Down below is a block quote from an American blog that so replicated the inherently foul, hell-destined Hidee that it screamed the attention of a few Aussie readers.

In a country as rich and abundant as Australia, with plenty for everyone, even the so-called abject poor and disadvantaged should not be squabbling over food scraps and discarded half-smoked cigarettes, a la depression era movies, yet a parallel to those who line up for food handouts provided by feel-good, easily hoodwinked organisations provide is seen. Who are the genuinely hard-up and why is it so; why are there ‘poor’ people; what is the make-up of a needy person? I don’t suppose the abuse of smoking, decades of slops and the machines have much to do with hardship? I expect those faults come under the mental mantle. Opportunist lazy bludgers fight for space under that huge mental umbrella to attribute their weaknesses.

Schwarten’s then bum-boy, Olde England sounding, Beckett from memory, advised me to discontinue appealing the Minister about cigarette stink in my flat as its use is legal and that tenants screaming into mobile phones not their worry either but the province of Woodridge cadre chief, Murphy. So began open season on Les, with major blockhead Schoutens seeming to lead the pack. This particularly evil piece of Labor Party excreta sent me an eviction notice after defending myself against an attack by then next-door RSL nut job, Garvey. Got mail that a regenerated move to dislodge me is underway, with Woodward the thwarted manipulator unhappy with my sanguine resoluteness, colluding with Valmae Fay Beck reincarnation, mobile mouth Hidee, and pulling in the hapless Jock for additional support.

Bring it on, I say. The chance to publicise Hillhouse’s phone pestering and diverse actions, of which none have gone unchronicled, is inviting. These people run Woodridge Housing like a select club; their own little FIFA, not so much for financial pickings, I would hazard, for that is hugely spread like watered soup, but for the more satisfying megalomania and malevolence factors. At best Woodridge Housing staff are simply incompetents, having a never-ending party, but my money says there’s something really insidious and very wrong going on.

After the CMC does the five-minute snow job on the Gorgon woman and her executive mates, I’d like them to explore the link between Queensland Labor Party pointy-heads, retributive Station Road petty crooks, services female, Victoria, and examine the legality of using a devious psychiatric controller, Dale Woodford, supposedly a former resident of Robina’s Westminster House a hostel for dispirited, broken and usually older residents. A rebuffed screaming fag-boy like Mother Dale knows the onerous task a lone operator faces in instigating any official interest, let alone proving accusations against the biff of a thoroughly dirty Queensland Labor Government.

And an addendum to the above links whose actions must be examined, the smug lazy fraudulent Government bludger, L.A.N.A.R.T.A. Jean, the supposed rep, read reprehensible spokesperson of an oxymoronic, Government directed Tenants ‘union’ and associate of the venal, and most probably criminally motivated Woodridge Housing Department, including the suppurating and duplicitous Hillhouse, the aforementioned Victoria and vacuous and shameful boy groveler Terry O’Brien, et al.

Beware your up-wind tenant tenfold be he a piqued and thwarted stand-over queen. A good fence, the sages observed, make good neighbors, but prevailing winds are a blessing to a rampaging psychiatric puppeteer. Mother Dale burnt mosquito coils on both verandas hoping the irritation would have a similar affect as cigarette smoke but removed them after Housing forewarned him of their imminent arrival. His morbidly obese baby-eating fiend occasionally makes it three. It doesn’t work like that, but the former mental inmates needn’t know all the moves. On Friday two Housing Commission “officials” were running around the place like blue-arse flies.

When bitch-boy’s woman friend assisted his midsummer move from Westminster House, the few mosquitoes were easily contained by keeping pest doors closed. Now in winter the burning of coils superfluous, unnecessary. These vindictive hate people grasp and store information to later torment a target. The true nature of Mother Dale hadn’t been fully exposed when I expressed wonderment at the reasoning of his next door acquaintance, Hidee, torturing a chair as she sat beside her open fly door with a burning mosquito coil beside her. Counter-productive to me although Lanarta Jean, the Government-paid tenant union representative reliably informs me my status and consideration is that of a retard.

