Posts Tagged ‘Schemers Sleep Well After You Accept Their Bribes.’

Retailer Pharmacists. As Ill-principled as the Medical Industry.

March 16, 2017

I presented early at Soul Pattinson, Beaudesert, first thing in fact, as the polite junior girl took the first of many mobile display units jamming the aisles to their places outside the shop.

“Can I help you,” proffered the senior shop assistant, as I neared the counter clutching my only reason for visiting such an establishment, a script needing filling.

“It’s the last repeat,” stressing the point, getting the jack of being told what I’m well aware of.

I sat down.

“Have you been here before,” she demanded, “I have that,” was my honest reply, surprised at the question, considering a few weeks before she had needlessly apologized for the short, normal wait.

“I’m not so important as to expect instant attention,” I had told her.

“Oh, but you are very important to us,” came the palavered reply

Minutes later the product had been taken from the shelf, re-stamped with my details, placed in a small tray and passed to the senior woman.

“That was the last repeat,” she echoed my words of a few minutes earlier.

“Am I so retarded that I’ve forgotten what I told you”?

“I’ve got to tell you that,” the comeback.

The previous visit I had had an amiable conversation with one of the proprietors about chemists’ penchant for claiming scripts as their property by wrapping them in their branded advertising and stapling together.

About that time, in the few metres between Woolworths and their shop, I had lost a gold ring and despite the futility of recovering such an item, had returned to the shop with my predicament. In other words, intelligent people would have remembered my presence.

Cash grabbing chemists look upon oldies as an assured and constant money source and like the rest of society, would prefer dealing with contrite, obedient non-thinking slabs of old meat.

2011 Census came with a sheet sniffer.Queensland’s Disdain For The Recognition Of Human Rights.Reprinted from Sept. 2011.

August 24, 2016

A man’s ethical behavior should be based effectually on sympathy, education, and social ties and needs; no religious basis is necessary. Man would indeed be in a poor way if he had to be restrained by fear of punishment and hope of reward after death. Albert Einstein

I dared not ask why, or even delve into the computer for answers, my old age a constant reminder of my stupidity and non-person status, the subject, incidentally on which I was working, with the confidence of having made a reasonably good fist of apologizing for my idiocy and ignorance and for my very existence. Researching beyond three Google pages is a tiring task, a tardiness that has allowed devious, immoral Queensland Housing gorgons, one of whom, Charmane Schoutens tried to have me evicted for defending myself against attack by a favored tenant. She and the ultimate hate-merchant and practitioner, Kimberley Hillhouse, long ago relinquished any right to manners by me, their fair treatment never offered the writer. I was rather taken aback on learning I was supposed to be contrite in the presence of this ill-mannered crap; that he, the nice QBuild representative was not to be feared, that Housing were the heavies.

Stasi area chief Paul Gladmann, using annual premise inspection as a pretext to do inspections of another sort, was taken aback that an obvious retard should ask him to formally identify himself, but the assumption by biased Housing “officials”that a classic I am a lolling-headed helpless dolt was shitting me. has left me with no alternative. Previous annual ‘inspection’ visit by piranha, Celeste Turner on Nov 25 2009 found her on the defensive and confrontational, most unexpected, having never before met her. Her behavior apparently, a result of colleagues feeding a scattery head.

Guileless, or gut-less perhaps frightened little messenger, Terry O’brien, yes-boy of the gorgons will never be good enough to sniff my back hole, but will be recorded while trying to do so.

Bligh continues to have Murdoch’s editorial support it seems. Had another letter rejection by the Courier in which I again pleaded for smoking restrictions in aged flat precincts. Their opinion is shared by the tenant union’s LANARTA JEAN, who is evidently just another despicable Government lapdog who finds assisting retarded tenants bothersome, as are cigarette smoke toxins in aged flat precincts, to quote her, not of her concern.

One looks at the bullshit surrounding the talentless druggie, Amy Winehouse and the 27 club nonsense with ho-humity. Good and proper age to go out, what with diminishing sex appeal inducing soft-ons. What concerns me a great deal is how supposed adults who mourn this no-hoper, with Queensland Labor Party support, can demand entrance til 8 p.m. with instructions to quit griping about cigarette smoke and the unnecessary noise of fellow tenants.

