Posts Tagged ‘Beware The Return Of Goose-Steps In The Night.’

Beaudesert’s Thai Restaurateurs on haunches fanning dew-laden fire.

July 2, 2017

A little bit of Thailand’s cafe culture, in Beaudesert smoking open garbage. A practice run at home.

One block from Beaudesert CBD.

Both images taken by hand-held Nikon Coolpix.

The goings-on at Q.H.C. 220-226 Brisbane St. Beaudesert.

June 13, 2017

The good life, as I conceive it, is a happy life. I do not mean that if you are good you will be happy – I mean that if you are happy you will be good.”

The car eased into the parking area where Lorna and I were exchanging pleasantries after having checked our respective mail boxes. The driver was an amiable fellow of some forty years, his companion, the demeanor of a chronic hemorrhoid sufferer and a lifetime rehearsing; a pouting, sullen lower lip, fashioned to trip over.

Was he a failed dramatic actor; an embittered artist in the Hitler arch-megalomaniac mould? A studied straight ahead look to avoid eye contact completed the instant character summation. Here is one tubby and very petulant, unhappy drama queen who won’t clear his rear compaction until he finds a new way of shafting an opponent.

And another bombastic bastard; as if this variety wasn’t over represented already. Contrasting vividly with his passenger was his young driver/companion who could have been Pettum’s parole officer, an amiable and polite fellow, he sought the location of the flat they had come to check out.

Laurance Pettums moved in within days and was quickly self-promoted to king of the kids. The accidental or default congregating point back then was the precinct’s picnic shed where Garry the rat had made a habit of swigging stubbies as he read large-type cowboy books, delivered to him by a system that encourages bludgers to sit on their arses while volunteers ran after them.

After some months, I hesitantly joined Garry in disjointed and limited conversations. The ever-present stale nicotine stench surrounding him along with an untreated dandruff-like condition made an up-wind, two metre gap the nearest one could wisely partake in a congress of sorts.

The word cretin didn’t adequately describe Garry, so the gods pooled their thoughts and came up with gomeral. And how apt! Have a close look at the gaping mouth of sideshow alley’s wooden clown and there you see Garry, a rather improved Garry in fact. The animated carnival creation, in its quest to thwart entry of the ping-pong balls is not overwhelmed by untreated and uncontrolled psoriasis and scalp disorders.

Talk sense to a fool and he will call you foolish.

Garry doesn’t win any kudos for his eloquence which is as vacuous as his wit, so irrespective of wind movements, my visits were usually brief. What he is very good at, however, is accepting handouts without any semblance of gratitude lasting beyond the day. One has the impression of him awakening one morning and seeing a new apparatus nearby, its arrival and its purpose as being absolutely lost to him.

A considerate interior painter struck by the scarcity of furnishings in his flat, gave him a disc player but he was having some trouble operating it. I could hear a whirring as I neared it and found a rut worn almost through the disc. Six or so months of unusual noise from a recently introduced object was not enough to arouse his curiosity.

Never the less, he seemed, in time, to have become acquainted with DVDs, so I entrusted him with the first two seasons of The Sopranos. Mint t.v. and mint DVD’s with mint prices. A week or so later, not been offered any comment or thoughts on the programme, said he had already watched it on tv. “Didn’t you find that when it was run on telly you missed a word here and there, a line….passing traffic drowning bits and pieces”? I asked. No problems, he assured me, always caught the dialogue. Well, why should I doubt what I’m told?

Super trusting, naive Lesso handed over the next two seasons of the series before getting the first two back. A few weeks passed and nary a word. I pressed their return and found tobacco in the plastic container, along with ash, greasy finger marks over the entire surfaces, where one would expect the average careless person to leave marks on the rim only. One disc was decorated by a great smear of dried snot which once had very evidently been very wet.

The introductory, or companion booklet filthy and squashed, permanently marked when forcibly placed between the plastic hinges. I rejected a hefty quote for a professional cleaning job, and risked contamination by doing the job myself. The idiot would not accept knowledge of the vandalism.

I began to lose my penchant for helping out those I perceived as doing it tough and saw merit in Wilde’s reproving,“ No good deed should go unpunished.” Adding to this fellows’ dimness was his playing of only the first episode on each disc, having no idea that three more episodes followed.

For the previous year or so, I had fetched his grog and doing small messages. His mate with a lower limb problem and a beat-up bomb would fetch his stubbies and charge him a six pack for the effort, and then help him finish the carton. For the sake of economy and an unjust charge from a best mate, I convinced him to quit buying the expensive glass stubbies and consider the 30 can carton. I wouldn’t sit back and knock off half his grog either

A traveling $2 an item used clothing show was at the show-grounds and I offered Garry a lift with an update of his attire in mind. He felt it necessary to offer directions to a 35 year long Beaudesert resident whose partner had shown horses at these very grounds, was surprised that I knew of the show-ground. Here was yet another controlling zombie and I always thought they were the province of movie script writers.

