HITLER’S DAUGHTERS INVADE BEAUDESERT.

QUEENSLAND HOUSING COMMISSION.

National Labor Party President-Apparatchik condones sheet-sniffing…(site:lesjohns.wordpress.com/)

Lucy Bar, the woman who brought aging bitch-boy, Dale Woodums over from Westminster House for Assisted Living would be living the life of Riley without the cutting remarks of a failed ham. This independent, educated woman is an accomplished wordsmith with discipline and nous enough to delve into and complete a research program and gain her PhD. Published a dot com story with an accomplice. Megalomaniacs thrust into public housing necessitates self-aggrandizement. The anally retentive Mother’s brag sheet includes USA tertiary tutorship, yet was bamboozled by a reference to Arabic numerals. Responded to my wish on how I would appreciate some writing ability with a reference to his friend Lucy who “ thinks she can write, too.” Woodums would be unable to compliment his dying mother.

Mother Dale, Queen Boof of the amplified household audio returned to the hustings the other day and celebrated his homecoming by dropping a heavy item onto bare floorboards at 0027 hours. She could have done 24 days of shock treatment or an extended stasi course on irritating noise production. A few days later he returned to Salisbury. This stasi prick would be costing the public purse rather than the ALP who is the beneficiary of his efforts. New no. 10 has gone missing a couple of days. Well rewarded by generous benefits, these Labor sheet sniffers. Like McArthur and Mother Dale he returned, featured by his trademarked hurtling, frantic rush outside while verbally abusing the mobile.

Queen of the hams, Mother Dale is totally stasi cell cadre but if I’m wrong, he will leave today’s recruitment drive, arm in arm with the Frau Schikelgruber of choice as the next Queensland Labor Party spy-chief-in-waiting. My anti-National Socialist olfactories detect already a menacing Station Road Nazi presence.

In a letter to Queensland Housing Commission’s Beaudesert RSL agency, I acknowledged to the NLP card-carrying Victoria that this flat precinct at 220-226 Brisbane Street, between the Wongaburra Convalescent facility and Mt. Lindsay Highway as a fair choice to lodge the RSL’s myriad IQ deficient and witless dependents given that the place was already so stacked. The covert mind-games used by the Department to force the removal of a decent, but steadfast tenant is on-going and un-necessary when a simple offer of resettlement with financial assistance would have worked for me.

The austere, 1950 era army camp buildings and the surrounds of this precinct have been likened to a prison farm, so I should enjoy Palen Creek Prison farm if fate so deems. For the dead cheap rent, I am more than satisfied with this place of abode keeping in mind you get what you pay for. In this case the activities of the inmates besmirch the place. Not forgetting bitch-boy Dale and our three or four face to face discussions about his various ways of manufacturing unnecessary noises, desperation induced me to try his crude street rules by slamming a fly door in response to a morning of like from Mother Dale, but its sheer puerility only reflected the stupidity of the protagonist and I was unable to continue with that line of retaliation.

Being the bottom feeders of Governments world-wide with Family Services and the Aged a whisker away for the creme de la creme of fixed Government obtuseness, the Queensland Housing Department is proof positive how fools seldom differ and bask in the company of their own. The desperate, despicable drug dependent public servant discards, pensioned Fortitude Valley night workers, all become instant experts after doing two-week part-time courses in psychiatry or palmistry. No-hopers seeking both a cohesion and a domination of their overwhelmingly dim clients by offering exclusive fifth column membership. As dense today as were their sub-normal parents on their conception; wasted orgasms and better for humanity, like Onin, had their passion landed upon the ground. Lots of love, Les.

LANARTA JEAN RIDES AGAIN… More Stasi Instructions Via Lanarta Jean.

For seventy examples of Labor-generated regression, checkout…site:lesjohns.wordpress.com/

“What is the greatest wonder?

Each day strikes and yet we live as if we were immortal.

This is the greatest wonder.” The Mahasharata.

“All you need in this world is ignorance and confidence, and then your success is assured.”

The recent tongue-in-cheek Mark Twain Award most probably came about by one of his observations:

A couple of weeks ago I got a hastily scrawled, barely legible invite to the annual Public Housing tenants meeting in Beaudesert. It comes up this Wednesday, and my desired absence will be deliberate, but for an astute postman’s deciphering of incorrect numbering, it would have been accidental. The drive behind these “friendly, getting to know you chats” is to lure life’s musty failures into Labor-centric fifth columnists who, after training, don’t miss much. Would not surprise me if skid-marked bedding and pubic hue recorded, and with whom. My grudgingly issued invitation, an unacceptable after-thought which can never be the intended appeasement.