Extract From Nanny State Files


Most thinking Australians have followed Andrew Bolt’s court ruling plight which was to me the done deal of the decade given the ‘political correctness’ claptrap that banishes decent citizens to the desert. Intrusive visits by Queensland Housing heavies to silence my anti-smoking comments and condemnation of their active encouragement to favoured tenants to release toxins at will, proves more stinks in Queensland Labor than Housing’s calculated disregard of human rights.

Andrew Bolt has thousands of supporters, one of whom is John Roskham, speaker of a think-tank whose letter in Bolt’s column could apply to the silent suffering of many flabbergasted, decent-living, generally older people, whose principles have been unceremoniously pulled from under them. Abandoned, they are left to wonder why inborn instinctive goodness, once so pivotal to a civilized society, is now derided as a mental aberration peculiar to ‘oldies.’

That I’ve lately questioned my nurturing by overly decent and worthy parents is unfair to their memory and a poor reflection on law-maker’s sympathy with bullies and other recidivists who have been nanny-state trained not to think beyond on whose property should they chuck their take-away rubbish.

As a Qld. Housing tenant, I have seen and experienced too much blatant disregard and disdain of human rights by operatives within the Housing system, that had I wanted to keep my self-respect, would have departed long ago. Two instances; 89 y.o. woman troubled by downwind cigarette smoke drift and road toxins pleading with me not to let on that she was so troubled, didn’t want to get on wrong side of Housing staff, she said. Same lady issued with notice to correct an anomaly with $1.90 f/n undeclared, unaware WW2 pension of first, dead husband. Given two weeks to correct things or lose rent subsidy. A worrier, she chased a remote off-spring to fix it. Dead five weeks later.

Example 2; Visiting an acquaintance in another housing precinct, I passed a declared fifth columnist who had spitefully made false accusations against my acquaintance for undeclared income. Facetiously, I offered him some of my notes for his edification. His reply is typical of Housing Commission’s killing of personal thought: “No way in the world,” he quickly shot off, and I am not kidding, added, “If they (H.C.) get to hear about it, I’ll be looking for another flat.” For Queensland Housing, this manipulated, brain-dead oxygen waster is the embodiment of the perfect tenant.

Mr. Roskam, Australians should be outraged at tons of social issues, as you say, but unless they are suffering a similar fate, their comprehension of outrage is hard put to extend beyond deep and meaningful statements like “scary” and such heart-felt emotion could happen only if a promised firework exhibition or free sausage sizzle failed to happen. I commend your intent.

“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.

Was clicking through StumbleUpon when up bobbed an academic’s ranking of “Fourteen Defining Characteristics Of Fascism.” and with the continuing harassment from Bligh’s Housing thought police, it was once more unto the fight, dear friends, once more. ” Christ, here we go again,” I could have uttered as I yanked the four most relevant points over to a page and rearranged the importance order.

Les Johns.

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

March 15, 2016

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World Toilet Day. More pics on

November 19, 2014

Somewhere in S.E.Qld, 1970s.

BushLoo, Stanthorpe trip.

My Uncle Jack, The Greenslopes Grans and Mundubbera.

July 29, 2014


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I’ve often wondered if the thorough gentleman, the always obliging but ill-fated nice guy, my Uncle Jack, ever thought that by marrying into the Martins, had he, to use the vernacular of the day, ‘married-down’? Impertinent and uncomfortable as the posed question might be, I’ll lay down the few childhood incidents that prompted its asking and try to fit answers. Filled with new-found optimism and with youth on his side, failure at any task too remote for words. But life has surprises.

Nowadays, most war returnees were drug and alcohol ‘free spirits’ before their ‘tour of duty’ and are established, brain-fucked, dependent users by their return. They will blame everyone bar themselves and expect public adoration for their drug affliction. Jack eschewed reliance on nicotine and grog and it’s hard to imagine his set being familiar with illegal drugs.