At about this time, the aforementioned was lamenting his failure to get a dreadfully unkempt and well matured woman into the cot. He let on to me, while loaded with truth syrup, that a little peccadillo of his indulgence was to implant a tooth-brush handle up the anus and wank to prostrate pleasure and preferred his onanism while standing. My comment at this revelation was of admiration for his physical endurance while I wondered if my supine preference for the missionary position, sans toothbrush, had anything to do with my innate laziness.

This pastime was his harmless pleasure as it were, and was of no concern or consequence to me or to anyone else, and the admission told in drunken confidence, had no impact on my worn-out sensitivities. It didn’t occur to me for a nanosecond, to demean the fellow by blabbing his secret delights to the countryside, nor did I, “recoil in horror.” Of concern though, was his post orgasmic brush extraction movements, where I truly hoped he was fastidious enough to engage hygiene applications. This is why I regard myself as a reasonably lucky and contented chap by never having shared repast from this place.

“Every man is like the company he is wont to keep.”

However unpleasant this fellows company, his physical presence was much preferred to that of the three Machiavellian principals who I must introduce for their pivotal roles.

Larry Pettums wasted little time taking over the podium, and having secured the limited audience with tales of undercover police work in the “States,” quickly segued to his most worked-on subject; his sexual frequency and up-standing potency. This was one unabashed and serious ego-tripper, eventually revealed as an intimidating moron who had lived his life as such and gave no sign of self-doubt, even in spite of a stupid countenance of six decades duration. I walked from this boor when his imagination had the excessive sexual demands of Mexican women depleting his body to the extent of needing blood transfusions to recover.

It wasn’t at all flattering to be included in that target audience, in fact I found that status quite offensive, but that is the way of un-recognised genius. You wouldn’t feed his nonsense talk to an average I.Q. youth, let alone a time-worn septuagenarian. Next day, Larry used Gerry as courier to convey to me a scrap of paper on which was written researched information about his previous days affectations. I discarded it without consideration, appalled at the thought of any type of relationship with this repulsive thug. If a man sends a runner to convey a message to the recipient he lives besides, it is too much like Mum telling son to give Dad a reply when all three are seated at the same table.

“Their are no benefits in the gifts of bad men.”

I carried out a minor repair on my pine kitchen chair on the veranda using an electric drill. Next morning Larry was circulating about the place with his drill, desperately seeking to ingratiate himself with his fellow tenants by declaring he was the newly endorsed maintenance man. Homer Simpson aficionados would remember an emotionally rejected Homer hand-standing in the back-ground commanding, “ Mummy, mummy. Look at me, Mummy. Anyone, please look at me”. A wonderfully apt sketch written for the over-represented inbred Laurance Pettums of this planet.

Rejected egotists refuse to be ignored and will irk a reluctant target with their persistence. Like me, Laurance occupies the westernmost unit; he the third building, and I the middle. Like all other tenants, he parks as close to his entrance steps as possible, and when a rare rain fall makes unofficial tracks too slippery for door-step parking, he parks beside the easternmost flat of his block near the highway, and that becomes his default parking spot where he stays, even in fine weather. This ignorance quite understandably, annoys the affected resident who will not upbraid him, feeling discreetness with bullies the preferred option.

Other residents are the object of this intimidation by dint of Larry’s delight in playing his very audible car burglar system far longer than is needed to open a door. Once only, at the start of the day seems very reasonable which one might expect in a safe non-threatening daytime area, but often throughout the day is calculated stupidity. He gets his jollies, it seems, by going to his locked and alarmed car as often as possible.

Laurance Pettums shares a motor-cycle with a man friend who could be absent for days. When in his care, scarcely a day passes without the petrol tank coming off, tools clanging, irritating grinding and extended revving-up all adding to his Ginger Meggs annoyances.. These noisy ‘modifications’ are done to the south of his flat, near my bedroom. On his north side, there is nothing but unoccupied, shady park land where noisy vehicle repairs would pass largely unnoticed and irritate no-one.

“It is impossible for a man to learn what he thinks he already knows.”

When Pettums had a collapsed garden shed dropped off, I asked the council to have him relocate its erection to his north and away from my bedroom. That task was too big an ask of a corrupt council and they were unable to accommodate my request. I also faxed a list of noise issues relating to Pettums, to Qld Housing, but would you believe it, noise complaints on that day, or specifically, noise complaints from me were not within their area of interest.

Once again, it seems, the joke is on me and this patron saint of stupid is in fact, an unabashed fifth columnist paid-up rat of the Queensland State Department of Housing, and certainly on their payroll. How many innocent trusting lives has this low creep shafted and ruined to satisfy an unfounded belief in his own superiority?

Any ignored or rejected little attention seeker will see opportunities to annoy the adults. One of these chances fell into Larry’s lap when an evening down-pour swept recently deposited bark topping along a 15 metre stretch of concrete path. Very early next morning, the suddenly caring Laurance pulled out his civic cap and be seen as a concerned and involved neighbour. Using an abundance of spade scrapes to alert the neighbourhood of his grandiosity, also by pure chance my bedroom was beside his area of activity. The spread was sparse enough to be removed with a few sweeps of a broom, but the attraction of metal against concrete proved too irresistible a mischief for our neighbourly Pettums.