I attended this Bligh Labor Government managed farce two years ago to voice passive nicotine smoke and tenant noise problems and a smug old Party hack, nicknamed Lanarta Jean, assured me that the problems of sub-normals was not on that day’s agenda. Advice in tuning a TV receiver to better acquaint myself with current affairs was available but more importantly, brochures on wise electricity usage would carefully explain how changing my power supplier could be financially beneficial. Having my patience tested with this puerile shit-talk indicates a dim idiot regards me as an equal, or worse, and is playing the dominance game. A couple of weeks later, an opposition power representative to Origin hammered on Commission tenant doors drumming-up trade. As far as I’m concerned his prompting was corruptly inspired.

The meeting’s collection of ten or eleven dumbed-down tenants was matched by as many poo-faced stasi apologists, replicas of the crawling, self-serving cancerous trash that rooted NSW Labor. They clung to the hall’s perimeter like a country dance’s wallflowers. At the conclusion of this bogus meeting, an unpleasant item with a name similar to Shouters threatened to hasten my departure by invoking fire provisions and remove my smoke deflectors. During an unrelated visit QBuild, of whom I have been occasionally unkind by being truthful, saw nothing untoward about my innovative deflectors, their construction or their placement.

QBuild contingent spoke-person sought to ease a non-existent fear which I was expected to show when Housing Commission agents called,”Don’t worry about us, we’re not the other lot, we’re here to check the new floor,” referring to the unnecessary monetary waste of replacing barely worn vinyl flooring. A Housing trait. Evidently these Woodridge Housing grubs enjoy playing Irish lords instilling the fear of eviction into the potato picking serfs.

“Shuduppa you face, you fucking poofter.”

Of Frau Kym Schiklegruber, a compulsive phone pest, I should have counter-acted with an avo. Her phone pestering rendering the item permanently unplugged and useless. An alternative to ADSL being considered for broadband. Another of these base creatures objected to my verbatim quote of a Spanish National foreman’s response asked to tone down his men’s extended vocal noise; “You shut up, you fucking poofter.” he advised me. Nothing much disturbs me nowadays, but I thought, ” Hello, nothing much disturbs me nowadays, but has this prick been reading my mail “?

This girl-child employee to whom I mentioned the incident was at the precinct with an adult Housing person, complained my use of the verbatim quote and my life was further compromised by hateful, unhelpful staff. Not wanting to contend with illegal eviction threats, and fed-up with ten weeks of indifferent or no TV, I sent a missive to Schwarten who then held Housing. TV reception was spasmodic at this time with an established antenna defect. An electrician, a ‘mate’ in on the joke had S.F.A. antenna expertise, obvious after his failed attempts brought only disappointing results. A Brisbane antenna company was dispatched to sort-out the hitch soon after my note to the Executive building and three months of indifferent, scratchy reception was fixed at a price of 2K. and worth every cent to a homebody. Schwarten’s C of Staff, a worldly-wise hard-nut, couldn’t give a rats about everyday vernacular of course, his mortification being reserved for the exclusion of honourable from my note to His Eminence.

Nonsense, nose-picking and less then worldly little girls would be gainfully employed counting paper clips in a remote religious order than make decisions on adults. This skittery type of employee alas, is the best a rotting and rotten Queensland Labor Government can recruit. Those with secretive dealings avoid applying text to paper and deliver threats personally. Stasi tyro inquisitor Terry refused a chair, the intimidating effect of standing supposed to spook the powerless also to give a psychological advantage.

Just record it, worry about the legalities later.

Re-plug your phone was the message from Frau Kym, and take her calls. I asked of him how inappropriate screaming into mobiles outside my flat by two dim tenants might be addressed. Tenancy provisions prevented disparaging comments about fellow tenants which apparently I had just provoked. Effete and useless drop dead empty-headed drongos like this specimen will collectively, hopefully, eventually cause the corrupt Bligh to fall. The fact is, of course, Murray’s harpies won’t loose momentum and victimisation, also known as bullying, of people like me will never let-up. Am exploring recording devices to counter the damage these people try to bring about, but need something more tangible then voice activated recorders. Not an exact science. Replay of Mother Dale’s abnormal noise-making in an oldie’s precinct emerge as a series of clicks and fly-doors bangs, meaningless. Normal play is time-consuming and in law, probably useless. I will add Window 7 toys to my repertoire.

