding attachment to American football. You could well and truely say, ” more of the same.” Another unmitigated ego-tripper who knows not shame, introducing the morons to how life should be led. All this from a newly arrived H.C. dweller.

Conveniently deaf woman friend Lucy, sat on top stair while he kefuffled about. She and I exchanged forgettable niceties. He was very quick to chat with Yvonne, and I’ll bet my ugly visage graced a few of his new surrounds pictures.

He, Dale, represents whom–what? If it smells like stazi, it probably is. In a POW camp, he’d be cold meat by now.
His curiosity as to true north interests me also.
My admission to owning a car pleased her and I soon learned that the vehicle they arrived in was hers.

Sat. Nov. 20: Dale brings in bits and pieces. A huge removal truck with the rest of his shit on Tuesday 23.
This Dale much different, yet much the same as all others. Everything must be about him and how his arrival brings with him enlightenment and knowledge to be shared among the uneducated rabble. Making out he didn’t know the masthead diff. of CM & B.Times adds to the query.
It was agreed that after his new frig. was delivered on Wed that I would take him shopping. During the day he knocked on my door and asked me to accept delivery of frig while he went off with his shopping trolley to pay for the frig and do shopping, so I don’t offer him any assistance now.

Claims he bussed to Bris. Thur 25. Was back at 1300 hrs. round trip takes 4 hrs without conducting business and no bus to accomplish the return trip. The Dale is just another fraud. Have printed time-table to produce at the appropriate moment.
His fly-door slamming is unnatural. Deliberate? Ryan did this, if its planned, then a battle will ensue. The ignoramous’s actions are rsl template and sanctioned, I’ll wager.

Mon. 29. Four return trips between slamming fly doors this a.m. The peace was short. He inveigled his way into Yvonne’s after the door slamming, or is it job buddies exchanging notes?

Tues 30. … he be stasi or independent. It’s about him, a know-all and apt Larry Pettums buddy who should, if they haven’t already, come together and discuss joint Amercian exploits. Slamming fly doors; outrageously loud mobile manners. (I’m important, just listen to my transactions!) Who gives a rats about his self-importance?

The annoyances of this fellow echo the irritations of the former occupier, Garvens. I laid the bait when I let-on that the carpet was heavily and irreversibly stained with my blood. The next inspection will undoubtedly include an under mat search seeking out the errant bit.

Tues arvo… Asked Dale if his noise was a message and he, in actor mode, was surprised that he had created such an impression. Things have settled into relative quietness.

Sat. Dec. 4. When leaving to visit Cath. he declined invite to accompany me, mentioning a phone call.

“Funny how time flies, what with it being 21 years since a chap called Fitzgerald confirmed the findings of two Brisbane journalists on the greasing of the various Lurks and Perks Departments of the Executive Building. Wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly happen again, the sages mooted; Cabinet crooks would contain their activities to North Qld. towns and the dives of Fortitude Valley where the snow was always white and the slime-bags operated south of the Tweed.

So two Queensland bureaucrats are officially rebuked. Is the heat of deep shit rising dictating moves? I won’t weep for these two, except perhaps for the huge brown paper bag they’ll take with them as salve. Angry Italian citizens found an ideal use for butcher’s hooks when it came to dealing with top-level corruption, à la Mussolini. Executive crime is only a crime in Queensland when George Street Looters and Thugs feel threatened and avert their eyes when passing the Law Courts just down the road from Diddle Den.

When I first saw the prim and impeccably attired Fraser in a T.V. news story, he and Beattie had copped a spray of water from an irate protester at an event shoot. His look of utter horror said it all. His pretty suit had been abominated by the hoi polloi and I could imagine the tut-tutting as he flicked at his suit as the limo whisked his Eminence back to the Executive Building.

This was an unmitigated Beattie sniveller who had yet to attain the hallowed status he enjoys today. I thought to myself, “Hullo, if this is not being up your-self then I am a monkey’s uncle.” I checked the phrase ‘up yourself’ and what a surprise, I found a connection to ‘pompous’. I then thought, this bloke cares a trillion times more about his image than he possibly could about the filthy unwashed, and hey, I was right on the money again. He is selling us out. Did he think to ask South Australian electricity consumers what effect privatisation has had on their power bills?”

I Add a bit:

From a distance and without being actively involved, I saw a fair bit of the Fortitude Valley drama unfold before me which was later to be of interest to the Fitzgerald inquiry. One stand-out memory is that of the then unknown figures arriving after close of business at the Hacienda Hotel and settle around a table in the darkened and now quiet first floor, indistinct shadows silhouetted by low wattage bar lighting. It was conceded that these furtive figures were involved in a chicanery of sorts, but in the Valley in those days one’s curiosity was passing. The blurred shapes became, in the Supreme Court, Terry’s bagmen picking-up the infamous small, sweet-tasting fish while discussing whatever order of business the vast array of bent cops had to arrange.