Next door to this self-absorbed creature lives a woman well into her eighth decade. During the neighbour instigated strife I was having shortly after my introduction to this place, she understood my predicament, she told me, but couldn’t possibly come to my defence because the Shwarten’s Housing Department had recently threatened her with eviction if she and her then neighbour kept up their nit-picking. With that rod over her she was quite understandably intimidated. To search for new digs and be relocated at a very old age would have been a daunting task but would satisfy the whims of biased and immature public servants.

IGNORANCE and superstition, mortally afraid etc

The third tenant is a typecast life-long public-housing resident who lives under the auspices and direction of the Housing Dept. Such a dependent and diffident person as she, is won’t say “boo” for fear lurking Housing spies will come down on her for speaking out and so suffer the same intimidation as the octogenarian. She would shaft an outsider and help tar and feather him, than live in fear of losing the approval of the bullying majority, whether fellow tenant or Housing official.

One could expect her feeling justified in believing the worst of someone she didn’t feel comfortable with, and like Gerry and 90% of the population, expressing independent thought would be on par with understanding the extent of the universe.

Her demanding questioning of me of an elderly residents’ welfare who I aid in positive ways rankled me somewhat when I know of her own zero response. I don’t aid people in expectation of winning a good citizens award at Christmas. In short, I don’t feel obliged to explain my deeds to a meddling interloper. She is a rather inglorious and distant woman.

“Religion is what keeps the poor from murdering the rich.”

The bible-banger, fourth and last resident of this block, is not without her hang-ups. A grateful resident and disciple of both Jesus and the Department for 24 years she boasts, and gushes adulation for the wonderful altruistic Housing luvvies who care so much for her welfare. Is used mainly by a Bejusus thunder cult, but can be easily manipulated by a purpose-driven exploiter. A snapping, ankle biting little Pekingese, she lets the newly censored know she can retaliate if stirred. Even after seven years, her shrilling still has me glancing out of the window at its start, expecting to see a rolling on the ground, hair-pulling, blood-letting cat fight. But no, it is her demonstrative way of greeting a favoured home-coming tenant.

This woman was observing me and my helper unload on move-in day. By way of introducing her to my droll wit, I invited her to a phantom party that night and was rewarded with a tirade of screams and threats of police and Housing Dept. intervention and hell-fire too, I expect. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Godfather and the divine one also got a mention. She was not amused. She’s not an ogress either and keeps her own counsel, seemingly divorced from the nasty politics of the place. I don’t think there is a truly corrupt bone in her naïve, diminutive body. Her loud shrilling at rare conversation attempts is a sign of other issues. Her trait of averting her head as she walks by my flat intrigues me. I suspect it is a precaution against morphing into salt if accidentally catching sight of an anti-Christ.

She did let her guard down recently when she conceded that doing a daily crossword or two, as recommended by those who do mind games might sharpen and support the brain. I interfered in her routine by photo-copying the next days’ crosswords from the newspaper and explained how I could do this daily and leave them in an easily accessible spot where she could pick them up at her leisure. The puzzles remained untouched in their spot for a fortnight. I asked if there had been some misunderstanding and got bawled out for trying to hurry her, because she had yet to start the hand delivered first puzzle.

I do rather suspect her parson master, from whom she would have most assuredly sought permission to accept such largesse from a non-believer, put the kibosh on my offer by reminding her of the reception I delivered him on his fourth attempt at seeking an audience with me.

He who sups with the devil should use a long spoon.”

“The Bulletin” ( & other publications) old clippings, book reviews; of Australian writers. Begins with George Johnston, 1968.

June 12, 2016

The Bulletin (From National Museum Australia)

"The Bullitin" book reviews; of Australian writers. George Johnston.

Who could forget Thea Astley's, "A Boatload Of Homefolk"?

Who could forget Thea Astley’s thrilling, “A Boatload Of Homefolk”?

Geoffrey Dutton's writing over my head, his reviews couldn't be missed though.

Geoffrey Dutton’s writing over my head, his reviews couldn’t be missed though.

Geoffrey Dutton from Wikipedia

J P Donleavy's "The Onioneaters" an opening to crude, adult humour. Larfed 'til I cried.

J P Donleavy’s “The Onioneaters” an opening to crude, adult humour. Larfed ’til I cried.

2004 CM review of gay play. The female reviewer's high moral standards remain untarnished and public. Read her closing paragraph to find out. Had I lived in Brisbane and not Beaudesert, where I was soundly rubbished for being old last Friday when I attended the State Government Office to extend my "geriatric" driving license, I might have been tempted to look-in at this updated version of Dorian Gray.

2004 CM review of gay play. The female reviewer’s high moral standards remain untarnished and public. Read her closing paragraph to find out why.
Had I lived in Brisbane and not Beaudesert, where I was soundly rubbished for being old last Friday when I attended the State Government Office to extend my “geriatric” driving license, I would have felt free to comment openly on this updated version of Wilde’s Dorian Gray.