Well before Raguse finally won a seat, about the time I quit denying the malicious machinations of Queensland Labor, Beaudesert’s monthly market in the park attracts budding politicians and their sycophants pre-election, and from yarning with these aspirants came the real meaning of unmitigated and proudly stupid. I suggested to a booth worker how the slack, unimaginative opposition lets the State Labor Government win by default when every issue of the major morning newspaper carries three or four adverse stories that could be picked-up and run with.

My comment so startled the boy Jason who you recall, is on the winning team anyway, that he pulled a camera out of his hat and insisted I pose with his lady friend for a matey shot. Once an avid Labor voter, I seek now to support the candidate most likely to run motherless. Love and best wishes, Les.

ADORABLE KRISTINA KENEALLY.

In fond memory of an agreeable Lady. Comment reprinted from September 7, 2010.

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She had to contend with thrice the number of crooks Queensland has in Housing and Bligh is part of the joke.

The NSW Keneally girl is a real sweetie and cops too much unwarranted flack for former colleague’s stuff-ups. The unfortunate patsie has been at the helm for only five minutes and has earned her soon to be accessed retirement hand-outs. Her marriage into Australian literary royalty justifies the mention of an earlier Australian writer whose strong and compelling novel, POWER WITHOUT GLORY explored every criminal facet that explains the Courier-Mail’s heritage and Government corruption of the early 1900s; could do with an airing where its present replication would gob-smack Frank Hardy, such is the smug acceptance and laissez-faire of Executive crime. The Queensland Premier-looter, on the other hand, has had a decade of plundering and authoring deals with another high-profile corporate criminal with whom she toured the USA and became enamored with Arizona’s pedestrian pull-over laws.

Australians, and Queenslanders in particular, have been trained to adore its openly crooked Cabinet gangsters and copy-cat Mafia crims, public identities who are acknowledged dead-set criminal bash-artists and stand-over merchants. The Courier-Mail supports Labor by talking-up and idolizing past shit like Tom Burns at whom we chuckled for his boating mishaps. He was, ha-ha-ha, a local lovable larrikin and we loved him so.

From his executive desk, a favorite threat to the resolute obstinate who sought a fair go was the warning, “You are always under watch.” The suck-hole tabloid still devote millions of fawning words to arse-holes who should slowly die an up-side down Crucifixion. If justice is to prevail in this State, the George Street Looters Executive Building must lay in ruins surrounded by well-used and bloodied nooses. Voltaire observed that democracy peppered with the occasional assassination might well be a good thing.

WHY HONOUR BLIGH… have we run out of decent people?

Drop site:lesjohns.wordpress.com/ into your search bar and discover the extent of Queensland Labor’s maniacal preoccupation for seeking information.

Of the NLP Opposition: Ignorance Is Curable, Stupidity Is Forever.

“It is better to be hated for what you are than loved for what you are not.”
André Gide

www.health.qld.gov.au
The above address is self-explanatory, as is their too-generous advertising indulgence. I contacted that department for two reasons. An on-going problem about the neighbour’s spent cigarette smoke fouling my body and my linen and secondly; a Saturday punt at the Beaudesert Hotel was eventually forsaken to the increasingly infested stench after Friday evening’s open-slather, anything goes disco, which could never be adequately tarted-up by Saturday opening time, even if management cared.

Beaudesert Hotel’s court-yard became its smoking area, dead-set in the middle of the premises and whatever the wind direction, so placed were hallways and the general interior layout that the noxious pestilence of spent cigarette smoke pervaded all spaces at any time, but that came about only after the stiffer pub & club by-laws were introduced. The door to the smoke area swings ajar to allow unfettered staff access, an obvious infringement that was surpassed when management ennui and a lot of cunning led to the entrance between the gaming room and smoking left wide open.

Stuff you, you don’t count, you’re in the minority.

My very last clipped visit to this establishment invoked the comment to a ‘manager’ that with such arrogance and open contempt being practiced on mature and sober customers, the long-held revulsion to dobbing-in should be put to one side. ” Go for your life,” I was invited, ” We just tell them the air-conditioner is busted.” He knew the ropes this one. I explained my mission to the woman on the other end of the Health line who wished me good luck and sent a manilla envelope stacked with quit smoking material.

The controversial Premier is typical of her day, vacuous and manipulative, surrounded by committed sycophants well steeped in their own illusory superiority and determined to be among the rulers but knowing nothing of current affairs. Can’t read, can’t spell. The Palin Principle of accepting stupidity as part of Queensland democracy, and the tragedy being that most of the electorate buy the package and her endorsement of a newspaper backed bridge run is proof positive that they are easily and cheaply bought.