There is no set template for a physically active returned serviceman, full of optimism and ready to re-enter civilian life. I thought Jack was tops but as far as I was concerned, Jess couldn’t do any wrong either. Taking one side over the other wouldn’t have even been thought about and wouldn’t have got consideration. Aunt Jess’s indiscretions dawned on me slowly, overheard scraps of family gossip join up to become hard gen; the vehement denials of aunts and uncles meant something was afoot and that amounted to a massive, sustained cover-up.

Clan adults having deep meaningful swoons, truly affected by the non-combatant Jess’s libertine lifestyle. It would have been blamed on the war, “bringing out the worst” in people, or “the best,” depending on circumstances. The shame-game came in dribbles, took some time, years I’d say, and every new revelation added to my adoration of my Aunt Jess. She was doing what she had to, obeying a compulsion.

My well-attuned juvenile ears picked-up her elder sister’s snippets as she related them in hushed tone to grandma and mother over cake and tea. Elsie was the Queen Bee of Buzz, the repository and possibly the generator of some of the goss at these afternoon soirees with Grandma and Mother and whoever else was there, the very best juicy bits gleaned simply because I learned early on to quietly secrete my intrusive ears near where preparation for tea and cake took place.
The Clan. Front Yard abt. 1955

Front yard, Hunter St. Traditional posing spot, facing west, early fifties.


The Players

The top photo has my father on the far left. He evidently switched places with the suited Les, mum’s brother, to take the bottom picture. I have no idea why the hand text, starting “miserable bunch…” is there. Meant to relate to a Johns group who were truly, absolutely miserable pricks. It seemed endemic to landowners of the day. The Martins, as can be ascertained by their general demeanor were pleasant and nice to know. That’s my mum, Evelyn, holding the child, probably Narelle, beside other woman clutching child, Gladys, wife of mum’s youngest brother, Len.

Around at Grandmas, her Queenslander with its nooks and crannies and old house hidey spots managed to come with info so hot as to arouse disbelief when I hesitatingly related it to parents. One bit was a world-beater, and rather than winning accolades for coming into possession of such a gem, I got in the shit for its mere mention. It became par for the course to be derided for invention and atonement was wrought on one occasion by an obligatory Wednesday post-school introduction to a grainy Pilgrim Progress slide-show over too many weeks.

That led, more recently, to a rare moment of brotherhood conviviality. I attempted to talk childhood reminisces with a practicing votary sibling who quickly jerked me back to reality by his declaring how fortunate that I was blessed so early in life, by such great wisdom and Christian charity as was contained between the covers of the Pilgrim’s Progress. End of a rare mood and the conversation, a story for later.


Whenever the magic place-name, Mundubbera, was uttered in my school-boy home, a long-distance steam train trip was planned, leading to a holiday at Ventnor, Uncle Bill and Mill’s small crop and dairy farm on the banks of the Burnett River. This river was where I became acquainted with the lungfish, Ceratodus and with the nearby Mary River, were their only known Australian habitation.  The stop-over at Mungar Junction, west of Maryborough, brought shunting in the late night as our section of the train was split for the Monto line. Mill the elder sister of father, Arthur and Bill had had the farm since year one.
Ceratodus in this file

Bill, Dad, Ernie, Viv at Mundubbera.

Circa 1935. Bill, Ernie, elder brother Viv, Arthur.

Bill was the local show’s Ringmaster. He relished the role, reliving his WW1 cavalryman days. Ernie was Bill’s unpaid labourer. He got a bunk in a barn, free tobacco and ate with the childless Mill and Bill and played cards after dinner. Very generous! Bill’s adherents, to this day, are small-time bush employers of the Wright division, paying dim employees as little as possible.

The dairying community of Mundubbera had its innocence shaken a good deal when Jack’s work commitments brought he and his family, and perhaps the devil, to town. By the time they left, the staidness had been knocked out of the small dairying community west of Gayndah, replaced by scandal. For me, this dreadful shame was a plus, a mere peccadillo and I developed a special affection and new-found respect for my Aunt Jess, someone with spirit within the family clique had finally broken the goody-goody duck that seemed our drab destiny.

