BEAUDESERT BUFFOONS


…AND A BIASED, OUT OF CONTROL, QUEENSLAND PUBLIC SERVICE.

I settled-in with plans to do a piece on the Party resignation of the local State representative dummy-boy. It was immediately complicated by the documentary evidence I hold on the actions of a rabid Roman Catholic executive of his local LNP machine. His R.C. number chaser role saw in me a convert and falsely represented himself to win my confidence. I’m holding off on this one for a while.

I went through the drama and the bull-shit of setting-up a web account with Beaudesert’s Commonwealth Bank to further distance myself from counter-staff and the myriad of other common or garden variety dick-head. It didn’t work. In every day life, their back-room colleagues are forever searching for new ways of causing maximum inconvenience to the client. They get the jollies by inflicting pain. The mere approach of some oldies, but especially me I tend to think, causes a chemical clash and regardless of my preparations, a battle of wits is raging within seconds.

Yesterday was no exception. Paying the phone bill via the web, an error occurred and I paid from each of my two accounts. I wanted to sort it out immediately, so I prepared numbers and paperwork plainly and neatly hoping its clarity would aid counter staff in understanding and fix the problem without drama. It was too much to hope for and within seconds, the young woman had raised her voice to assume domination and cast ridicule on me to the amusement of the lengthy opening-time queue.

Front of shop staff, affectionately known as counter-jumpers in an earlier era, are usually attractive young women, predicated by their presented image and not by customer concern. The inherited ignorance and the age prejudice of these past-masters of sarcasm and caustic comments don’t really need outside prompting. O.K. you biased ones will be thinking, the ladies detected a misogynist, but if I am, laze and gen of the world, my general misanthropic tendencies get a good work-out when the occasion warrants. It depends on them, does it not, and don’t talk to me about tradesmen; bastards to a man. Just how many arse-holes of the week can you fit into twelve months? More than fifty-two? I’ve got some bottler stories about the buffoons of Beaudesert. They equal Queensland’s Housing Department which out-does Denmark for rank smells, and could do with a CMC going over. My notes on dodgy Department of Homeless doings over the past seven years are ready for presentation. Grand Parliamentary title, is it not; the intention being to remind dissenters of their ultimate fate should they continue their errant way.

The bank girl was yet another dunce, quite off-track and showing no grasp of the problem by saying unnecessarily, unjustly and in a theatrically loud tone that I should appreciate not being up for a $15 overdrawn charge. Here, quite clearly was the implication that an old bastard like me had no right being competent with computer usage and that my senility forbids knowing that one can’t withdraw cyber cash. There were other insults. Was she put on the customer desk because her stupidity would daunt troublesome customers like me?

She sniffly advised me the problem wasn’t hers or the banks, but between me and Big Pond. My disgrace is my old age. I am, after all, more than ten years her senior, so automatically I am like Schultz. I know nothing, NOTHING !

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