“If you can’t explain it to a six year old, you don’t understand it yourself.”
— Albert Einstein

A recent TV doco. had King Alfred telling an inept adviser to be off and don’t come back until he had studied wisdom. Comparisons were made during the program to indicate how society has regressed in some ways in the thousand year interim. Queensland’s semi-literate Premier Bligh courts non-thinkers, by far the majority of the electorate by colluding with news.com to promote bridge runs and firework shows, while loading big money where it counts. The Murdoch group hasn’t wavered from Qld Labor, so her next election success is writ large.

Do Bligh’s bludgers ever watch the evening news or do their Friday nights start with a mass exodus from the Executive building with a taxi ride to the Valley for a few lines and a belly-full of piss? A return of investigative reporting ought to reveal the percentage of employees caught with the needle in the arm after compulsory drug and grog tests.

I have in mind spiteful decisions affecting individuals and my eight year pariah treatment for seeking a fair hearing of my cigarette smoke complaints. Should they happen upon a tenancy provision hand-book and read it, they will find a tenant distressed by such toxins must have his well-being addressed..

Keeping in mind developments in State politics, will sign-off with a winning hand exclamation from my youthful poker-playing days and uttered as the pot was scooped up: “After the Lord Mayor comes the shit cart.” All the best, Les Johns.

AT ELECTION TIMES, BLIGH LAUDS OLDIES…Please instruct stasi cadres, that means ALL oldies at ALL times!

Her advisers advise well…The electorate’s memory dims after three weeks and a firework show seals a collective stupidity.

One recent Sunday, about February 20, a relatively quiet day went on into mid-afternoon. The inmate’s medication must have been closely adhered to and the continuing outlook was promising. Mother Woodford had done his habitual morning insect-door banging, the kitchen cupboard doors silent and his clicking on whatever stopped. The ham’s theatre-projected eloquence with a dickhead’s best mate also at peace, as was Hidee’s mobile, road fume tolerable; little traffic. It was a rare and old-fashioned Sunday arvo. It was unnaturally pleasant and couldn’t last and it didn’t!

At 2.45 PM the idyllic picture was shattered by the ride-on clanking down the mowing contractor’s loading tracks and continued until the mowing’s conclusion, an hour or so later. With his off-sider brandishing the whining whipper-snipper, a sudden influx of carbon monoxide and noise beset an area where once upon a time common-sense and manners would have reserved such activity to the other six days of the week. Young Housing Commission punks are amused and indifferent to the plight of septuagenarians who won’t lick-arse and from their discomfort these Murphy-led oafs get their jollies.

Eventually, multi-billion dollar State-financed structures will be inappropriately named after today’s mundane planners and wrongly revered as wunderkinds of their day and deserving of the empty courtesy honor.

Eight years ago when I made a dispirited arrival at this precinct, the pointy heads had been hard at work talking-up the place: A directive was issued insisting that residents refer to their little boxes as apartments. The decree was largely ignored of course by residents whose guts had yet to be emotionally beaten from them. Unlike today, some renters had retained a measure of self respect and spoke-up and the hell with the consequences. The back-room wackos were soon to study blue-prints of the 1950′s army-camp replica and considered modifying the co-joined flats into family units and install families in the apartments that no-one wanted.

The overt, in my face happenings, was a gentle introduction to another dimension known as Government stupidity, but the blind assumption that thinkers must be discredited by biased and nasty novices is a revelation that needs urgent resolution. Queensland Government inaction in keeping up with tenancy demand has seen self-important predator queue-jumpers leap to the top. I wonder how that happens and whose retirement fund benefits?

The twelve unit precinct has a three space car park, which I asked of a QBuild repair man the logic in parking some 150 metres or so from his work which, for him, required constant shuffling to and from his van in an everlasting quest for the right part. Acres of unfenced land surround this precinct, a la Greenbank army camp, gave him carte blanch access to drive to site. All tradespeople are told, he avowed, to use the three lot car-park in spite of inconvenience to tenants.

It is a fact of life that an heirachy of sorts exists in any tenement car park in any country, anywhere in the world and a sense of comfort should be encouraged rather than ridiculed. Hitler’s Station Road Frau Schikelgrubers know and play on this undoubted truth. A pack of them once arrived in two cars and took the only spots available when all those empty acres were available. The inconvenience to tenants amused these women who found their Peter’s Level in mundane, low qualified jobs where their conduct is simply a continuation of their intimidatory, school-bullying days.

The unfenced surrounds of the precinct are kept mown with acres of parking space adjacent the bus stop allowing commuters ease of parking should their choice be park and ride. Wongaburra visitors sometimes used the flat’s meagre space and were never too cut up when their gentle lapse was pointed out. Two oldies parked and caught the bus. I hand-printed and signed a polite notice explaining the set-up. And it was from my study window that I witnessed the local lore of the fifth column unfold.