By dint of a Martin wife and a comfortable, almost too ordered, family home reasonably close to the Greenslopes matriarch, for Jack there was no escape; he was trapped in the web. Being obliged, or more than likely, being emotionally blackmailed into giving shelter to the Johns in-laws with four kids still at home after the sale of their rented house, I wondered, knowing with after-thought, what was in store for Jack, his thoughts on the old Wilde cliché, “No good deed should ever go unpunished,” coming home to roost.

A few years earlier, soon after our necessary shift to Graceville, Jack paid me ten shillings ($1) ostensibly for a bit of work, but more than likely his generous heart at work. Ten bob was a vast sum for a kid who had just started an apprenticeship on about two pounds ten a week. Wanting a taste of the fast lane, I wasted no time buying a first class return ticket to Roma Street, a short commuter trip of about 15 kilometres. His look of utter astonishment when I told him what I’d done remains. I was well and truly up myself even then.

Grandmother’s first-born, Rob, always a crude, rough-as-guts character, his waterside-worker vocation, colloquially known as a wharfie and unmarried, continued life at Hunter Street after Granddad died with his two war-torn and weary brothers. Rob liked the piss and often stood by and watched, without demur, as his Mum poured badly hidden grog down the sink. Rob took his home-made wooden lunch-box/port where-ever he went, just as his mum became renown for never parting with her handbag.

Harold and Les, the next two sons returned from the New Guinea campaign with malaria. The place stunk of sulfur which they used to treat the disease. The revulsion and uselessness of GPs strong even then. Harold returned to managing Poppy Custard/Anglo Sauce at the Gabba which seemed to drop from the scene after his death. Les went on to have a Golden Casket kiosk in George Street. Jean and husband grew mangoes in Bowen. Rarely saw them. Farming and livestock has disadvantages.
Jean and Jess. 1927.

Without a doubt, Bob’s port would have had an emergency hit or two in it. Doubling as a seat, it was strong enough to withstand his huge idiot arse at work lunch. They used such quaint terminology as crib, like their boofhead forebears, Welsh coal-miners were prone to. The arse-hole often bailed me up as I legged it home after school and insisted I accept his forced gift of football boots. I was resolute about this. My half-pint nickname evidence that I became pissed-off with being sport kicking boy.

Jack appeared to be aloof and distant, seemed uncomfortable in the company of we common types and I attributed the attitude to his being a former fighter pilot. Well, that’s what I was brought up believing. If it’s bull-shit, then it’s family lore; a sad piece of shit won a younger, naval oriented, sibling’s affection by inflating his war exploits. I would like to have known Jack’s war history, but curiosity couldn’t have been intense enough to find out.

It was at about this time that my family had no option but to accept his gracious charity of a roof above our dispossessed heads and become residents of Verney Road East. His largesse no doubt tempered somewhat by his wife’s relationship to my Mother.

Wizard of Id’s thoughts of the toxic imposters known as Legislators.

October 2, 2013

Wizard of Id: Politicking Shysters; the system never changes.

During Victoria’s reign, Parliamentarian poked fellow M.P’s huge belly asking, “What are you going to call it”?
“If it’s a girl, I’ll call it Victoria after our gracious Queen,” came the retort,”but if it’s piss and wind which I suspect it is, I’ll call it after you.”


“The body consists of three parts – the brainium, the borax and
the abominable cavity. The brainium contains the brain, the
borax contains the heart and lungs, and the abominable cavity
contains the bowels, of which there are five – a, e, i, o and u.”

Schoolkid bloopers.


“Vacuum: A large, empty space where the pope lives.”


The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon is a form of synchronicity:

The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon occurs when a person, after having learned some (usually obscure) fact, word, phrase, or other item for the first time, encounters that item again, perhaps several times, shortly after having learned it.

Take the concept of Schadenfreude, which is a German word for “taking joy in the misfortune of others”. This concept is discussed periodically in mainstream media and other sources. If one does not know what it is, and has no intention of learning what it is, one may hear the term and easily forget about it, as it does not ‘fit’ into the person’s conceptions of reality. They may even rationalize that they heard a different word. However, once the person understands what the concept means, they will then notice it when the concept comes up in day-to-day life, whereas before, the person made few or no memories concerning the concept, as it was outside the realm of their understanding.


