Beaudesert and Street Drugs: Sorry Mummy, you’ve got to go.

BT 2/03/2016. p.10 (ice dealers)

Detective Ward came away from anti-terrorism school all learned-up,”…not all Muslims are terrorists and definitely, not all terrorists are Muslim.” Heady, really heady territory here and so erudite, warranting a major quote in the disappearing National/Liberal journal, Beaudesert Times.

Armed with such profound knowledge, Detective Ward is better equipped to go forth and enlighten his largely disadvantaged, catholic-educated, protectorate. Strains of South American, third world fear of Christ’s reprisal permeates and curtails mental development in this National Party enclave.

Despite the detectives cloak of anonymity, the peculiarly named, Scenic Rim, boasts a top terrorist chaser without a terrorist on a lacklustre kill sheet and nothing, not even a smouldering bomb under a Scenic Rim bed and no sovereign terrorists to bolster the image of those susceptible to false praise.

Darren appears to be up shit creek when it comes to slotting ice merchants. He won wide acclaim recently for lecturing petty shop-lifters on their naughty habits. Pushing party chemicals is hard to comprehend but initiative brings its own rewards to an activity embedded in Beaudesert culture.

Such trade is integral to the domestic economy and too many pinches would disturb the balance. No matter how well-meant anyone’s intentions, they could easily be compromised and negated when it comes to appeasing  three levels of National and Liberal party corruption.

Much reverence is afforded Barnaby Joyce clone, Buchholz. Those denied access to the back room are out of the lurks and perks loop and unlikely to praise he who, for one brief period in Camelot, had Abbott’s ear. Most huffing and puffing favoring the obese Member for the Larder comes from the failing LNP journal, Beaudesert Times.

Boom Times

One of the NLP cabal, Brent, appears to have been knocked off after local election dust settles. Likely winner Cockburn wins with 24% of the vote, which means three-quarters of the people’s wishes are ignored absolutely.

Perhaps the electorate should demand unfair legislation like that recently introduced by a rotten Canberra Liberal/National coalition, that the sitting mayor should have only one opponent to battle.

Rumoured a nice guy, Liberal State member, Jon Krause’s stench meter reminded him that guilt by association with this trio as too tangible to ignore.

Rejected by Turnbull, the obese Minister’s ego was salved to some degree by LNP mouthpiece, Beaudesert Times recently using his obscene bulk in six images on one page. When the local ‘Mr. Big’ social drug on-sellers are nailed, the pampered, frightened offal of  solicitors, accountants and real estate operators are among the principal players.

When youthful indiscretions, regarded by mummy and daddy as worthy leadership traits fade and become forgotten in cliquey little towns, Beaudesert’s “school tie” epicentre would be Wright Representative Buchholz’s office in William Street, conveniently adjacent sanctimonious self-servers the RSL, who persist in coddling druggie recidivist criminals forty-five years after the end of conflict.

Guilfoyle bust.Vindictive schemer, con-man, fraud.

“The people who are regarded as moral luminaries are those who forego ordinary pleasures themselves and find compensation in interfering with the pleasures of others.”

The RSL feels patriotic by cultivating the diseased minds of aging volunteer drivers to keep tabs on dissenting neighbours and flourishes still. The heritage of former Queensland Labor filth like Tom Burns and Schwarten lives on.

The tagline under this posts masthead has been changed, but was attributed to Jane Austen and goes,”Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies.”

Across  from the RSL on a side street is the constabulary/ Magistrate’s Court precinct. Buchholz’s office is in Beaudesert Times former building, very, very expensively tarted-up by  committed LNP string-puller and ardent Catholic recruiter, McCabe. Within spitting distance, a couple of xxxx xxxxxx establishments, one struggling for survival in a former retail shop. “Manager resigns; another Kooralbyn..”

Cynthia, and I’ll swear that’s not her real name, left Foodworks to pursue a rewarding career with Whatsis real estate rentals four or so years ago. In the few weeks of our acquaintanceship, I found her to be a friendly, outgoing person. Asked of her welfare/progress a couple of years later, a mutual friend replied,”She’s having the time of her life hassling late paying renters.” She had found job satisfaction and her niche in the pecking order of life.



Tweeters; real estate employees would be unable to find grammatical errors in this advert.

People, relatives, whoever advanced start-up cash to real estate proprietors ought sit facing entrances, ready to hit the floor, given the Baden-Clay state of delusion that is endemic to self-deluded, grand-standing entrepreneurs.


Or copy Bill who, with spouse and a suppressed employee or two run a small, rural based business from a shed, between Beaudesert and Jimboomba. A chronic know-all/loudmouth, he had made a couple of N.Q. deep-sea charter outings and wanted his own boat.

His mother was dying but not fast enough for the budding Captain who brought her home where he and wife smoked furiously in her presence and she died choking with flailing little arms trying to deflect the poisonous toxins.

An unencumbered, double story, well sited Victoria Point brick home had potential; potential for the devious couple that is. Well, heaven was short-lived. Barnacle Bill had to pay tuition fees before he could hoist the skull and crossbones. But glory of glory, the loudmouth know-all had been well and truly scuppered. His mother’s house had become an irreparable rotting hole in the water and conniver Bill would have condemned the Labor Party the irony of it all.

Loudmouth Bill claimed the police often dropped in on their rounds for a chat when all sorts of subjects were covered. Much local goings-on was unintentionally sourced, he claimed, but the cops would be wary of blowhards surely, and this one in particular, with whom one would be cautious in discussing the chances of rain.


BT Sept 9,2015. Demon Phantom Terrorist chaser.

Detective Ward’s real job is that of Official Terrorist Chaser, or OTC, but if the sheets can’t give up skid marks or there’s no bombs under beds, a bit of ordinary, common crook catching is on the table and the puzzling disappearance of garden gnomes an ongoing dilemma.

It’s a ‘pushing shit uphill’ battle in Beaudesert with its long entrenched, three level Liberal/National Party rule whereby the police are obliged to become part of the problem. Beaudesert policing means catering to the most influential.

Rookie truck driver on his first solitary job phones boss in great panic, “I’ve hit a pig and it’s stuck in the tyre bay and I can’t move it for love or money,” he screamed.

“Slit open its guts, the released gases will relax the body and it’ll just drop out.” was the advice.

Minutes later the driver was on the line again,”What is it now,” boss demanded, “did you do what I told you”?

“Oh yair, yair, no problem there, it dropped out just like you said it would”

“Well what’s up now”?

“Now I can’t budge the bloody motor-cycle.”

Fair dinkum!



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