A.S.I.O. The Inspector-General Must Be Ridiculed.


I G Inspector General

I G Inspector General (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The oft used Orwellian line is flogged to death by human behavioural observers world-wide, as they watch helplessly the ignorance and stupidity of elected representatives manifest as institutionalised extremists. ASIO braggart and megalomaniac advocate, Vivienne Thom struts the stage with titles reminiscent of East Germany. Inspector General should be an article of mirth used only to satirise torturers in the gulag’s weekly amateur show. Vivienne Thom is as reviled in her field as is Gail Kelly, the epitome of corporate greed, in hers.

“How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate, they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to.” — George Orwell, 1984

The unpleasant Thom entered my area of interest by overheard grabs from the paternalistic ABC do-good time-filler, Q&A. She shared the podium with another diseased piece of matter, an accomplice, David Irvine, who between them, in another era and in many parts of the world, would have led to civilian unrest with systematic upheavals ending with heads held proudly aloft by tall stakes and the mutilation of their families.

I link to an old story A Psychiatric Puppeteer Is Pulling Strings, in which the exposure of the Housing Commission tactic of harassing unliked tenants until they moved, and to the publication and identification of two Judas tenants who commit this torment in tandem. I called them eviction tenants after seeing their counter-parts in action on overseas developments. Independent thinkers are not tolerated in Queensland Housing precincts which means these blatant little criminals target the hapless offender. I gave up the fight and left after a visit by State Police and sneering comments that I was guilty without the benefit of a committal hearing, but instead the threat of a committal to a mental institution.

Have Woodridge Housing Dept. And QBuild Had The Arse-hole Purging Yet?

I remain the eternal optimist and enjoyed the morning walk along a main road to get the paper until I became carbon monoxide winded. The then immediate upwind neighbour, Ryan, used aerosol air-freshener as an all-round house cleaner in lieu of water and vacuum cleaner and my request to ease off alerted him to my problem. A twilight dousing of aerosol driven by the prevailing easterlies into my flat became the norm. A failure to close openings one evening, led to a three day hospitalisation and hospital records declaring me a chronic chromer, or one who got his kicks by inhaling aerosols. Thank you again, indifferent and lazy Queensland Health(?) bludgers. The permanently damaged pulmonary led to a total intolerance to spent cigarette smoke and the beginning of the Queensland Housing Department’s war of attrition against me.

A daily journal kept in a computer can be altered to suit and in law its content isn’t worth a pinch of shit, a fact I never forgot after my late partner’s hand written notes delivered us a win against prominent thoroughbred horse thief and common fraud, Barrie Rogers and his druggie daughter. The law accepts that a running, handwritten diary is near enough impossible to doctor. My notes contain date and times of phone calls from the strident Housing nose-picker, Kimberley, and an extraordinary visit by Housing stand-over message boy, Terry delivering threats under instruction of his Woodridge controllers; threats that they wouldn’t dare make on hard copy. Times and car registrations, gender and other relevant information is noted when actual data is difficult to obtain.

The afore-mentioned Ryan, was a devoted garbage nazi who once moved me, in my great alarm to call him a three word expletive. It came about one pre-dawn moonless garbage day when, en route to get the paper from the early opening service station, I was about to drop my small bag of refuse into the bin when he boomed from his darkened doorway, ” Filling up me bin, are ya.”? He awaits hidden, he had explained in an earlier confrontation, to surprise and frighten the crows away by beating on the veranda rail or fly-door. His fellow tenants were loath to complain for fear of reprisal eviction notices.

I objected to his unusual behaviour and he replied he would sue his Department friend on to me. A day or two later, he proved his word and the apparent misandrist, Schoutens, with a male colleague called on me without notice. She heard me out and declared Ryan’s longer tenancy was proof positive of his lamb-like innocence.

The hard done by Ryan moved to his recently deceased mother’s flat in the same precinct, ostensibly because of its telephone plug, but it was on a whim to avoid my presence and was granted instantly by biased Housing staff. Every attempt I’ve made for a move to escape motor vehicle, industrial and cigarette smoke toxins are met with demands for a doctor’s certificate to justify such a move. Ryan’s level of credulity intrigued me from the beginning and his myriad peccadillos made a novella.

The very offensive Bruce was next to occupy No. 6. In another life he might have been master of making a clean snot with a thumb against one nostril, but every tilt at this practice nowadays ends drastically with the matter being wiped onto railings or walls and his expectoration lobbing where-ever it may. His inadequately rinsed, hand-washed attire created great stench in summer as it dried over veranda items. The general unrest with his hygiene shortcomings and their possible flow-on consequences led to a tenants meeting which, on its conclusion, a female staff member privately admonished me for my intolerance as Bruce was, she stressed, a relatively new tenant and I could have been more sympathetic to his needs.

Her co-chair was an unusually enlightened male staffer who was probably sent to Coventry and then to Quilpie for telling the conveniently genteel Ryan that the swearing he complained about paled into insignificance when compared to that emanating from any primary school-yard in the country.

Slavery In Mauritania.

intramural

An Inspector Calls

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