“But he that dares not grasp the thorn Should never crave the rose.”

Anne Bronte, “The Tenant of Wildfeld Hall.”


“I am now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or town. A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.”

Emily Bronte, “Wuthering Heights.”


“I would rather be happy than dignified.”

Charlotte Bronte, “Jane Eyre.


“Anything you’re good at contributes to happiness; I would never die for my beliefs.”

Bertrand Russell, Philosopher.


George Orwell said it.

To My English Friend Gingerzilla in Defence of Generous Australian Age Pensions.

September 4, 2013

Fall guy

Fall guy (Photo credit: Dizzy-one)

Forgive me for not having the decades of life needed to justify a deep and meaningful reply to your insightful but esoteric, too intellectual for me, blog. Will try though.

This country is swamped by confidence tricksters and all types of fraudsters at election time, much like the goings-on in your glorious country on these occasions. It is not hard to understand why oldies are a favored target, the assumption being that they have just emerged from tired, stretched wombs, overwhelmed and speechless at the wondrous world around them.

These opportunistic crims woo old wankers who have always mismanaged their money, don’t pay utilities bill and have their power cut. Unctuous do-gooders jump in, condemning everyone bar the ‘poor victim,’ who was/is the best guy you could know etc.

I was simply defending the present Government’s electric subsidy which far exceeds my quarterly $131 bill leaving me $3800 a quarter after rent for food, to run the car or to use as I fancy. That’s a wrap.

Australian Breakfast TV Stinks. Dreary Drivel.

February 10, 2013

Photograph of Malcolm Turnbull, New South Wale...

Photograph of Malcolm Turnbull, New South Wales Liberal politician. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Those two ABC 24 breakfast “presenters” are almost too bloody childish for words, bar every view they offer agitates the piles to bleeding. Their ABC masters evidently want practicing Sunday School teachers to entertain adults. The  gee whiz, isn’t that shocking? approach is vomit-inducing, as is commercial TV. Such is the dearth of decent morning tv entertainment that I’m playing “rainy day” videos. It must be time to visit Jesus.

Until the Australia Day hyperbole gush when she breathlessly lauded Australians citizens, in classic doublespeak, their ‘mateship and loyalty’ (sic) having only days earlier put the death knell on a well-regarded NT Senator in favor of an aboriginal woman, I had defended the Australian PM on twitter, simply because the opposition supporters unintelligent twitter comments seemed without challenge from her own side. Had the PM possessed any mate instinct she wouldn’t have considered for a fraction of a second shafting Rudd and when her party reaffirmed their support for her, I went along with the farce, very sore though at having my integrity pulped. A Federal Labor win seemed possible two weeks ago, but that’s well and truly gone. Should fortune again favor the dumb and Labor wins under Gillard’s stewardship, Rudd’s couldn’t risk  having another tilt at usurping the lady. I’m retiring from this nonsense and returning to the sanity and safety of the Secular movement.

Bob Ellis declared decades ago, the stupidity of your enemies should be widely known, but if I’ve erred and it wasn’t his quote, please attribute its origin to the great Alexandra. While my most voracious critics can be found under the family sunshade, this post is more about politicians and their fat cat permanent heads obvious assumption that the electorate should be penalized for being minus IQ and ergo won’t notice when the system shits on them. Herewith please find inane comments by a former Kogarah Councillor. They are hollow and empty-headed, hateful and unintelligent, yet are about the average for a political party who consider themselves custodians of the Treasury and the rightful rulers of the country. Make of them what you may.

The first twitter comment under comes from a selfish NLP ninny who plays on the emotions of Australians who have been flooded or burnt out of their homes. After the heartbreak, most of these people will recover materially because of the fortune of their birthright. The souls he condemns are abandoned to their own desperate clinging to the sea’s flotsam.

And I ask would you vote for the mental runt who pens such Conservative thinking as the Twitter trash hereunder?

Mike Ahern@Mikeah44 1h

If @Juliagillard is so bloody wonderful why do I wake up angry every day? Get rid of the misanderous bitch. Have an election !

Mike Ahern@Mikeah44

This is the sort of arrogant bitch that @juliagillard is ! Why would you vote for this animal ?

