August 18 1966; 18 Killed in Vietnam skirmish.

Then and present day Australia; 18 road kills every two days.

August 21 2010; Labor’s Election Day. Three days of anguished

appeals by the duplicitous Labor Party organisation to Australia’s

brave warriors which most of the new dim will buy.

I’ve yet to see a reference as to why Labor choose the election date they did. Are all political pundits too coy to capitalise on the real reason? I bet the astute Laurence knows it is three days after the observance of an ill-planned 1966 Vietnamese offensive that took 18 lives who otherwise would have been sucking on ganja at home and beating-up fellow Australians. Most sitting Labor MPs and hopefuls have followed their master’s directives and become card-carrying rsl members as a calculated look-good visage for a cynical political party.

Become New Labor…Shaft a Mate.

With much ceremony and fanfare, Raguse joined a once meaningful and worthy organisation now franchised as commercial rsl poker-machine ventures. On the Wednesday preceding the election, he and his criminal union mates will be at their theatrical best reassuring the new order rsl thugs of their hero status.

Pre Raguse, a popular woman Liberal held Forde, but with redistribution it seems like the old faces abandoned Beaudesert with him. Those applying for the newly created Wright include the usual nutters who will save us from hell-fire, but only if we vote for them. There is a fundamentalist God-botherer, a clutch of construction gyp artists who share that industry with a serial R.C. bible-banger, McCabe, the all-round expert who introduced a pudgy-faced McLindon to the State seat of Beaudesert.

McCabe’s Popish enthusiasm combined with his distaste for all other creeds caused him to email unrequested, low IQ church propaganda of such banality as irritable bowl and piles are made of. This force-feeding hastened my rejection of its Methodist equivalent which bored the tits off me by age 7. The constant use of a personal pronoun in his little homilies was self-explanatory. Only a super ego-tripper could refer to himself as often as he in the third person.

My rare use of the word was to describe a fluffy, self-important type who felt some veneration was his due. Perhaps a priestly lay-man, definitely not a shit-kicker; usually used in a whimsical sense. So there you have it, right or wrong, not for use on self.

Wright’s notionary winner is a Senator’s former suck man whose work title corresponds with that of a George Street Executive-room looter to whom I appealed for help from the ever-present cigarette smoke. His Chief of Staff wrote me that while cigarette smoking is legal, my aggravated lung problem must be imaginary.

Pauline, please forgive us. Come home.


The spent cigarette stench surrounding Beaudesert’s entertainment exits to smoking areas is proof positive that protocols are not given serious consideration. Queensland’s Health Department has a deal with these clubs and hotels. I explained to the former how entrance to these venues is impossible for acute olfactory sufferers and that stench-free pleasant, non-toxic home life a thing of the past.

I got the Government Smoking is not illegal spiel once again and was sent ‘how to stop smoking’ brochures. The Health Department is as mortified as their Woodridge-based Housing Department cousins who don’t want to be mistaken for assisting those tenants who are not prepared to rubbish their neighbours as fifth columnists.

Whatever their origin or class, the average dim and cloddish Australian have no idea they have been moulded into unthinking puppets of major retail stores and clubs. An agreeable mine-host is accessing your wallet and your level of stupidity even as you get the treatment. After all, keeping the punter in front of the machines is a job requirement.

I’ve never tried to hide the obvious fact that I am computer illiterate, a declaration that always precedes a foray into the breeding ground of IT crime, a computer shop. How to find a honest web constructor to tidy-up this site and unfreeze StarOffice doc. files?

The A.B.C. and D. of it

This latest prick knew he had a captive mug when my first words to him went, ” I’d rather walk to Bourke and back than shop at those two smart-arses around the corner.” To cut the cackle, he agreed with my sentiments and ripped $800 off me and I’m left with a barely operable heap of Windows 7 crap, no new keyboard, no new digital screen either.

Like me, the fellow knows nothing about computers except how to slide circuit boards into towers, meccano fashion. With conmanship, on the other hand, he is quite accomplished.

Kindness prevented my naming him out of respect for his suffering wife, but if you see me in the vicinity of Beaudesert’s Railway Hotel, I’ll point out a ‘computer’ shop to avoid. He just doesn’t have the A.B.C.or D of a dead byte.


Many of the older, stuck-on women managers retain their much envied positions because they quickly identify work-place competition, then shaft and ridicule them. The same contempt is meted to customers who try to reason with these less than bright, easily provoked shop assistants. The perceived offender is accused of being disturbed and should then scuttle out like a mongrel dog. A nasty older Coles female manager gave me the retard treatment and a dunce in the deli assures me her daughter joined the services to protect me. What can one do but use Aldi for all purchases. A Coles favourite rip-off of siting prime rump under the much cheaper cow beef price still fools hurrying shoppers.

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