The contempt for and the heavy treatment of black people in the Valley was common-place and accepted as normal police culture back then, and to offend or demean blacks in any way, a ritual “bloodying” and a policeman’s induction into their favourite team sport. That activity was for the amusement and the base satisfaction of lesser lights in the trick, and white people felt safer when the presence of the coppers natural enemy detracted attention from them. Hectoring, ridiculing and threatening soft targets like pensioners and the helpless is now our servers safe sport of choice while the use of common-sense in every-day decisions is not used and its practitioners derided and sent to Coventry by dim nincompoop who collude with reprehensible club biff boys to taint our old values.

It is given that any Queensland Cabinet is laden with own interest manipulators and criminals with a cultivated indifference to the personal concerns of citizens outside the club. This was none so evident than with the Hinze/Joh arrangement which gave a good idea of the depth of badness in the upper echelons of all Governments as reflected by the treatment of and the regard that Government employees have for the public. I call this the trickling pus effect.

Joh’s defence of his political skull-dudgery was to claim he cherry-picked the best bits from former Labor Premier, ‘Red Ted’ Theodore, famous for naughty mining dealing after going Federal, was abetted by his Qld. successor and got the flick from the Treasury bench. Then, as now, was little political talent to draw upon and Theodore’s rapid return to Cabinet caused Scullin’s shaky Government to crash. You can be a subdolous, swindling, gerrymandering Machiavellian in the Executive, but embarrass your compatriots by getting caught and you, sweetheart, have become a criminal.

I rail on about the present smug bunch, but that they are into the public till to lay their dynastic foundations is not news, so how could I, in all honesty and with my faculties working, feign surprise or give a rat’s rectum about a crime whose lengthy existence and commonality matches that of prostitution. The real issue griping me are the ploys and the effort their Housing Commission staff use to ensure I am always subject to cigarette smoke and to the petty vagaries of retributive public servants. There is a lot to be said later about directives coming from immature drugged and drunk shiny-pants: it must wait, any wanker has only one novel in him, goes the saying.

I refer to the obvious contempt my pleas for a fair go have been treated by those who have access to cooked client phantom files that don’t exist. These low-ranked Housing employee are tied I acknowledge, by having to follow instructions, or suffer black-balling by their own or much worse; experience the ostracising and the condemnation of a Brigadoon poker machine club whose appropriately sur-named contact in her fifth-column role, settles both her personal dislikes and the hates of her vindictive, one-eyed feeble manager, by relaying embellished reports belittling out of favour tenants to her Woodridge friends.

Neither she nor her colleague and friend Jane, a spokesperson of the acronymned sham tenant’s union, which, after deciphering from doublespeak, is unquestionably B.U.L.L.S.H.I.T. are Government employees. This permits their naming, and Government narks should be disabused of the notion their threats are other than that. Private companies and individuals who feel they have been slandered can instigate a civil writ.

I was attacked by my nut-job protagonist neighbour who got his pooooo friends around to intimidate me and left heart-broken and disappointed they could only find evidence to support my case. An appropriately sur-named office person with whom he is acquainted had her Woodridge friends issue me with a notice of eviction which couldn’t work, it being too much a civil matter. I was not expected to know the M.O. of these deceased vaginas or how, if it’s your lucky day, the law also protects the slow and the ugly.

The annual bogus tenant’s meeting was in the pipeline for April, 2009, I think it was. I was the only tenant not informed, but attended this farce to ask if a consideration for the non-smoking tenant might be considered such as lodgement in up-wind or eastern-most flats away from the direction and discomfort of spent cigarette smoke.

” Cigarette smokers would find that discriminatory.” She was not joking and explained her raison d’etre was to assist the mentally dim tenants economise on electricity. That answer went over the heads of her audience of course, but hers was an official view. Had the tenant “union” been Government affiliated, which of course, it couldn’t be, the related information that a week or so after this cosy little wet morning gathering, an Origin competitor’s salesman door-knocked every Housing Commission residence seeking their custom. But hey! This is Queensland where the CMC occupies space.

I then explained the attack by the next-door paranoid occupant who ran at me with discharging aerosol fly-spray causing distress to the larynx and esophagus areas and mentioned that had cctv been in operation, I might have had his ridiculous claims quickly dispatched. I would like to install closed circuit tv to spare me future distress, I told her.

” Can’t be permitted. Such an instrument invades his privacy.” she assured me. This stupidity used to be know as pushing shit uphill.

Queensland’s most prominent semi-literate, knowing the undoubted power and only option for her kind, got the job by snivelling to an influential and intimidating stand-over merchant with whom she later traveled and largessed at Queensland’s expense in the US of A. We forget such stuff at our peril. It was while they were lording it up in Arizona she realized that that States pedestrian pull-over powers could benefit her home games. Sucking, she knew and advocated, had it over substance and merit and to appease a simpering Pooooo Commissioner, gave him the nod to harass those whose physical profile and pensioner ugliness didn’t meet biased approval.

I settled-in in a backward, dismal and forgotten little town which suited my expectation of anonymity and solitude, hoping to apply myself to various lethargic and light cerebral pursuits. After all, one does eventually get the message that the dark chariot is ever ready. What my chagrin discovered was that on any day spent indoors, a thousand words insist on release and a down-town stroll an epistle.