I soon become aware of these two being more so working compatriots exchanging information and my objection to spent cigarette stench sweeping into my residence no secret. It was well known that my hue and cry was about spent cigarette smoke and carbon monoxide now noticeable being an ongoing problem when my appeals for understanding by Housing staff were downplayed or ignored and was advised to ‘just leave the place.’

My prosecutors, both Woodridge stasi and fifth column tenants, operate on the premise the victim hesitates going public with information for fear of the paranoid, conspiracy tag, such is their problem-solving methods. The thing is only the foul toxic effect of spent cigarette smoke really troubles me with the fertilizer plant and other odors a rose and harmless to me.

Any Government employee deserving of superannuation loves to invoke the Mental Health evaluation test, and a hearsay inquisitor worth his salt will ensure the troubled target is goaded into an introduction to Sister Ratched’s aides. The distraught victim is invariably an older citizen who has been denied natural courtesy and consideration after indifferent shop-staff or Government officiousness caused an extreme reaction to his disbelief.

There are rubbery, unofficial numbers of about 1,000 Australian citizens arbitrarily slotted annually for earning the wrath of pipsqueak Government goldbricks, roughly the same number who die through misadventure while traveling 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.

Sixty kilometres out of Brisbane and 60 years into the past. Old saying holding good and true, as applicable today as in Joh’s time, when country cops were given a Brisbane holiday to bash anti-war, anti-apartheid lefty poofters, to uphold National Party God-blessed traditions. Another popular principle that definitely wasn’t adhered to was to hold an enquiry only after its outcome has been pre-determined. With the reviled Gorgon woman and Lucas about to cop a snow job, and Murdoch continuing to back their organisation, Queensland’s next election outcome has been set.

It would be too easy to attribute the polluted Hidee’s mental stuff-ups to mobile phone addiction, while the odds suggest fucked from conception. Her accomplice, the heavily affected, camp as a row of tents bitch-boy, Mother Dale made a noisy, theatrical egress from his flat this am as he sought to establish hetero sexual credentials with the baby-eating sow.

by jack_sprat2 May 22, 2011 5:18 AM PDT

Megatroid Mania wrote: “There’s nothing wrong with using your cell in any other car. I don’t see a difference between talking to a person sitting next to you, and talking on your cell phone.”

Would that there were, in fact, no such difference. Alas, both scientific research and nearly universal anecdotal evidence confirm that not only do a great many people who insist on inflicting others with their endless cell phone prattle, in fact, do so more loudly than they would converse with someone seated next to them, but the mere fact that only half of the conversational information is available to those so put upon is sufficient to make such annoyances far more difficult to ignore. (The brain is evolved to try and piece together the missing information, which it infers from the cadence and emotiveness of the singular conversant. It does not react the same way, for instance, to someone reciting a monologue.)

My personal opinion is that those who pretend that their extended cell phone use in such situations “ain’t no thang” are likely to be borderline narcissists, at the very least. Personally, I’d have given serious consideration to throwing her bodily out a window. On the general principle that her rudeness disproved her humanity.

Lakeysha Beard ended up being escorted off the train by friendly Oregon police officers and charged with disorderly conduct.

It seems that several announcements from the train staff didn’t quite do the trick of tearing her away from her cell phone. It seems that then she became embroiled in what was described by the police as a “verbal altercation” with other passengers, whose Sudoku games she had, perhaps, disturbed.

I haven’t been on an Amtrak train for a while, but apparently they have cell phone charging stations, as well as no official policy on cell phone use.

Still, don’t most humans know when they’re getting on someone’s nerves? Perhaps not in every case. As MSNBC reported, Beard herself felt “disrespected.”

Can someone please invent a phone that drowns out the speaker’s voice for everyone except the person at the other end of the call? That would surely be easier than social engineering.
Chris Matyszczyk

Lots of Love, Les.


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