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.

 

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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…

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!

Queensland Housing Commission. Jaala, Hillhouse, Murphy, Shouten, Horan: True-blue arse-holes.

February 24, 2016

Lifted from Aug 31, 2011 a reprint: Last days of Bligh’s mess.

This post ran on August 31, 2011, toward the end of Bligh’s time as Beattie’s heir apparent when piss-ant Schwarten was the nominal head of Housing, to whom I wrote decrying a Qbuild painting overseer screaming at me, “You shut up, you fucking poofter,” after asking him to control the verbal noise his two young exuberant painters were making.

I had mentioned the incident to visiting Housing staff,  the virginal twenty/thirtyish Jaala and Hillhouse, so offended with my verbatim use that I would “be reported.” After the Schwarten brushoff, told not to contact again, was passed over to a very vindictive Woodridge based Murphy, and that was when the real ordeal began and the visit by Senior Sergeant Moffett on Tuesday, October 25, 2011, at about 1115 hrs, who suggested “we” go to my doctor and take a mental evaluation test.

horsetree2

Admitting that the system couldn’t be beaten, that Queensland Housing is a self-admitted institution, I signed myself out and straight into the quasi Housing camp at Kooralbyn where two of my neighbours are visited frequently by mysterious agents in Queensland Government plated cars. Have also been witness to two known drug ‘busts.’

 

Dumbned-down Australians relaxed too soon when 1985 dawned and Orwell’s warnings faded with his book. The iconic title was a random number, he later wrote. It could easily have been 2011, the year the Queensland Government redoubled their efforts to destroy my credibility for fear I file a damages suit.

The stupidity of the Queensland Government’s corny waste clap-trap policy finally being aired. (Got the State wrong, but same template across the country; this is not yet a trial transcript) Non-thinking citizens stuck up the creek now won’t know which way to turn. The monstrous cost of the system was known before its inception. Additionally, in this Government block of flats, the abundance of unused recycle bins laying idle must incur a cost that is met from only one source. If Governments can’t think through the consequences of their actions, the possibility of Woodridge Housing dummies becoming breathing, thinking Pinocchios most remote. I offer an Orwellian observation:

“People simply disappeared, always during the night. Your name was removed from the registers, every record of everything you had ever done was wiped out, your one-time existence was denied and then forgotten. You were abolished, annihilated: vaporized was the usual word.”
– George Orwell, 1984, Book 1, Chapter 1

Little effort has been made to conceal identities of participants in events that are fictional. Names coinciding with actual persons unintentional.

An aging and inexpert tyro writer like yours truly is verily in the shit as he tries to push buckets of it up hill at his helplessness to explain the creeping re-emergence and acceptance of Nazism as its influence gradually festers and grows, displacing decency, whose practitioners become objects of derision by girl yobbos, descendants of book-burners looking for a post storm-water drain respectability. They get their jollies by informing on harmless minorities; ego food for untalented and amoral zombies whose only ability is to ascertain in a flash how to best proffer ridicule on decent people.

Vampires, if ‘horror’ movie scripts have credibility, recoil from the holy cross when so-confronted, fearing its power will finish them. A hammer and stake through the heart most likely did the damage. My unblemished entity has a similar effect on Schoutens-led harpies, yet to explain their fear of my presence, resolute despite the wag of vindictive tongues. Like Hemingway’s shit detector, mine is always tuned. Why? I don’t know. A handy asset for one on defence maneuvers I suppose. Not in my martyr book though. Housing staff malevolence toward me is palpable, their knives simply slice off enough to suit the moment. Dealing with decent oldies leaves them perplexed and foundering while Bligh praises this vintage group only on victory nights, who by dawn have reverted to senility and history. How, in peace-time can one counter the effect of Government encouraged stupidity and stay out of goal? A famous British skit advised writing a letter to the Times a paean for all problems from the late arrival of the Cumberland twit to the clarification of rumors that wanking is fraught with aids after all. A letter to Bowen Hills impracticable in the current atmosphere unless its sender is of the far right where the stench of Bligh’s corruption curdles the ink.

Monday last, two Government hit-squad goons called. They tell me to quit fighting for a natural right to clean oxygen and boast of urging Woodward to release whatever legal toxins he wishes into the prevailing easterlies to be down-swept into my flat. This advice, if followed, will be met by an equally obnoxious but legal deed of my own. I am too generous with the dim. Mother queen and tubby use Hillhouse supplied confidential client information that might be less than accurate. ‘Nuff sed. With my blog posts having non-libelous, but strong comments, the material the nice young girl held was pussy-cat stuff, degrading only if the complainant feels he fits the bill, e.g. stasi sperm-eater, shit stuff, but manna for Housing’s fetish for kangaroo court justice. These girls were on an excursion to show just how brittle are the egos of their own protected bullies, unable to master their own defence.