To a healthy and active mind, life will deliver to it surprises of all sorts to its last day. The extent of hate and its use by Government agents and other seemingly informed people will share that trip. My awareness of hate and its preferred use and why it is so eagerly and earnestly applied will always be a wonder to me. All levels of Government encourage a disregard for commonsense and the Queensland Government Housing Dept. instinctively favors a dill’s word of malevolence and lies and worse, to that of a considerate thinking person, of whom, I imagine, they feel threatened in the company of goodness while the herd mentality of fellow troglodytes offer a comfort of sorts while exercising their in-built superiority.

In Brigadoon, her sheet-sniffing agents submit instructions, edicts and homily advice to the local, golly-gosh-good compliant weekly ‘newspaper.’ who drops this waffle in without query or edit. An American friend still laughs aloud at this bush paper’s hand-wringing report on the theft of a letter-box which had won local acclaim for its seventh placing in a happy letter-box competition. The Christmas glee that celebrating Works staff had around a plate of meat pies also won amusement.

The puerile material this (caring) oooooo sage submits is taken as gospel by the limited and easily impressed iq depleted reader range and compares favourably with the publication’s minus 100 IQ target audience and as such passes unnoticed into an unaware community as general and acceptable roughage. Of his biased and oft inaccurate moralising, an April, 2009 homily had two errors of fact in a four line paragraph and with that appalling dearth of accuracy, I would gladly assist any unfortunate citizen who was wrongly convicted by a prosecutor’s guesswork to redress perverted evidence.

For whom has this belles-lettres abandoned his ethics and intellect? Is he script-writing Police Academy 8 and became delusionally involved in the action? The Academy motto this time around could read, EUDCATE OUR POLICE. The charter of the Australian Civil Liberties insists that Australian political prisoners no longer be slotted, but this fellow, who honourably serves us, would know a bit about back-door political censorship and Doomadgee knee jobs.

His actions are predicated more by George Street pressure to stop uncomplimentary Brigadoon blog-sites, than by protecting dangerous psychiatric screw-balls from exposure. My stuff under Crikey’s management would get a thousand times the coverage this site can offer, while overseas news sites, always looking for new words, use my poor stuff to fill a hole. I feel for the lady who was taken aback at police indifference at her husband mouldering in the park, but she will soon wipe her poor little hands on her apron and lapse into an inconsolable despair.

Any Government employee deserving of his superannuation loves to invoke the Mental Health evaluation test, and a heresy inquisitor worth his salt will ensure the “troubled” target is goaded into an introduction to Sister Ratched’s white lab coats. The distraught victim is invariably an older citizen who has been denied natural courtesy and justice after unnecessary shop-staff rudeness or Government officiousness caused a disbelief of what had befallen him.

The unofficial word I have is that about 1,000 Australians are arbitrarily slotted annually, roughly the same number who die through misadventure while travelling overseas. The public only get to hear the juiciest bits of either area, ie the Oakey lady, the Croat incident. A Government engineered three week memory retention limit soon puts such knowledge in the toilet in any case.(except for me, Guv’mint arse-lickers.)

A pushy Gold Coast based pay channel hassled me for subscription which means they phoned me, my good and wise censor and honourable people-server. On the fourth occasion I gave her words that my Mum had never heard and was promised much wraith and the full force of the phone company and the law. I ever quiver as I await my dread fate. Understand the analogy, my good young chap? I didn’t force her to make annoying calls to me, and I don’t compel effete freaks to click on my sites and then run across the road to weep to an grandstanding blow-hard whose assurance of, ” Leave it to me, mate,” can’t be delivered.

Sixty kilometres out of Brisbane and 60 years into the past. Old saying holding good and true, more applicable today than in Joh’s era of thump stand-over cops defending the God-blessed National Party. A uninformed stand-over cop has expanded duties in present day Brigadoon, part of whose all-encompassing duties include supporting and protecting the multi-million dollar poker machine industry while guarding the Templum of Puer Diligo from an old-age pensioner’s criticism.

A tiny bit of mug’s money must be compulsory returned by poker machine bandits to the deprived kids of dunce parents who drop their entire week’s food money into the machines on pay night. The glossy brochures these rip-off joints send through the mail to portray themselves as gracious and benign benefactors of the needy is nothing but aggrandizement and false advertising, but the Anna Street censorship board cleared this material for postal distribution. After Adolf’s long-night burning of intellectual’s web-sites, my full attention should return from this time-wasting site to a much neglected general recording of events.

Salve the conscience for a miserable $250 a week; what munificence! To 80% of the contrite and cowed locals, their three monkey philosophy is a blessing which allows them to be pissed on with dignity. The sum returned is less than the weekly pension after rent. St. Mavis ‘s NLP Cromwellian side-winder also gets State protection and support, while under-valued Country Women’s Association and NLP volunteers maintain an old-fashioned stiff upper lip while being finger-pointed by their masters as incompetent floor rags, but that is their penance and they love it. Word-smith to the rescue, put down any sign of anti-establishment dissent.

Protect the stand-over tie-ins with service club’s direct line to Qld Housing, the aptly sur-named apologist for retarded members, her connection to a sham tenant union representative of whom, watch this space. Is decency a passé word and gone the way of manners and consideration for one’s fellows? In our town, the genre word, Oxymoron, has application to another interest group; it is not especially the preserve of the military yet they bed each other.