Earned a call from Frau Kym fearing my sub-normal status will next have me slashing tyres. I watched the scenario unfold from my study window; the three major participants, Bruse, Dr. Paul and Larry Pettums clucking away like lay hens. Recorded this some time back, but in need of a rewrite. The noxious Kym featuring.

Even as I wrote this on an early autumn Sunday, Mother Woodford’s fly-door banging re-commenced in earnest. This old queen is not as academically endowed as he implied or computer literate for that matter. When I rued being talked into Windows 7 lamenting the loss of my beloved XP Pro, he was quick to state the obvious of my stupidity, but showed his by declaring I could have downloaded the system as a free plug-in.

Didn’t like my idea that a heavy tome he advocated is best absorbed at the start of adult-hood, not at life’s conclusion when its content is not worth a pinch of shit. Ann Rand’s philosophy and her epic works left him non-plussed. Swore he taught English, not at USA schools, me brothers and sisters, but at tertiary level.

Tend to think he is much like a less than scholarly adult nephew who recently obtained a law degree. On sussing-out each other one matey email day, literature talk had me confiding that the emotional baggage of Lisa of Lambeth and Of Human Bondage took decades to clear from an impressionable young system.

His learned advice was to feed a kinky pain fetish with a dose of Michel Foucault’s Discipline & Punishment, which incidentally I did look up and found morbidly fascinating. Without having the faintest idea of the writer’s work, to this young tyro chappie, a Maugham might well be an exclusive cigar. The unfortunate pro bonos who draw his representation need more so a pact with the devil.

Is a red still hiding under that bed?

Mother Dales is a brain-washed institionalised mind. He’ll do me for an avid Labor Party apparatchik; must obey all Government ordinances re buying second hand electric appliances etc, the Government has forbidden this and that. A truely artistic mind is free-spirited; his edified mind too aloof, akin to his dead mullet eyes. A dedicated cadre this one; an intimidating proletarian in charge of a small cell. A pretence of theatre troupes and puppetry attracts the gullible of any nation, used with great success to hoodwink S.E.Asian communities, and its application in Australia is an essential part of the dumbing-down of citizens and stealthily withdrawing a natural right to think for themselves.

A bit of info I’ve gleaned, and with educated guesswork is that he is an eviction ace behind schedule with a mark and under pressure to meet his contract. The url www.arlindo-correia.com.stasiland has one in six E. Germans used as spies, a target Bligh’s back-room Labor stasi must be close to overhauling. Be ever vigilant. Bye for now.
Lezzo With Love.
ARE HOUSING DUNCES…

KIRRA …A Dog Destroyed To Satisfy Vanity.

DEATH OF A DOG.

When there’s a bit of spare in the pocket, I feel good to drop-off a few tins of tucker, or a big bag even, of dog bikkies at the local Animal Welfare shop.

The few physical remembrances of a dead canine mate aren’t all that fewer than that of a human friend. Her manilla envelope read: Kirra Killed: Friday, March 11, 2005.

I visited a place fairly regularly in Greenbank to assist them in various ways. The principals obtained a dog for image sake. They were far too self-centered to be pet-centric, but obtained a pup because such an accoutrement would compliment their business. Over time I became disenchanted with the purely rip-off, cynical and deceptive nature of their goings-on and a fall-out was impending. Its happening was triggered by the disappearance and most certainly, by the putting-down of Kirra, a U.N. mixture but predominantly Alsatian.

Over the four years or so of her life, we became firm mates and we yapped a fair bit. She gave me the attentive and classic quizzical head inclines as she gazed at me. I may well be saying “rabbits” over and over, but the nuances pleased her and genuine dog people know what I’m on about. She would pelt out to greet me while the house residents always upbraided this display of affection and dedication and shooed her away .

A day much like today Friday 11, early autumn and pleasant, was the last time I saw Kirra six years ago. I had been chatting with the cleaner whose dog enjoyed a run with Kirra. She stopped by me every few minutes for a pat and a bit of bullshit. I couldn’t pull myself away from that scene in the back yard. A profound sense that I would never again see her swamped me and I lingered for hours longer than usual before reluctantly driving away, the foreboding heavy with me.

Next morning, the then lady of the house bustled over asking if I had seen Kirra. An obvious pretend show of interest given that I had just driven in. The concern of an utterly false person. She blamed the previous night’s firework noise from the nearby Greenbank country show for Kirra’s disappearance. I saw this as crap and continue to see it as a sham. She was the epitome of self-interest, shagging a tennis name while hubby developed an interest in a Chinese comfort lady during his regular visits to that country. I’m not here to moralize, but every little bit helps.

