Posts Tagged ‘Q.H.C. Neo-Nazis’


February 24, 2011


…of, like, or befitting Machiavelli.

…being or acting in accordance with the principles of government analysed in Machiavelli’s, The Prince, in which political expediency is placed above morality and the use of craft and deceit to maintain the authority and carry out the policies of a ruler is described.

Machiavelli is the only political thinker whose name has come into common use for designating a kind of politics, which exists and will continue to exist independently of his influence, a politics guided exclusively by considerations of expediency, which uses all means, fair or foul, iron or poison, for achieving its ends – its end being the aggrandizement of one’s country or fatherland – but also using the fatherland in the service of the self-aggrandizement of the politician or statesman or one’s party.

Thanks to the reliable Wikipedia for that information.

With misfortune about us, I’d like to pose the rhetorical once again to the adherents and practitioners of hate and spite within Queensland Housing: How can you and why you persist in your hurtfulness?

Being the bottom feeders of Governments world-wide with Family Services and the Aged a whisker away for the creme de la creme of fixed Government obtuseness, the Queensland Housing Department is proof positive how fools seek comfort and complacency in the company of their own. The desperate, despicable drug dependent public servant discards, pensioned Fortitude Valley night workers, all become instant experts after a part-time two week course in psychiatry or palmistry. No-hopers seeking both a cohesion and a domination of their overwhelmingly dim clients by offering exclusive fifth column membership. As dense today as were their sub-normal parents on their conception; wasted orgasms and better for humanity, like Onin, had their passion landed upon the ground.

The opening paragraph of this post introduced Housing staff to a word they never used but understood its usage. While South Australian Housing arbitrarily remove black people, their Queensland counter-parts play mind games with a tired old white bastard. What riles these weak grass castle rulers is my revulsion and rejection of Kym’s persuasive argument that I become a participating fifth column founder and generate my own in-office contacts.

The Queensland Housing contingent operating out of Woodridge have given me a rough going-over for seven or so years and I hope to articulate on this site why their nefarious and Machiavellian activities were used on me. I am neither a car-park frantic or a garbage nazi and to paraphrase a long dead British monarch, care not what the people do, only that their actions don’t spook the horses, or in my case, their manufactured noise irritate and grate the senses.

The best laid plans of mice and men…

Put nothing on paper is their operative adage. My land-line phone is unplugged to avoid nuisance calls from the chief protagonist Kym who bellows desperately as I cradle the phone, ” Kym from Housing, I’m Kym from Housing.” The overall expectation from these stand-over termagants, is that unless the renter passively submits to their malevolence, they become as I did, their ongoing and relentless target which stops only on capitulation or certification or of course, with hand-wringing contrition.

Such is the fortune of the State backed poisonous mind, she got one over me while I was awaiting a mechanic’s call. Phone stalking and noise-making is an acceptable M.O. of ridding a tenement of good clients in the private sector I believe, to hasten its absolute vacancy as precursor to a replacement by a multi tenement. In Queensland public housing, that tactic is used to sate the bitter hate of thwarted Frau Schiklegrubers.

The striking resemblance of new no.10 to Schwarten stands out like dog’s balls and warrants my considered thoughts especially on his immediate inter-acting with the three arrivals preceding his. From the start, he would check Mother’s Dales flat during her frequent absences, a task now taken over by the two fat ladies. Why they spend ten minutes on a ten second walk-through while mumbling the while into a mobile could be speculated upon. Mother returned to her residence on January 25 leaving a flat unused which could have been shelter for a genuine homeless person, rather than a standby flat for a stasi cadre. He and his fellow cadres might have finally assumed my spirit stronger than the usual beaten and contrite eviction target and decided little would be gained by persevering with rancorous witch-hunts.

It is not what it seems.

The bonding that brought this foursome together could have been a collective anti-social instinct. A bit of leg-work on my behalf might have proven an earlier acquaintanceship, but educated guesswork is much less bothersome. Mix with accumulated gen on the growing schizophrenic mind-set of the information gathering compulsion of Queensland Labor, stirred with a political luminary’s cousin cutting out a favor as a participating eviction team is not too wild an assumption.

His flat empty for almost two months while he was engaged elsewhere I’d be thinking, hectoring an unwanted but resolute H.C. tenant until he succumbed to the mind-game and did what I was advised to do whenever I mentioned recycled cigarette smoke, ” Just get out.” Rarely occupied Commission flats, reserved for stasi use is seen as acceptable and expected behavior by the Queensland Labor Party’s preoccupation with chicanery, informing and cover-up.

From the medieval comes fief, a parcel or ‘grant’ of land given to a devoted sycophant by an influential knight as reward for fruitful and heavy tax gathering of a suppressed people. Today’s equivalent is somewhat similar in that the deprived dissenter pays heavily by being hounded to the edge by sycophants protecting exclusive franchises presented by a corrupt Queensland Labor Government for services rendered; the fiefdom and the title, Area Manager and his Housing Commission area a fiefdom. They don’t have the right to do this, but they have the power, and in the Labor Party’s handbook, that makes it legitimate.

Cover your Grandmothers, Bruse is on the prowl.

Ev, the re-badged Bernadette Arnold and the disease spreading false accuser, Bruse have co-joined flats. This architectural curiosity has been detailed elsewhere and in essence, condemns pairs of flats to share the others noises and odours, an event that could only be performed harmoniously by identical twins. But those like me on the rough end of the stick are sorely tested by the mobile phone posturing of the likes of the Mother Dales and the Hidees of H.C. precincts and their unwanted theatre of the absurd. The previous no.6 emitted a choking cooking stench that was assuredly rancid fat burning, yet might have wafted from his stove his mummy’s cooking.