In NSW, ‘friendly fire,’ an old and trusted military trick knocks off a troublesome colleague. If the modest number of eight Queensland police employees daily being on the shit carpet, then 20 NSW coppers a day must find themselves in a similar spot. I expect the last words the fragged Bill Crew heard from behind were, “Come and get some.”

For adults to allow themselves to be told by a police oracle they were well behaved men and women is quite appalling and unacceptable and reflects the loss of independent thought and common-sense and is a deference to and an acceptance of stupidity by self-proclaimed prophets and seers. Such people are not recognised in their own country, goes the saying, but in Brigadoon we prostrate ourselves before self-important, role-playing idiots who insist on adulation as great thinkers and hero-models to be admired. Good people don’t need a Government nanny representative to lecture them on the difference between right and wrong.

Not too long ago, I would look askance and wonder at the anti-police comments of disgruntled adults who, without a whiff of criminal form, denounced them in general for their arbitrary and presumptuous manner, and I couldn’t agree with them then. Then and now. Times and dimensions. I am not swayed by anecdotal stories on any group or personalities. Since moving into this place fronting a convalescent home, I’ve copped years of vilification for my refusal to cower to the intimidatory tactics of the bully and will always act on my own decisions much to the disparagement of gaol-yard predators and Government stasi operatives.

My previous posting was a preamble to what eventually must emerge as an officially recorded log of grievances. A healthy and open society shouldn’t compel a citizen to be involved in bitter Government instigated and provoked pettiness and drivel; a lovingly embraced Housing Commission trait it seems, I am a private person not at all interested in big-noting. The Larreys of the world have that prerogative. If new-comers or established tenants choose to respond to niceness and manners with nastiness and spite I withdraw, if I can, from further interaction, yet the irritation won’t relinquish its hold. I am a shit magnet.

This accommodation precinct was promoted as a 55+ place of habitation. Currently, the gross and the loud-mouth and the trouble-making bully swagger about in a predatory manner, loud of mouth and demeanour, their low mentality a guarantee of official nurturing. The covert, mind-game bully, a far greater danger to the gentle who must make extraordinary efforts to combat the daily effects of confrontation. The latest Housing Commission scat foisted upon this precinct presented herself at 10 pm on Wednesday, March 17. Her son-in-law’s aging diesel truck left running the duration of the unloading amidst a bedlamite party atmosphere; a definite here we are, love us or hate us, the hell with you message being emitted.

Early the next morning, well before the light of dawn, a reassuring ‘pet talk’ started outside my work-station window. She can’t be all that bad, I erroneously reasoned. Autumn was nearing, days noticeably shortening with windows shut early to contain the warmth and to exclude toxins like cigarette smoke and carbon monoxide. An up-lifting and promising time of the year for Multiple Chemical Sensitively aware people. A feeling of impending good health, of making a full inhale without the risk of an instant head-ache while gasping for oxygen. The same feeling of expectancy, like a child’s anticipation of Santa’s presents, or with young adults, the first waves of road heat auguring the best possibilities of the day; welcome youthful pleasures. In old age, the prospect of the coming winter months affording some free-breathing nights engendering an extraordinary optimism, a new hope.

The behemoth was shovelling porridge into a gaping, blubbery hate-hole, as is her habit, she explained, when we made our first hesitant overture during which her cat’s peculiarities were raised, one of which was its running for home when a second party entered its sphere. She wanted pet hatches installed on the fly doors. Looks like you start off doing so and so, I suggested. ” You don’t do it like that.” she snapped. ” Sorry,” I told her, ” Can’t do it, well beyond my scope.”

Walking by her flat early the next day, my shit detector failed me when I stopped and exchanged hesitant chit-chat. A woman over the way who I offer a lift into town if our departure times mesh was leaving her abode when I made my usual offer. At this, the pushy cat woman demanded, ” I want to go into town too. Don’t forget to ask me,” she called after me as I quickly decamped the presence of this despicable cancer. As with her ignorant type, she might discover a contentment of sorts if she redirected energy to sane, kind-hearted and beneficial movements, and those around her might be spared a hateful environment.

Unfinished

Animosity! You and he are welcome to it, but the bitch is always in heat.

Long ago I became very aware of the anathema awarded me my few small victories, that contending with a pair of nasty little queens is like banqueting on bubbly and caviar for Easter Sunday breakfast; too easy, too enjoyable and too decadent. Thinkers are unable to offer the dim and witless flattery, but the temperate achiever who doesn’t insult the integrity will win everlasting acclaim. At twice your age and hauling a tiring body, the legacy of a degenerate life and a matching, undisciplined brain, I am immodest enough, as I await the leveler, to rate my I.Q. above the comfort zone.

Without the idiot gene, many professions would never have risen from the floor and those who have this fault share with pox carriers and down-wind sneezers and spitters, the macabre pleasure of implanting without discretion to gain the advantage and over-run and defeat common-sense, Onan, as with an era of Nile-wanking Pharaohs, justified the kinky pleasure of public orgasm by naming the practice a celebration of abundance of food and water. The same chap saw virtue in seeding the earth than wasting an orgasm on a no-hoper who, 16 years later will have daddy’s permission to go forth to kill and maim. It is an underhand way of getting square with those round him he perceives should not have an ordered and peaceful life. You are entitled…

This part of lost file not retrieved and will be added-to.

