A Modified Letter To A British Friend.

It is more shameful to distrust our friends than be deceived by them.

It is with much difficulty can I consciously start a paragraph with a personal pronoun and such is my critically detested self-effacement that to so begin a story would surely alert the hammers of hell. This post, like the writer, is tempted by the usual distractions, ever-ready for and expecting side issues, even before leaving home. Am more than happy that War And Peace is done and appreciate Ayn Rand’s input with Atlas Shrugged, the template of inflated latte sippers planning over-priced boutiques that will justify their self-importance and coyly expose inherent business acumen, all enacted amid the carbon-monoxide dream-world of fashionable footpath cafes.

Your lead story is too much for a simple ancient like yours truly to tackle off the cuff Craig, so, following form, I refer to your side-bar Feedjit boast column headed by a curious Queensland fan from Armstrong. Now I became curious; having been born and shagged in the most unlikeliest spots of Queensland, the place-name eluded me. Google revealed an out-of-the-way Mackay beach and left me with an intact ego, form-sheet spot-on. In an earlier impetuous, pre-Augustine and temporal life, I left my Cairns arrangement and eloped with NBF to spread the checked tablecloth among Mackay’s cane-fields.

Nowadays however, I dare not let the remnants of my heart do the ruling, what with the generosity and kindness of Queensland’s Chief Constable Javert who come to my home to mention how false mental issues will be used to my detriment to arbitrarily stop the naming and m.o. of two under-cover eviction tenants on my blog-site. The reprehensible male of the duo, once the leader of a boys group, prompted two accusatory ping-backs when I wrote disparagingly of his high-camp and generally noisy posturing. The vociferousness of his stage-managed mobile usage, too out-and-out deliberate and malevolent to be ignored.

The morbidly obese female of the pair, a Jerry Springer trailer-trash recruit moved in one night at 10 by the clock. The light diesel truck’s motor ran the duration of the unloading, well beyond the witching hour, joining the radio and the smoking unloaders to create an unpleasant bedlam. A forced slum departure rather than an arrival was the scenario. I had been introduced, without realising it at the time, to the ways of retributive Woodridge Queensland Housing personnel.

Two “eviction” tenants whose reason d’être is to move-on, mainly by noise harassment, but in my case, multiple mosquito coils strategically placed to cause irritation, the target tenant. These creatures are so sited when adjacent flats become vacant. Two vindictive Queensland Housing females threatened eviction when I stated my objection to manufactured noise and offensive, unnecessary odours, soon followed by the police incident.

“Let Them Eat Cake.”
My personal plight is as insignificant as that of a particle of dust in the breeze; I enjoy and thrive on the jousting these stand-over megalomaniacs think intimidates me. Of greater concern is the long-term effect, the creeping cancer of compulsory nannyism has on the general community.

Have I been sufficiently oiled to face your twisted mind, ie your recent post? Perhaps I should accept the venal Kimberley’s franchise offer and win kudos by creating and honing my own stasi network and dob you in as an incorrigible upstart. Keeping in mind my best Orwellian, “under the spreading…” I am a failed joker, neither she nor her apparatchiks pals could, in a thousand life-times, acquire the privilege of sniffing my poxy old hole.

You would be surprised at the results of this country’s loose translation of democracy. Fucked from the moment of conception, the country’s urge to populate has thrown up some bizarre oddities. Queensland’s transplant surgeons are truly astute and are worthy of a brag, acquiring new skills on call. One such example was born just a vagina, but with grouse Aussie craftsmanship, dedication and add-ons, a working body was built to such perfection that the cunt eventually became Queensland’s Premier.

More later, Les.

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Tags: If you could kick the person in the pants responsible for most of your trouble, you wouldn't sit for a month.