Archive for the ‘Real Estate Spite Material.’ Category

Queensland Labor like followers with an 80 IQ baseline.

February 5, 2017

This became, “Queensland Labor prefer dumbned-down followers who can’t think.”

In Beaudesert, Qld Labor, ever the lap-dogs to Liberal overlords.

July 2, 2016

A decade or so ago, whenever an election was pending, whether Local, State or Federal, the Jimboomba ALP branch would man their little recruitment/information tent on market Saturdays at Beaudesert’s Dick Westerman Park and do their damnest to look harmless to the passing weary.
The main beneficiary of this function was to promote the fortunes of a demi-god, in the mind and eyes of Queensland Labor, a thief of decent working people, to whit, a real estate sales-person in the name of standover merchant Brett Raguse
A exception to these dummies who was always an able conversationalist, a pleasant man, was Brett McCreadie who, after the foul Raguse fluked Wright’s formerly named Federal seat of Forde, went on to contest Beaudesert, losing to the Libs Jon Krause.
Yarning with an earnest, small minded boy, as it turned out, Jason Whitlock and his ‘wife’ I idly, and innocently, I must add, asked why the Labor Party never seems to rebuke The Courier Mail despite them printing at least four blatant untruths about them or their associates every day of the week.
In a flash, it was demanded of me that I pose with Whitlock’s ‘wife’ for a matey, family photo. I did so without compunction; I was not the strange-acting one in this scenario. This character typifies all that anchors Federal and State Labor parties into the mire and encourages Plibersek among a host of others to converse with their followers at a basic IQ level.
Reproduced Beaudesert Times story with picture of Queensland’s arse-licking girl-child Deputy Premier:


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

March 29, 2016

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!

Protected: Kooralbyn Real Estate. Roy Wyatt’s “perspective.”

March 15, 2016

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Protected: Manager resigns: Another Kooralbyn R/E crook enters the scene.

February 23, 2016

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My Kooralbyn Donga. Not all the maladjusted are on the Liberal frontbench.

July 17, 2014

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A thoroughly decent and considerate mature man took nearby rental residence a few months ago. Quiet living, undemanding, polite and conservative in conversation, and not pension dependent. After decades circling Australia, now looking to drop the anchor, the waters of Kooralbyn mightn’t be the spot after all.

He used a clothes dryer in a secluded spot well away from the general gaze, unless those eyes belonged to the prying, trouble-making variety. A hatchet job incited an irrational ‘body corporate’ hate letter. The tiny Japanese-style bathroom adjunct receives little winter sunshine, is meant also to conceal the resident’s washing from the gentle eyes of hate merchants.

Quiet-living and non-smoking, the antithesis of the local unit owners, the gent is a welcome change from earlier cigarette-smoking, toxic-perfumed inhabitants. He, like the writer, earns angst from two of the tubby botoxed, blue-rinse battle-axes for hanging on to a decent set of values


extract of washing edict

My donga/ camp/ bunk/ residence/ accommodation is a roughly built, open-plan but adequate place in a quasi Housing Commission precinct and is best described as a flat although its proponents would much prefer the cutesy villa, terminology beloved of real estate entrepreneurs and idle, vacuous, cardboard wine drinking neighbours, and like a weekly dose of religion to its practitioners, reasserts and uplifts the already converted.

The unprotected dwelling projects into the car park, exposing it to reflected paver heat and car-fume. In summer, the eastern-facing front is subject to the sun which then hammers in from the west. It is one of the few of the fifty unit complex not blessed by tree foliage at some point of the day. The estate is built partly on a hillside, opposite a taller, imposing hill which reflects and amplifies domestic noises like car and house door-bangs and arguments back to their source and beyond. The layout of the land also plays havoc with wind direction, carbon-monoxide laden air predominates.

In summer, weather protected east-west flats/units are owned mostly by the toxic, cigarette smoking ‘body corporate’ obese, so heat stress wouldn’t worry them. Gentle summer breeze prevails but is compromised and tarnished by idling cars with their owners doing repairs or simply by normal car movements. The place stinks of carbon-monoxide and makes an industrial area out of a rural environment.

The maintenance/gardeners team have got the flick by the looks of things. Until recently, the unplanned, over-use of whipper-snippers, cheap hedge trimmers and tinny leaf-blowers on three days of the week by garden contractors exacerbates the noise and fume and would have been less a problem if their machine use had been thoughtfully applied. The repetitive use of weed-killer on pavers up to both doors seemed over-done and I suspect, contravenes local by-laws.

A section of grounds maintenance involved the upkeep of a central, open court-yard, cynically referred to as the fish-bowl, holding the gem of the small-minds set; a minute swimming pool, and woe betide the newcomer who dares decline the command of body corporate couple to join the gamboling fatties. This is the province of the ruling gang members whose close-by residences act as silent sentries.


Pretentious Clucky Club.


These are the smug, self-satisfied professional do-gooders who get on the slops and prowl the precinct looking for innocent marks on which to unload their venom. It is little wonder the community shuns their ‘assistance’. Don’t be hoodwinked by RSL Citizens Auxiliary appellation. RSL is a misused acronym in this case. Emphasis on the key word, Citizens, in Kooralbyn, pretentious no-hoper trouble-makers looking for unearned praise.

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