The girls, proud bureaucratic bullies get their jollies degrading old men. We have under discussion here, covert shit who should be awaiting criminal trial for aggravated assault. Their dread of my innate goodness is a worry. The heavy-handed Cromwellians insist civil rights for aged Queensland public-housing tenants without fifth column protection are suspended. The State rejects the individual except for $1,000 a day mates and bludgers of Mike Kaiser level. Inflated doped-up egomaniacs without mental maturity, admonish an educated oldie for out-thinking the maladjusted cadre, Mother, who felt his psychiatric skill justified the appellation of psycho for asking him to tone down his mobile phone posturing.

The hate and self-satisfaction of Hillhouse and her agent Hidee, not yet sated apparently. Illegally entering my flat no longer on the crime statute, accepted as run of the mill stuff, as will become her waddling and heaving along a private veranda to steal my false cameras. These are bullying criminals doing bad things to good people and I won’t apologize to retributive, lazy thugs. I’ve admitted the difficulty in exposing a system established to discredit whistle-blowers, the blatant Illegal entry been going on indefinitely by the tone of things; witless and desperate no-hopers keen to stay in grace and favor of Station Road crooks. Mind games of a pathetically obese baby killer not much of an opponent for me, but offers a compensation of sorts for her unusual abnormality. Am I supposed to weep and gnash my teeth in despair? Can’t do, I’m afraid.

Cheap surveillance toys are just that. I placed two of this $20 Logitech stuff with visible warning notices in prominent places mainly because of its novelty value and had been toy-deprived lately. Hidee, with Hillhouse encouragement, peels off the product supplied signs to further denigrate my buggered P.R. image. I disturbed the status quo and the local cell cadres were aghast that spy devices were spun around to face the users. Labor Party spooks collect excellent quality shots via mobile phones know my toys are passe, but make clucking sounds to garner sympathy from the dummies. Amateurish and embarrassing field-workers like Woodward covertly put me in his phone frame without my ok, annoys me that I am considered too dumb to notice.

He and acquaintances have carte blanche access with supplied keys to enter any flat they choose, occupied or not. I was very quickly on to him and running to his Woodridge masters was his only option. Why his movements within or without his flat should interest me is beyond the pail. I need only glance out my study window if I became so fixated, his whereabouts within easily monitored by constant banging on bare floorboards. An obsession to observe such an unpalatable object is not on my idiosyncratic list and puts ‘watching grass grow’ in luxury class. My p.c. screen mimics H.C. staff in that it can carry out only one function at a time, and I prefer my document files. The web has a few interesting intruder detecting devices that on first glance warrants another look.

The illegal intrusion into private property by nanny-state agents with sophisticated equipment far more offensive than the five minute wonder of legal cams that had their desired result of spooking ham queen at his own game, but with the one huge difference; I used my mind, he had the OK to house-break at least twice proving once again that it’s all about who you know than what you know or more importantly, the depth of your turpitude. A moderate, repelled by private intrusion into an individual’s ‘castle,’ I hope my experiences are a one-off mistake by people who hate one particular ugly old bastard and is not a George Street directive. The p.c. is variable with tons of info, but useless when you don’t get prior advice on what’s been organized for one’s discomfort. An intruder detector with recorded time, probably first purchase a Commission tenant should install, not for fear of fellow tenants or strangers, but as evidence of illegal entry by the ruling party’s sheet sniffers.

And at this point, am obliged to take care as what follows will be used to demean and discredit the writer.

I doubt that the exotically named Jaala, a smug new to me Ayesha on the h.c. scene, will ever gain the integrity to sniff my poxy old arse, encouraged upwind stasi to use all imaginable legal odors to irritate me, might not always have Government protection for her threats and whatever other undisclosed deeds she is mixed-up with. She knows she is a crook and I know. Unprincipled spivs shoring-up a rotten system will be waiting a while to feed on perceived sexist, racist and whatever imagined slights I might make. What irritates me somewhat is that she and other Party hacks with no experience of life wish to impart their inexperience on me. Most of these kids are untrained and clumsy carrying out their ‘duties’ in an ad hoc manner, prompted by paranoid, vexatious seniors fearing a tenants up-rising. Transpose this selfish pack of average public servants to aged care and the prospect of a hose applied to a shitty back hole every few weeks would be rare and accidental.

The use of eviction tenants to shift disliked oldies baffles me that it’s happening in Queensland. Had a trained communicator explained to a prospective renter his loss of civil rights as a government tenant, and what lies in wait for a dissenter, my despair would be unknown. I would have gone elsewhere. Apart from the overt, in your face killings of his own people by Gaddafi’s hoodlums, Queensland’s biased Housing cretins do it the covert ‘ladies’ way of compulsory spent cigarette smoke and toxic ingestion. Usually practiced in foreign countries by developers to move-on tenants loathe to shift voluntarily. Shouldn’t possibly happen in western countries, one would think, let alone in a democratic Queensland run by the misnamed people’s party.

I care not a whit of Mother’s sexual orientation. His non-smoking status is what initially won me over and dulled my prescience. Rejected megalomaniacs get square in the most surprisingly, venomous and unmanly ways and my defenses were down, this old queen lording around the place, a la Noel Coward would be a change and with his obviously affected mien, that I felt the installment of a campy old queen would certainly be a change.