There’s heaps of pages on this part of my life but a quick anecdote on her pretentious best:

Claimed she and girl-friend wanted a dose of culture. Told her AIDA was at QE2 stadium in all its desert sand and actual elephant glory that night. ” Really don’t think so,” she sniffed,” Too far from the action, we’ll never hear a word.”

Bye for now, Les.
Pet Cemetery And Crematorium.

OUT OF BEAUDESERT…The Road To Christmas Creek.

For Fifty Insights On Queensland Housing…(site:lesjohns.wordpress.com/)

I whinge too much, I’m told. Attribute blame on the toxic effects of a growing familiarity with the real intent and workings of Government bodies and their employees; that self-promotion and aggrandizement is their raison d’etre, my laugh lines disappear as a result of the forced diet of suspicion and distrust. I offer an old post as an atonement of sorts:

Had a grand piece of inspiration a few weeks back when I enjoyed a pleasant autumn morning drive to Christmas Creek. You and me and the world know that name and its history, but few seem to have made the visit to Beaudesert’s slender claim to fame; the rescuer’s route to a plane crash that an intuitive chap named O’Reilly had a nagging feeling that the plane wreckage was somewhere up there. Well, he was spot-on as we know a few thousand times over.

Along the way some 17 or 18 k’s southwest of town on the right, was one of those old-fashioned farm produce signs selling Queensland Blue potkins at the farm-gate. I couldn’t resist that wording and using the honour box, bought a large pumpkin for $4. The landholder was a few hundred metres or so distant doing farm things, which made asking the derivation of the word rather awkward.

Entering the foot hills at tiny Christmas Creek settlement, there was a miniature, purpose-built western wagon containing lemmons for sale. Three or four kilometres on, over low single lane bridges was the end of the road. Lamington was on another route. Doing the exit circuit, a sign on the left sternly barred my entrance to private property, the track on the right belonged to the ghosts of those long-ago plane searchers and today’s keen hikers. I headed for home and at every bridge approach enjoyed spotting the trickling flow of freshly fallen water hurrying to meet its fate. It was grand being out in rural climes again but a letdown to see cold-hearted local government signs like refuse transfer station heralding the demise of scavengers running the local garbage tips and the wonderful grammatical gems that stemmed from their ‘don’t stuff with us’ signage.

Near Laravale on the way home, I went over a slight dip in the road and the courtesy sign told me I had just crossed Jim Brown Bridge. A bridge over nothing. The long drought’s intensity has lessened lately but dryness is the new norm and the necessity for such a construction over a bog or water-course would be hard to envisage today. At least the name of a long gone identity, who was probably a self-important councilor or a nouveau gentryman, lives on for local history’s sake. In keeping with the times, there would have been much oratory pomp and ceremony on Grand Opening day, the cutting of a ribbon and its gradual decline into insignificance and a trip to the dump one clean-out day. He and the memories of his contemporaries and their children with it.

The namesake was probably a most insistent voice in getting that bridge built over a wet weather impediment of 70 or 80 years ago and might even have been a Dad and Dave-like local councilor. This possibility set off a train of thought. A kilometre or so back toward Christmas Creek, was a side road named Rudd Lane. I mused how the recent P.M. would have been at first humored at the reminder of its existence, but now bored by its sheer retelling.

Of Australian literary interest though, is there an Arthur Hoey Davis connection? On Our Selection short stories were born in 1895 at Greenmount, south of Toowoomba, just over the way if one is a crow. I bet there’s a Snake Gully nearby and a neglected grave with a moldering Mabel resting up.

Nearly home in Beaudesert, I passed a two dollar shop where some years earlier, before the product became unusable, I would nip in to get their dreadful, but cheap product for use as nose tissues. The commodity wasn’t in the usual spot the last time I wanted it, and not prepared to go touring, I appealed to a nearby employee stacking shelves where was the lavatory paper now located. “It would be in stationary,” she solemnly declared. “You use lavatory paper in other regions,” I politely and modestly enlightened her. “Well if that’s what you want,” she admonished, “why didn’t you ask for toilet paper”? It is true, one is always learning. Lots of Love, Les.

BEAMISH-WHITE me a family of nasty pretenders, Scotty.

Our Town…not a happy little town.

“Inducing More Cunning, Thieving Bastards…”

Any frontal attack on ignorance is bound to fail because the masses are always ready to defend their most precious possession… their ignorance.