…Of Human Bondage as a treatise on fetishes still rankles with me. Alternately, commit to the rewarding and correct way by adopting Bolt’s intellectual principles and work ethics and increase the odds of attracting the cream you were assured was possible.

As imperfect and meagre were my two invited submissions, they were over represented in an intellectual desert and their cynicism lost on you as is a Faberge egg to a nose picker. You and your little friend’s vacuous and inane response to them didn’t win support even from the sparse herd of goats. Considering you possess a double dose of perplexity, it is most likely that my reference to a politician’s mispronunciation of hyperbole as hyper-bowl went over your head. “Talk sense to a fool and he will call you foolish.” By ridiculing that which you don’t understand, marks you truly your parent’s child.

In our correspondence, I stuck to my principle of answering your questions as thoroughly as my recall allowed while offering thoughts on subjects you put to me. Generally known as manners, letter-writing etiquette is now shunned for its perceived insipidity by dumbed-down parents desperately seeking the mantle as creators of leaders. It is what I’ve dubbed The Palin Principle of narcissistic, self-serving duffers not letting the lack of ability, knowledge, common-sense, integrity, manners and other worthy attributes prevent an unearned lead role in the pecking order.

The anguished keeper despairs for his lost brother. The object of his attention shrugs, as would I, at unwanted and oily intrusive clap-trap. This fellow will emerge when the climate and the reason is agreeable. He has always led a remote and distant life, and given the puritanical dogma that surrounded his youth, this inherited affliction has manifested in him as an ascetic zealot. Humbug siblings appal and irritate him, as they do me. So be it. Christian vanity at work to pursue and obligate him.

Not all the lambs are influenced by smoke and mirrors. With the martyr, I see a self-righteous nut-job with a sharpened stake bumping around in his quiver, bible held like a defiant cross in one hand, the other giving free rein to his white charger, bellowing, “God for Vivian, For Purity, And for Vivian,” as he storms through unbelievers to liberate the hermitage and restore goodness and God. I must revisit Man Of La Mancha et al.

Early on, your missives were promising, showing attention to detail and you used the same commendable guidelines of letter-writing aficionados, but the new pan dulled quickly. If you were offended by, didn’t understand, or failed to get the expected response from me, then despair not, your lack of perspicacity and faint heart are in the breeding. Immorally bred Brethren children emulate their parents by denouncing those they can’t manipulate by accusations of their own faults of hate, jealousy and envy slanted against the hapless victim. This is the nucleus of your very existence, a justification for taking breath and how morally corrupt fraudsters leach from the trusting unaware, their last hopes.

A reformed petty criminal and crack-head wouldn’t have the faintest idea what I’ve been on about or alluding to, so I will sum it by suggesting Andrew Bolt decipher for you.

A lucid yarn with issue of Alice In Wonderland and The Billy Graham Show is in the realm of Great Expectations. There is no doubt why rationality and common sense are frowned upon while dopes run riot who are not reminded often enough of their fallibility and their stupidity.

Be a good lad and maintain your silence as a reply to this note won’t be opened. Les Johns.

“If you give me six lines written by the most honest of men, I will find something in them which will hang him.”

Cardinal Richelieu got a bad press, but to get the pox at age 20 means he couldn’t have been all that bad. A more recent and relative quote came from the esteemed Queensland Premier, a very considerate lady who cares for you if you are an active participant of her Looter and Thug Executive Club who gives the third estate the finger and embraces the fourth to fool the former with bridge runs and firework shows.

Was reassuring to see students getting cranky with the Rat Queen. If Abbott can’t roll this unctuous manipulator, he could try another job. The arguments the Canberra filth throw up! Who give’s a rat’s ear if Rudd sent his lad to a meeting. The bureaucrat would be more au fait in any case. And if you care about Queen Rats climate hogwash, perhaps playing on the road is your best shot.

Rudd’s celebratory November night in Brisbane heralded his downfall because of Bligh’s clinging and gushing put him in an untenable position and he was too polite to give a fellow local the flick. I remember an excited and garrulous Premier praising and thanking oldies for their life-long contribution to their country and I am now curious at how the Housing Department translates such a blessing from above into contempt for the older renter. The weaker tenant, and that would be 80% of them, will succumb to Housing Department screwing by becoming fifth column dobbers and gain a favourable dossier. Let us not forget though, only a dimwit would submit to the thoughts and deeds of a semi-literate Premier.

The Queen of the Rats admires the pensioner’s integrity. Gee, early spin, I must give her my vote. I hope she reminds us on the evening of 21 August of our virtues. The offensive and venal Bligh doesn’t remind us often enough of our unforgettable contribution to the nation and I tend to forget.

As the older residents of this pensioner-intended Government flat precinct fall off the perch, the replacements are fifty and lazy, anti-social, mobile-phone obsessed idiots. The latest morbidly obese crazie sits on her veranda pre-dawn scooping porridge into her maw between screaming into her phone. She is engaging the only asset she knows… her rank stupidity. Her very presence and mien has one wondering if she is not Myra Hindley reincarnate who will resume gnashing at a baby’s corpse after the porridge.