When daylight arrives to disturb his nude veranda fun, Bruse is obliged to cover-up, don clothes, and resume some semblance of normalcy. I expect he ventured a peek or two through summer-open windows while having a shake or two with percy. Later in the day he haunts the nearby convalescent home and gets a food handout for his alleged handy-work, but he would have been amply rewarded in other ways.

Age doesn’t necessarily engender wisdom or stupidity innocence. Moral degenerates get their jollies however they can and the advanced age of the unaware targets, rather then deterring foul deeds and thoughts, encourages their spineless depravity. The imagination can only guess at whom he has peeked in the place that should have been a sacred shelter. Bus travelers and drivers who have witnessed Bruses pestering of women at bus-stops and while en route, also tell of the vulgar behavior of the obnoxious baby-eating reincarnation, Harridan Hidee, mouthing-off of an imaginary Walter Mitty directorship of that very same bus company. That simpleton could get a business degrees only via a YouTube down-load where there must be a template for a top-level mobile phone boofhead.

…And none of it mattered, because none of those people knew me well enough to really hit the target. I’ve been insulted lots, but I’ve been criticized very little. And don’t ever confuse the two. An insult is just someone who hates you making a noise to indicate their hatred. A barking dog. Criticism is someone trying to help you, by telling you something about yourself that you were a little too comfortable not knowing.

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Mother Dale, Queen Boof of the amplified household audio returned to the hustings the other day and celebrated his homecoming by dropping a heavy item onto bare floorboards at 0027 hours this day. Was it 24 days of shock treatment or a stasi update on irritating noise production? Five days later, on 23 Feb., he went home again. This stasi prick would be costing the public purse rather than the ALP who is the beneficiary of his efforts. New no. 10 has gone missing a couple of days. Well rewarded by generous benefits, these Labor sheet sniffers. Like McArthur and Mother Dale he returned, featured by his trademarked headlong, frantic rush outside while verbally abusing the mobile.

In a letter to their Beaudesert RSL agency, I acknowledged to the Queensland Housing Commission that this flat precinct fronting the Wongaburra Convalescent facility as a fair choice to lodge the RSL’s myriad IQ deficient and witless dependents given that the place was already so stacked. The covert mind-games used by the Department to force the removal of a decent, but steadfast tenant is on-going and un-necessary when a simple offer of resettlement with financial assistance would have worked for me.

The austere, 1950 era army camp buildings and the surrounds of this precinct have been likened to a prison farm, so I should fit in comfortably if fate so deems. For the dead cheap rent, I am more than satisfied with the place, keeping in mind you get what you pay for. In this case the activities of the inmates besmirch the place. Not forgetting our three or four frontal discussions about his various ways of manufacturing unnecessary noises, desperation induced me to try his crude street rules by slamming a fly door in response to a morning of like from Mother Dale, but its sheer puerility only reflected the stupidity of the protagonist and was unable to continue with that line of retaliation.

Being an adherent of the “live and let live” protocol is a rarely returned principal. My sole misdemeanor form consists of an after hours grog purchase in N.Q, in the sixties, nowhere near good enough for acceptance to Commission culture. Neither has my driver’s licence been in jeopardy. I erred by assuming I was subject to civil right standards; that I had a right to live a lone and untroubled life if I so choose. Unannounced house calls by H.C. Terry with instructions to plug-in my phone and converse with a dunce don’t wash too well with me nor do his clumsy attempts at silencing my mentioning of deliberate, night-long bumps and obviously manufactured disturbances from the adjoining flat. It was inferred that ‘trouble-makers’ like me will be harassed until a mental break-down forces the issue.

Beware the foot-steps in the night

These Labor Party thugs have a legal right to force entrance until 8 P.M. and harassing phone calls by Kym tell me my considered status as a sub-normal disallows such notions as independent thought. Oddly, I thought, with three bible-banging siblings and one a fellow tenant, they don’t ride me to rejoin the flock while my peers give me what-for for being unable to think as they do.

Women have forsaken their femininity for fish-wifery, or was that just an Errol Flynn delusion of the Sherwood Forest movie era? The old dear over the way had lived some time in a dilapidated, but registered bomb as a mobile bag-lady. The shit-box is off the scene and given that it ran like a con-rod had pierced the block, will soon be forgotten. Bec coughed her guts up incessantly for her first forty nights here. She allowed not the slightest consideration to muzzling the noise or harnessing the bacterial blight and therefore stamped her credentials as a worthy H.C. client. After some mending from years of street living and camping in her rooted conveyance, comes the clack of crockery well into the night, like the now obsolete roast-carving oval plates, being constantly washed and rewashed.

I briefly made it to fickle Ev’s confide list, and the next day she on my Arnold list, the mail on time-worn Bec had her pouncing on anything wearing pants to shag like the proverbial rattlesnake despite the ravages that time and circumstance have on a bag-lady. Been living rough for yonks according to out front Ev who likewise, shares her little girl coughing spells with the loud mobile phone habit. Unable or unwilling to heave her grotesque whale meat from a battered, suffering veranda chair to make a quiet and considerate phone communication, she is yet another dunce to find in a mobile phone, an ego booster.

A bone in the leg is detected and will retire for a while. This is not the end. Love Les.

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