Only for the thinker… site:lesjohns.wordpress.com/

I made a computer click too far, a repetition of earlier balls-ups that caused great angst then, but with ying and yang playing their games, what can one do? We’ve been told since the year dot to return to the game with fighting vengeance, so I do as always. Fate proves there is a predetermined path for each individual, and I buy that. Those smart-arse segues will never be exactly replicated and I would like to believe the two unfinished anecdotes from a demolished folder don’t suffer too great a bibliographic purgatory.

When you are making an eulogistic finale to the last family branch in whom you had any interest or contact, even a very busy person would have difficulty in forgetting the small print. What does the sur-name Beamish-White do to you? Instant diarrhea? How do you keep a straight face when firstly, you hear there exists one so-named; secondly, is about to inflict such bull-shit on the family tree, and thirdly and certainly not finally, will the only-begotten I.T. expert be as far, or further up his fundamental than the mental image depicts?

“Aunts Up The Cross and in the Chapel on the Hill.”

Mother Dale put on quite a high-camp performance Wednesday arvo after the pimps met her out front with that day’s blogpost; her anguished cries alternated with excited whoops to be replaced by a couple of hours of pumped-up sound; and then the inevitable jabbing of poxy fingers into the dickhead’s best mate as he made arrangements for the Commonwealth Police to haul me to slanderer’s prison. I, in retaliation, should seek his banishment from theatre-land for over-acting, but I wouldn’t think of doing anything so spiteful. It was a jolly good show and I suspect there are many more on the way.

A Psychiatric Puppeteer Is Pulling Strings…Miss Marple we need you.

Why are most pimps and crawlers usually so morbidly obese? No self-confidence, certainly! I will leave a copy of this post in my open letter-box . The dreadfully ugly tub of lard out front will waddle it around to her leaders.

Lots of love. Les.

WONGABURRA NURSING HOME…and to other Retirement Residences.

Consider others, please put…site:lesjohns.wordpress.com/…into your search bar.

Living quite near your well-accredited establishment is an aged male person with contemptible personal hygiene. He snots openly and wipes nostril matter on precinct hand railings and walls, and spits on common-area grass.

He has a disarming nude fetish which is practiced pre-dawn on a shared veranda which I witnessed on my early morning paper walk as did the daughter of a former resident of this State accommodation block.

Beaudesert-Browns Plains bus commuters tell of his pestering of women at the terminal and while en route.

Wongaburra management allow this fellow free rein within their complex under the guise of a work-for-food handy-man. I would hope that this seemingly innocuous pursuit requires the same Government clearances and permissions that credited employees are required to possess.

Les Johns.
+++++

LANARTA JEAN. Spent cigarette smoke tops MY agenda.

220-226 Brisbane Street: Housing Department endorsed hate and dirty Labor Party trickery. A snapshot of existence in a Housing Commission environment.

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Cover your Grandmothers, Bruse prowls the nearby convalescent facility at will.
I rewrite grabs from recent posts:

There is based in Woodridge a mock tenant’s union with tentacles to outlaying places like Beaudesert. It was established to award tenures to Housing Commission party hacks for a lifetime of shafting work-mates and disrupting the daily life of well-principled tenants. The Queensland Labor Government funds this sham association and its unctuous concern is to actually absorb any snippets of information that slipped the attention of a well oiled fifth column. At its acronymned expense, I gave L.A.N.A.R.T.A. the initialized B.U.L.L.S.H.I.T. You could make your own amusement by fitting appropriate words to my jumped-up wordplay. These leeches at P.O. Box 658, Woodridge 4114, if you think you have embarrassing but useful material you think should complement my file, and refer to this site. If you can’t invent gossip, get in touch with the writer as there must be much more to the old bastard than assumptions.

Wise men follow their own direction.

B.U.L.L.S.H.I.T. held a meeting in Beaudesert on Wednesday, 20 May, 2009. I have nothing but revulsion for this cynical, holier than thou nonsense crap pretending a care for doltish adults whose State-induced nannyism made them that way. I was mildly interested at my exclusion from their mailing list. An outsider alerted me of its imminent happening at which I hoped to get a tenant representative’s opinion on my passive cigarette-related health problems being directly attributed to up-wind cigarette smoke. Biased staff and those on the take, move favored fifth column tenants on a whim, however the advice to me of, “Just get out,” was my worth, and I know a dedicated investigator would tip the bucket on bludgers from Bligh down to Station Road stasi.

Lanarta Jean’s puerile advice reflects her contempt for H.C. tenants; those of immature and undisciplined Housing staff reserve for tenants like me, appalled at the nanny attitude of barely literate nose-picking Station Road Frau Schicklgrubers. Theirs is the mentality that refutes the thinking that impelled past scholars like Benjamin Franklin and Michelangelo, and would have had a torch lit even before the pyre had been prepared for their removal.