During the day she will prop outside my flat ditto. I reminded her of the 50 unfenced acres surrounding us which must have a good reception spot somewhere. ” Go get a life, ya so and so,” she advised. This is a preferred tenant, who moved in at 10 P.M. with a loud party of her kind assisting, while leaving the diesel running for the hour-long unloading.

Another preferred and hallowed tenant is my immediate nasty up-wind neighbour who arrived with the arse out of his trousers and, with a friend unloaded his dusty donated furniture. Within hours the continuous cigarette smoking had stunk and polluted bedding and clothes. He is a hero and can do what he wants, had been bumming around the country as a Viet. apologizer for forty years dining on ” poor me” sympathy.

He read a few Reader’s Digest self-improvement books and became an intellectual. The Beaudesert rsl franchise give him work driving medical cases to appointments for the ambulance service. The supplied sedan air-conditioning stinks badly of nicotine tar, but it’s a hero’s tar and the complaints of afflicted patients are down-played.

A request to redirect this fellows 24 hour cigarette smoke is meet with remarks like, ” Why don’t you just move out?” Hero is another telephone abuser who doesn’t need a phone. From time to time he makes loud phantom calls from his bathroom which abuts mine and has a need to impress me, I imagine, in the expectation I might think him important, or even to give himself an ego trip. Whatever it is, very little surprises me after 70 years.

What surprises me somewhat though, is my retard status. I wasted time and effort to attend a tenant’s union meeting to raise several issues, but especially to see if I could get a tenant reps look on cigarette smoke issues. ” I am here to keep you informed on what is happening in the world, but especially to let you know how to save on electricity. Can’t help you with cigarette smoke.” Is that not a nonsense? This Joke named Jean is more State Government wastage and the so-called union is fully Government financed and operated. An organisation as useless as the Electrical Trades Union.

I proposed to this Government stooge how installing c.c.cameras at own expense for day-time surveillance of my two verandas when the chances of contact with the mental hero was high and got the same response as when I mooted locating smoker’s flats downwind to non-smokers places of abode. Offensive To Smokers; Offensive To Thugs.

The inescapable trio is prominent in Beaudesert. The police, the tainted rsl and the Ministry for More Homelessness. Offend one, you offend all. The quite living and considerate dweller like the writer is reviled for refusing to capitulate to the values of neanderthals.

A decent person has inbuilt ethics. If this farcical Chief Minister of the Puppetry had the whiff of even the doppelgänger of one, she would have instinctively and immediately removed herself from the company of assassins. The dissipated simian should lead the next Government.

Last night’s show of the worms is evidence enough that most Australians are dummies; dumbed-down Yes people who don’t know what they don’t know and they have no idea the lobotomic removal of their faculty of common sense is almost complete, totally choreographed by our bloated bureaucrat who sends the masses to foreign places to defend their most treasured possession…their ignorance.

Naturally I listened to news reports this morning on last nights contrived “debate,” an event so important that its schedule was adjusted to suit a most banal crap show. As an aside, have you noticed how any queen who can knock-up a cup of coffee becomes a TV foodie chef?

An early Australian theatre entertainer named Melba famously advised a touring singer when asked what material should be included in her repertoire replied,” Just sling ‘em muck.” That became the template for the confidence tricksters who would be our legislators.

Distract the wankers with stupid non-issues, one of which is this estimated population thirty years hence nonsense. If the Chinese took it upon themselves, they could easily transplant 50 million of their own around this country in two years, so population scare-mongers, have a cup of Chinese tea.

Tags: Send in The Mikado.

During the course of your re-initiated email exchange, I titled a missive Jabberwocky hoping to arouse a comment on the clever, but flawed paedophile author of nonsense who immortalized the word. None came from you but your obedient off-sider googled the Fed. Stat. page to score points after I used arbitrary numbers to make a cynical point on their biased and advantageous use. I can only guess at this nasty boys’ pleasures, but I’m sure his brain-decaying nocturnal delights of turning tricks in the Valley would better reward him than a subservient role to a jumped-up pretender.

The greatest challenge to any thinker is stating the problem in a way that will allow its understanding by the dim, and is most likely why I fail miserably with you and your contemporaries to whom I mistakenly attribute an inflated Peter’s Level. A gaping-mouthed, stunned Homer Simpson could replace the star under the ensign at the next flag-changing push. That move would also be an acceptance of all things American.

The infamous, “D’oh” is fast becoming the symbol of a dumbed-down society promulgated by you, multiplied by how many millions? And what’s the result? A huge simmering puddle of pus, and begs the question why Governments blanket the whole community at huge advertising cost to remind and reassure the populace of its enduring crass stupidity. The never-ending television reminders that analogue ends anon is a case in point. As I see it, if a pie-eater tunes to his Bugs Bunny one morning and it isn’t there, it might eventually occur to him that he’s had three years in which to defray $40 from the pokies to waste on the cheapest set-top box.

There are many minute, or toy sites like yours which collectively, would make their obtuse followers the audience Governments professes to reach. With your considerable persuasive powers and spiv pals within spin Departments, some of those advertising dollars could enhance your sites sale prospects.