An established pen-man would find difficulty to convincingly relate the goings-on of Government agents to believability which gives me little hope. The manipulators discredit informants as conspiracy theory nutters and lock them up. Witness Julian Assange’s rape accusations. A Diminished I.Q. serial phone pest using Woodridge H.C. communication equipment has rendered my land-line phone obsolete, while the mobile amasses hundreds of dollars credit awaiting a genuine use. The greatest asset of email is that its ‘block’ box repels the dickheads. Tom Burns, a Labor ‘legend’ is remembered around Beaudesert for his, “Never forget you are always under watch,” reminding local developers of their vulnerability as the disenfranchised Nats became once again an emasculated shit party. Was a mistake to ignore this strong admonishment as political memories hang around and smell. The availability of surveillance toys nowadays would send him into paroxysms of uncontrolled joy. I erred a couple of years ago by posing for a matey photo-shoot at a Labor Party booth after making critical anti-Labor comments nearing an election.

Not unexpectedly, Housing stasi responded to a companion’s difficulty in achieving an illegal eviction. Hurst, soon to be exposed a fifth columnist, was chauffeured to his flat ‘inspection’ by the same fellow who, three years later, was to assist in Woodward’s arrival; Our (Hurst) first encounter an endurance test of Job-like proportion sorely tested my patience and I fled this unprincipled, bragging predator mid-sentence, putting me atop his hate-whisper list. Listening to State-side, on secondment ‘under-cover’ police work and sexual frequency and endurance wouldn’t work on a youth so why me? That action shattered his self-belief somewhat and he had to get-square.

Pseudo-puppeteer and eviction tenant believes he introduced new-world trinkets to the precinct, entered my flat on two occasions with supplied keys and by the grace and instructions of his superiors. The first time on January 14, can’t be supported in court, he was complicit in a house-break and on impulse, it is presumed, took the popular Ayn Rand philosophy, Atlas Shrugged simply to show that, under the Gestapo umbrella, he does whatever he wants. I had mentioned in an earlier post my youthful interest in her stuff, now looked upon as tosh in a conversation before his true intent was known. My likes and observations were always ‘stupid’ to this fellow whereupon a charitable chap would offer passing interest. He was to re-enter my flat to undo his former action and to reveal where he went wrong not good to disclose. Living beside an active, Murphy-protected thief doesn’t sit well with me, the crooks too well honed these days to leave paper trails.

Woodums and the rotund one are life’s weak rats who shore-up their egos by dobbing-in good people, would be rewarded with steel in the guts if carried out in a POW camp, for their unabashed affiliation with established thugs, attract only the easily persuaded and dumb, gentle people like the hapless Jock and the unaware Maureen. The offensive baby-eater Hidee, should be doing life for yet to be discovered remains of roasted babies, assist him in his role of eviction tenant. Mother and Pettums Hurst finally revealed their working relationship the other day with Hurst making a full-scale theater production of freeing a supposed sealed fly-door of Woodums. It is a ruse of established house-breakers and small-time crooks to imply another in the area is a common thief to distract attention from themselves.

I displease myself for being tardy, knowing what was in the wind and naughty for not acting to pre-empt the obvious, but there you go! Being Les Johns is a heavy and onerous load, and is rekindling a return to my original tagline: It Is Dangerous To Be Right When The Government Is Wrong. Obedience is the only option for weak, Government-backed toadies, like the baby-eating Hidee and fag-boy and a myriad of others, however capitulating to unprincipled maggots is not on my to do list. My disfavor with Housing cadres intensified after the prissy, empty-headed prig, Rebecca in company with another dunce, according to my diary, took kindergarten offence at my ver batim reporting of a QBuild painter-overseer thug who resented being asked to quieten his noisy staff telling me to, “Shut-up, you fucking poofter.” Been elsewhere mentioned where three months of intermittent TV couldn’t be fixed by an unqualified QBuild ‘mate’ after many call-outs and the matter was incorporated in a letter of complaint to the Minister.

What gets me with the likes of especially dispatched operator, Mental Evaluation Specialist and local cadre chief, Paul G. who is probably a nice chap away from poisonous company, subtly assessed me last April thinks his actions pass unnoticed, got his hackles up when I legally asked the stasi lieutenant his credentials. Hitler’s bitter daughters on Monday last stirred me. Never could overcome the stench of corruption and bureaucratic troublemakers skewing my judgement. The two little lasses, like G. are reluctant to give names on demand, a legal request, seek no doubt the adulation and backs-slaps of fellow ‘yes’ girls for putting an old bastard in his place. The real Australia is in strife with personal attrition riff-raff like them making decisions on a decent and blameless citizen. These little girls should be reminded more often that they are low-order public servants, and that their own superiority is delusional. A story about dictator’s who crown themselves lies elsewhere. What’s the odds on Paul’s imminent return to 220 Brisbane Street to test Terry O’Brien’s assertion that mental evaluation tests are a practical demonstration on the effect of electricity on dissidents.