Tenant spokesperson Jean (sur-name will be dropped in if found) wasn’t interested in nicotine related questions, stressing the topic was not on her agenda. Does an open forum know such discipline? Her main purpose as a tenant representative, she seriously avowed, was to bring information to people like you, and here I wonder the intent behind the implied put-down; an instantly formed, educated opinion or was there some prompting from Rebecca and the opinionated Shouters?

Jean added that she is present this day to tell me Laze and Gen of Australia, and me only I iterate and not her audience, of what is happening in the world and to offer tips on economical electricity usage, ergo the $4 saved can be redirected into the machines. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the hapless Jean was prompted by up-herself Lady Machiavelia, Hillhouse mentor and rabid misandrist, Frau Schoutens and current title-holder of Rider Haggard’s She throne. Their methods of knavery are well known to observers as to the corrupt practitioners and manipulators of Woodridge’s Queensland Housing Department who use them, and had the community not been denied a decent education, would have been the joke of ten year old children. The collective Station Road girl’s club would be well advised their efforts and threats are illegal and their good luck might eventually wane.

When an Origin opposition electricity salesman did the rounds of H.C. precincts a week or so after Lanarta Jean’s statement looking for new accounts, only a H.C. snitch would buy the ‘pure chance’ excuse. If she encouraged them to do this for a cut of the till, I’d like to see the C.M.C. take a look at the cogs behind the Housing scenery, but it’s unlikely Anna would grant such an indulgence.

Bruse’s third world hygiene habits in part, of snotting at will was the genesis of a tenants ‘meeting’ which resulted in my castigation and the departure of three other affected tenants. Ryan and Bruse swore I tried to run him down; lapped-up and used with glee by HC staff. My stance of staying put has put me in the set-up firing line again, with Bruse in league with out-front Ev colluding to accuse me of verbal abuse. I fear alighting my car near their flats, and am now armed with a voice activated recorder. Purely psychological bullshit. Can’t see it getting me out of the shit against determined agents provocateur.

Ev, the re-badged Bernadette Arnold and the disease spreading false-accuser, Bruse have co-joined flats. This architectural curiosity has been detailed elsewhere and in essence, condemns pairs of flats to share the others noises and odours, an event that could only be performed harmoniously by identical twins. But those like me on the rough end of the stick are sorely tested by the mobile phone posturing of Mother Dale Woodford whose rejected ego won’t believe I am not won over by the trinkets she brought from the new world. The Hidees of H.C. precincts and their unwanted theatre of the absurd. The previous no.6 emitted a choking cooking stench that was assuredly rancid fat burning, yet might have wafted from his stove his mummy’s cooking.

When daylight arrives to disturb his nude veranda fun, Bruse is obliged to cover-up, don clothes, and resume some semblance of normalcy. I expect he ventured a peek or two through summer-open windows while having a shake or two with percy. Later in the day he haunts the nearby convalescent home and gets a food handout for his alleged handy-work, but he would have been amply rewarded in other ways.

Age doesn’t necessarily engender wisdom or stupidity innocence. Moral degenerates get their jollies however they can and the advanced age of the unaware targets, rather then deterring foul deeds and thoughts, encourages their spineless depravity. The imagination can only guess at whom he has peeked in the place that should have been a sacred shelter. Bus travelers and drivers who have witnessed Bruses pestering of women at bus-stops and while en route, also tell of the vulgar behavior of the obnoxious baby-eating reincarnation, Harridan Hidee, mouthing-off of an imaginary Walter Mitty directorship of that very same bus company. That simpleton could get a business degrees only via a YouTube down-load where there must be a template for a top-level strident mobile phone boofhead.

Women have forsaken their femininity for fish-wifery, or was that just an Errol Flynn delusion of the Sherwood Forest movie era? The old dear over the way had lived some time in a dilapidated, but registered bomb as a mobile bag-lady. The shit-box is off the scene and given that it ran like a con-rod had pierced the block, will soon be forgotten. Bev coughed her guts up incessantly for her first forty nights here. She allowed not the slightest consideration to muzzling the noise or harnessing the bacterial blight and therefore stamped her credentials as a desired and worthy H.C. client. After some mending from years of street living and camping in her rooted conveyance, comes the clack of crockery well into the night, like the now obsolete roast-carving oval plates, being constantly rewashed. Many people in her plight are usually thoroughly decent and nice to know if they accept your friendship and you get to sharing confidences. Lots of love, Les.