While my one-off pseudonym was the sire of Pan, it was paedo. related, but didn’t evoke comment from you. Ennui reigns in youth as in age. Many people would sooner die than think, in fact they do so. Thinking is beyond most people, as is drafting thoughts onto paper. It took my Devil’s Advocate stance on Andrew Bolt to get the result I wished in November, 2008 when I noted in a communication how our corresponding benefited neither participant and I severed the connection. I think Christmas and email lists need severe culling or even total destruction prior the event.

A few apt clichés get bandied about here to usher-in my take on your own unique way of getting square with an obdurate relative. Like father, like son, is too easy but it fits in this anecdote of your father’s interest in Philip Adams. In late July, 2008, after a conversation with him in which I made known my knowledge of Adam’s radio spot, I advised him that an earlier interest in Adams had waned, although any impromptu appearances on T.V. would get my attention. Having a Doctorate in the mind-game industry, and given his decades of unobtrusively ridiculing dissenters while appearing a nice, caring guy, your father reckoned it was time to give me a going over, Christian style.

This is where one of his oft-used and objectionable tools of his trade kicks in. The mind game. Were you to receive four emails on successive days as reminders of a static, recurring event which you had already stated wasn’t of any interest, might you not take it as granted that the sender was also sending you another, not so covert message? It would take a totally brain-stuffed and mentalled incompetent to forget even the first verbal mention of a coming event, let alone four subsequent visual nudges.

Your bias would view this persuasion as a bubbling, keen enthusiasm skewing his judgment. He was about to turn 66, had he forgotten who he was dealing with? Ha-ha! Let us remind Les of his cretinous background and put him down. How could an old Antichrist like him possibly remember which path to take on his morning walk to get the paper, let alone a late night radio talk? Your father demonstrates his love and interest of individuals by implying a stupidity. Be of interest to know the ratio of suicides to successes after he’s finished with them. Look at his August 4, 2008 email in which he dismisses his harassment after I asked him, quite politely, to lay-off.

Your retribution on me rival those of a 50 years old incident in which an other era control freak leaving Quilpie to return to the shearing shed, was surprised to be over-taken on the town’s flat outskirt by an unrelated motorist. “Took me 80 miles out of me way,” he boasted to whoever he could, “but I eventually passed the bastard.” ‘Nuff sed!

Although I likened elsewhere the poles-apart opposite of intelligence and education, it remains difficult for me to understand the pointed denial of your inheritance by rejecting all sources of information. Knowing too well your nurturers and the prejudices you would have been steeped in, I fully understand why a dogged party cadre puts aside independent thought for fear of family conflict. Mummy and Daddy’s insistence that tidbits must be well-cooked and heavily sugar-iced. The few recollections I offered might remain intact under another umbrella. A faithful recorder of events needs to note events as he remembers them. What a grave folly it would be to lie, but why lie? I did with a fluffy rendition of near relatives and their courtship which pricked me even as I put it down, and is now set for a penetrating and truthful revision. Time’s winged chariot calls unexpectedly, and I fear a disturbed spirit unless the truth is out.

Your father appeases his neap Billy Graham brain by screaming foul when confronted by factual statements. Les hates Ian, he supposedly and confidently got your ear. You got a distorted message. Put it down to an outside noise like an unkempt diesel. I don’t fancy using the hate word, and in spite of recalling incidents from a baby age, my relating of those long-ago happenings are for their novelty value. Blindly following such bias augers shithouse for your future clients that fate has condemned and they don’t know it.

To the well versed law practitioner you are, your daddies subtly implanted vitriol can’t be questioned. He is your typical, by the book public servant, protecting his rear and to hell with rationality. He wouldn’t have read in his life more conspiratorial stuff than a sauce bottle label but acts on instinct to discredit potential opponents and applies the convenient paranoia tag. An illiterate Christian has few options. These false accusations don’t ever just blow over. They might though, if they weren’t frequently added to and stirred.

I don’t hate anyone any more or less than I do you or any other offensive object. His disapproval of free thought manifests as a distaste of yours truly, a rush to judgment and garbling of the truth. His own proud prejudices would have psychiatrically and professionally destroyed many unfortunate kids who were compelled to debase themselves to his hollowness and homilies. What a glorious God-fearing member of the establishment is he. Cranmer also, the obedient sycophant fried his master’s opponents and was similarly rewarded.

The gob-smacking denouement awaits breathlessly.

I share with Andrew Bolt the sentiment of the dead, image-concious macho American novelist, Hemingway, that the essential gift of a decent writer is a built-in, shock-proof shit detector. It is intuition as much as prescience he alluded to and heeding it can spare the sensitive soul the annoyance of little vainglorious nits.

You evidently sought a congress of sorts with Bolt who rejected your advances earning your denunciation. Don’t all you children of the Brethren so react? He would have instinctively summarised and dismissed you a la Papa, as a dumb-brained two second itch. Audacity can work if carefully balanced with charm but concealing a barren intellectual reservoir would be an incongruous demand on you.