Mother dropped boastful asides of his mission, knowing his little snippets mean nothing to the casual observer. A medical person agrees Qld. Housing’s inbuilt hate is like that of a tiger targeting an elk and can’t be dissuaded from its goading into a rage to justify Mental Evaluation apprehension. This environment is detrimental for a nanny-hating freethinker and I abhor being obliged to limp with the diseased. Palen Creek looks just the spot for navel-gazers where I understand, there is no requirement to ingest poison at the instance of the daughters of menace. In the meantime, I’ll get a bodgie crime sheet to facilitate a re-entry into public Housing and follow Hillhouse’s advice of fifth column membership and commence a stasi training course at once.

Love, Les.

Buchholz’s Libs give INITIAL $M3.5 to failing Kooralbyn private school.

February 13, 2016

When the Liberal Party, via Wright’s obese Federal Member Buhholz, presented wannabe Kooralbyn ‘International’ School with an initial three and a half million dollars recently, the generosity was more about adding some grunt to a dubious resort that’s been on the nose since year one when the crooked Bank of New South Wales subsidiary, Australian Guarantee Corp backed the venture.

Earlier in the night, I ran the two Beaudesert Times cutouts on Twitter with comment, but the text had been blurred. It seems Tweets with Liberal tags are too precious and are now censored.

Soon, we’ll see what happens on a blog site.

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Stays a Lib

“Hand me down that can of beans, boom times are comin’ our way.”

December 17, 2015

The rest of Australia’s brain-dead fall for this Liberal mantra so why wouldn’t Beaudesert’s predominately poorly RC educated dope users make the same mistake!

The pictured trio (cabal)? of bludging LNP leaners would be costing the community in excess of $M4 annually.

Boom Times
All cutouts from Beaudesert Times

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BT 23/09/2015.

New GM. Nov 25, 2015.

BT 23/09/2015.

BT. Aug 19, 2015

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BT 23/09/2015.

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BT Aug 26, 2015.

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BT. 17/06/2015.

3/06/2015

3/06/2015

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BT. 03/06/2015.

BT. May 6, 2015.

Resort owner interview, Beaudesert Times, 01/04/2015

BT. 17/06/2015.

pisspot

Buchholz/pensioners 25/03/2015

14/03/2015

11 Feb 2015

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J Bishop

New Brandis

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Rodwell deleted. 15/10/2014

“What’s on the nose”? Shit, I must be in Beaudesert.

June 6, 2015

This is, to me, one of the saddest political/streetscapes the Beaudesert Times has published in recent times. It differs from the many  hundreds of standard Country Party obeisance material that is the publication’s raison d’etre.

The photo shows an acquiescent Queensland Deputy Premier bowing to the irrational demands of what is possibly one of Queensland’s most cunning Mayors. Far too naïve and nice for words, “Jackie” Trad, I fear, would have been awash in dirty water dealing with the nefarious machinations of a long entrenched Lib/Nat politician.

A spot near Wongaburra Convalescent Hostel was once chosen to divert from the Mt. Lindsay Highway. Seems the sawmill is now the preferred option which translates as a multimillion compensation bonus for a Lib/Nat yes-man. At well under a kilometre from the supposedly congested town centre, the bypass is considered a nonsense by many townspeople.

img161All photos, cutouts: Beaudesert Times.

Two doors from the news shop and right on Beaudesert’s only traffic lights, monied, but stupid people set up a coffee joint amidst the fumes of stationary traffic waiting for the lights. Not only were the proprietors of this sparkling new establishment impulsive for their poor site choice, but especially so their clientele expectations.

With the younger “in” set undoubtedly the target, the show-window became an exact, well executed replica  of the 90s New York based sit-com, Friends, complete with its Central Perk, and “cool” footpath tables and chairs. I know nothing about the connections, but it has the hallmarks of a pampered lady. Any “in” people had long decamped this malodorous, homophobic town with the herd mentality.

The newsagent owner could consider doing a leasing deal on the vacant shop opposite Aldi. Only novice mugs would open a business in a shopping complex unless they had the mail on the owners/agents to establish a reasonable, long lasting rent.

 

B.T. 22/04/20`5

BT.May 20, 2015.
With the obese, self interested Barnaby Joyce protege, Buchholz, in charge of Abbott generated lies, the Federal seat of Wright has opposition falsehoods emanating like CIA spybuzz from his office. Liberal cohorts have distinct advantage this area.

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The obese Abbott clone, as newly appointed Government Whip, fearing the fate of his predecessor, has little option but reiterate the thoughts and edicts of his master.

BT. 3/06/2015.

BT. 27 May, 2015.

BT. 27/05/2015.

Words of Liberal wisdom. The gross Buchholz reiterates his master’s thoughts.

4/02/2015

There’s none so impure as a GP seeking to fill his appointment book. Convincing even one naive subject that his non-existent malady must have immediate attention has its genesis in shonky mind control shops. Criminal doctors reap many thousands from the Government via medicare; should benefit only the truly ill.

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High school kids are revolting! True grievances or just up themselves?