Mediocre tyros can turn quite venomous when confronted with the reality of their limitations and quickly demonize those who can’t be hood-winked. Your nurturing meant a lifetime of being assured you were anything but an artless petty criminal has bred delusions. Evidence supporting intellectual value has yet to be found in the manipulators paean to the chicanery of the ruling class; The Holy Bible.

The age-old observation that fools are so sure of themselves while wiser people so full of doubt would have been gibberish had it been brought to your attention. Self-preservation bars adverse criticism of the State since it is only from that pre-set structure can the ongoing 30 pieces of silver sustain you. The dangling sword menacing Government sycophants stills the mildest of dissent, and their corruption becomes as complete and as thorough as that of their master. Mute witnesses will always be precluded from ever making believable statements. Enjoy being the Government’s mistress, my friend, for when you leave her embrace you will be as diseased and as contaminated as she.

I looked at alternate, boutique sites. With yours, I found a preoccupation with the 1969 best-seller of secret dossiers and lurking, under-cover coppers. Absolutely page one stuff today and of paramount importance. You run in fright and use ridicule at my suggestion of possible similar happenings on the current scene. I understand the superiority of impulsive youth, that those more than 10 years your senior wouldn’t know if you were up them. Mummy and Daddy being the exception, for working them is a valuable and cunning commodity. You accept whole-heartedly your parents physical, emotional, and financial help for sure, so you’ve waived the right to independent thought. Why continue the “news” blog charade? Pre-written slant harks back to your fave era. It’s remote and safe. What encouraged you to have a crack at such a blog? The bit I’ve seen of your stuff, I’d wager you are not a newsman, but why diversify from the family business of hell-fire? It’s nourished and spooked the witless for two millennia and it is more entrenched in your system than is printer’s ink. Church parading politicians attest that a bridge runner’s vote has the same value as that of a bible-banger.

“Live and let live” had a divine value once upon a time. No more! The proliferation of the Government and religious fear industry has made acquiescence compulsory and individualism a blight to all but the most resolute. Given your haste to judge and convict me, I expect your ignorance and superstition will be at its prosecuting zenith when swine will once again ride with me in the tumbrel.

These files you tried to resurrect didn’t relate to current news events and I wondered why they were talked-up. Could be a feature or magazine filler, I concluded. The grand masthead promised much but delivered little. Who could be impressed by tiny, meaningless graphics of weirdos seeking official approval to poke their dicks into bags of excreta? The health hazards should alarm the most liberal of minds. The photos did nothing for the immediacy of nil importance. A globe-wandering friend claims that the essential zing factor of carnally knowing a man in the shadows of Red Square lost its impact with that countries adoption of the lenient western influence.

Your blog is as convincing as the simulated sex in Queer As Folk. a narrow brush of image over substance. No supportive skeleton, no meat and potatoes, a shapeless blob, unashamed plagiarised layout, a rubber-stamp of the big kids. Pretence and bluff have very short lives. Even your targeted mentally challenged audience would be offended at being taken for easily manipulated mugs. The opinion pieces have no conviction or depth and knows not mirth nor parody and is simply a teenagers brag sheet of resource-wasting plane trips and an avowal of straight sex knowledge. I didn’t, couldn’t persevere with its feebleness and had no reason to revisit until you mentioned the connection.

When I did, it was deja vu time, hullo again Bill Murray, to be confronted by an obsession with the yawning, nay, sleeping ghosts of secret files as puff for stories that don’t eventuate. Perhaps age-affected and indifferent citizens could be cajoled into an awe-struck admiration in expectation of what? Just paste stuff from your inspiration, and win support the easy way. You can’t even pretend to have concerns for others; your pompous self-interests blind you to the real frustrations that like-minded public servants inflict on a helpless, but not always gullible public. The late sixties saw the more spirited dissenters confront authority on city streets. The current generation take trembling refuge behind the three monkeys or the thin air of a p.c. keyboard.

The manipulated and faulty meter, or tag column, from which could be shrieked the misnamed,“ ALEXANDER THE GREAT won’t marry; PREFERS HEPHAESTION.” Also prominent in this column was the heinous and grotesque Ferguson who sells newspapers when he moves residence. He is really the ugly representation of paedophilia who takes the flak for child molestation made by predatory business and sporting ‘pillars.’ who will in five minutes of intimidating perversion, destroy forever a life and a trusting young mind. This crime is aided and abetted by defenders of alleged wrong-doers and the smug, easy-riding clergy and in fact, all pretenders and humbugs. If child molestation is an actual concern of yours, why aren’t you calling for the destruction of those churches where the offences occurred? But of course, that could make the source of your illiterate converts a wee bit shitty on you.

To my utter dismay, you invited my participation, or, more likely, extended an invitation to massage egos and vanity to which I initially declined explaining my reservations. After relenting, it was with hope that I could engender interest in an ailing, limp site by introducing intelligent observation on the irrelevant and ludicrous subject of same sex marriage that was intriguing you at the time. My effort and time was rewarded by two disingenuous kids proffering uninformed and offensive remarks. P’raps the pair of you should engage the brain before operating the mandible or secure them and keep us guessing at what enlightening material is ever-ready to astonish the plebeians. Which translates to, ‘…disable the reply to comment box.’

Parts two and three await in the wings