Agitated Students 18/03/2015

A reprise!

25/03/2015

25/03/2015

BT. 27/05/2015

“Rupert Murdoch is a ‘Good Man.'” Barnaby Joyce just reassured us so on ABC 7.30.

January 29, 2015

If you got this page via shortlink, try https://lesjohns.wordpress.com

 

A Psychiatric Pupetteer Is Pulling Strings

The H.C. posts that were here are now in third column under “Not The Fifth Column.”

 

ABC Australia’s last Channel 2 running of the popular 6 PM British quiz show, The Eggheads, came and went without murmur or reference to it being the last of the series, or forever for that matter. Who knows, and yes, it’s like the movement of the planets, it’ll happen without you or me having any say in their direction. Manners and consideration for the viewer wouldn’t have cost booth announcers, if such a specie still exists, too much effort or time, such as, ” …and that was the last episode of…” It used to happen thus.

But the importance and ego of youthful ‘behind the scene’ operators, quiet indifferent to the feeling of the older, dying out, traditional ABC audience of yesteryear has slipped off the agenda. This evening, in TV land, moulding my immediate viewing post The Eggheads, The Drum, which went off my viewing agenda when it became a Liberal Party machine to finish off the Gillard-Rudd debacle, unobtrusively crept back to my attention.

The topic under review was the Sydney siege and how to counter such events. The possibility of closet authorities like ASIO tracking and anticipating the mind and actions of the sociopath arose. The British, one panel member stated, had a “Fixated Persons File,” no doubt gleaned from the ardent or extreme views of social media users. Bringing this about in a Police State Australia would pleasure and delight our starry-eyed sheet-sniffers. It’s happening now but journalists risk detention for even mentioning its existence, let alone dissecting its effect on every day Australia.

In the closing days of the Bligh Government, I ridiculed, from an amateur, or Miss Marple view, on my blog, two nearby tenants (A Psychiatric Puppeteer Is Pulling Strings) who had aroused my interest because of their attitudes and actions as having distinct stasi traits. A Beaudesert police person called at my place, told me to quit my criticism of the Government and its agents. Reminding him that I lived with myself and my opinions without conscience or concern, his theatrical aside, “Dark Duck” set the tone. “What WE’LL do,” Senior Sergeant James Moffett added on that Tuesday October 25, 2011, at about 1115 hrs,”…I don’t think you’re capable so WE’LL go together to your doctor and have a mental evaluation done.”

I declined the offer, but outside advice since, suggested I should have taken him on. “I’m going over your stuff tonight and then we’ll see just how intellectual you are and if I find contentious material, I’ll be back.”  It wasn’t an idle boast for that night there were some 78 hits on Government interest posts. He didn’t ‘come back’ so it seems I’m on the back burner. But that’s how thought suppression happens in Australia. Unannounced and on the sly. It’s a hangover from the Soviet gulags and authorities fear of people unafraid to state what they’re thinking.

The ABC TV show, One On One is wasted with Jane Hutcheon as host who, while listening to an African woman explain her wonderment at dozens of milk types available in Australian supermarkets, impoverished Africans rarely get the basic, straight from the udder variety to sustain an infant, Hutcheon’s repartee set the unfortunate interviewee woman agog. Liz Harvey, another ABC employee who appears to have retained her worthless job, is another who puts childish questions to above average intellects, ” Come on, come on, you must have a favourite.”

As a boy, in pre-tv Australia, I’d lay on the floor beside the console radio and listen intrigued to ABC Radio’s, Search For The Golden Boomerang as a party of teenagers fought crisis after crisis as they criss-crossed Australia in their quest for the elusive boomerang. Martin’s Corner and Jason And The Argonaughts another two I remember. My favourite and only TV network with any savvy was once the ABC but now, for the most part, it vies with the commercials for popular appeal and gets lost wallowing in low level drivel.

Does A Timid Oldie Like Yours Truly Spook Australia’s Totalitarian Regime?

January 15, 2015

https://lesjohns.wordpress.com

A moment after I Tweeted a reply to an Abbott promo piece, back came an ego offer of appeal only to the naive. It’s been reported of course, but that doesn’t hinder Liberal trolls a whit.

I am of the belief that C Pyne, Abbott’s Liberal acquaintance, with his like-minded cohorts devise Trojans between bouts of intense cock eating.

See for yourselves.

It is very important for your computer’s happiness that you don’t open the Trojan.

*Tony Abbott ‏@TonyAbbottMHR 15h15 hours ago
At the PM’s XI – looking forward to a great match against England. pic.twitter.com/FLsNNhWR0f

*Les Johns ‏@LesJohnsLes 14h14 hours ago
@TonyAbbottMHR Newman needs the support of a world statesman of your high calibre. Hoping to see you soon, love les. pic.twitter.com/3YkajEW5DA

*zincalo Hookey ‏@zincaloy9uHooke 14h14 hours ago
Hello @LesJohnsLes here the Easiest, Fastest, Trusted and Simplest way to grow your f.ol,low.e,rs list https://bit.ly/1u4vfa7?/


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