Mike Ahern@Mikeah44

@juliagillard people of Gayndah more important than asylum seekers. You spend $Bs on them what are you going to do about this situation?

Mikeah44Mike Ahern

Notice @juliagillard is always surrounded by girls in her photo’s she mustn’t like boys. Lots of old boys don’t like her either.

Mike Ahern@Mikeah44

Does this mean I can’t slam @juliagillard anymore on twitter ?…

Mike Ahern@Mikeah44

Go back on holidays please @juliagillard the past month has been wonderful without you

Mike Ahern@Mikeah44

@JuliaGillard GIVITH & @JuliaGillard WILL TAKETH if Labor parliamentarians don’t tow her line. Get rid of her boys before she gets rid of Ye

Mr Denmore ‏@MrDenmore 9m

@Mikeah44 Charming. Time to up your dose of dementia medication, I suspect.

Malcolm Turnbull ‏@TurnbullMalcolm

Saw this jellyfish in the Harbour today – anyone know its species and whether normally present in these waters?

Ahead are snippets from the nations users:

*Coalition frontbencher Christopher Pyne earlier today said the Federal Government is unraveling like Hitler’s Third Reich in the movie Downfall.Courier Mail

*THE Coalition would be sure to win September’s election if Malcolm Turnbull was leader, independent MP Tony Windsor says.

*Mr Windsor says Prime Minister Julia Gillard and Opposition Leader Tony Abbott are both unpopular and that “I think each of them have kept the other one in the game.” The Courier Mail5/02/2013

Welcome To The Future… feel free to walk on my face.

January 13, 2012

“You are a slow learner, Winston.”
“How can I help it? How can I help but see what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four.”
“Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three. Sometimes they are all of them at once. You must try harder. It is not easy to become sane.”

George Orwell, 1984 foreseeing a repressive, anti-people Bligh Government.
“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”
Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Antoine de Saint-Exupery, French writer, poet and pioneering aviator, wrote a book that was translated into over 230 languages and dialects after his death in 1944. This book, titled The Little Prince maintains worldwide sales of over one million copies per year, making it one of the best-selling books ever published. It is this charming book we get this inspiring quote from.

Cute kid stuff, appeals to generous souls of all ages. James Dean adherents lapped it up.

“If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—for ever.”
― George Orwell, 1984

Every generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it.”

“Men can only be happy when they do not assume that the object of life is happiness.”
― George Orwell

“A scrupulous writer, in every sentence that he writes, will ask himself at least four questions, thus: 1. What am I trying to say? 2. What words will express it? 3. What image or idiom will make it clearer? 4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?”
― George Orwell, Politics and the English Language

If the CMC had spivs as well oiled as Labor’s sheet sniffers who don’t operate any-more, (insert ‘haha’) they would have an active, full time office in Beaudesert. Am I the only one to see the irony in a Government Union representative tell me cigarette smoke complaints are not within her agenda, while advice on electricity economy is, and a week later an opposition power company is hammering on Housing Commission doors seeking new accounts?

An intrusive person representing herself as a Housing employee, phoned me on Tuesday, June 23, 2009, at 1445, introducing herself as Kym and addressed me in the familiar Christian name format. Extremely rude and pushy, but the public servant’s handbook claims this approach sets the scene to appear to the assumed mug as a trustworthy matey-buddy.

Remember the Oakey lady, the Croat incident? Why would you? Their mental incarceration by Labor’s thought police occurred more than three weeks ago. A Government engineered three week memory limit looms.

Her message of Tuesday, 23 April, 2009 at 1445 hours of the accusation that I will next be slashing tyres would be better recorded on paper; as would her retort at my observation that being allied to a tenant’s fifth column might have its advantages to when she suggested that generating my own network would definitely have its merits. Considering the department pesters its ‘clients’ ruthlessly with myriad useless, unwanted self-promotional, money-wasting clap-trap via the post, it is through the print medium that I want our dealings be conducted and on which your agents threats be recorded.


April 8, 2011

OUR TOWN…Not a happy little town.

Would like to remind readers of what was probably the opening paragraph of Steele Rudd’s ( Arthur Hoey Davis) 1908 satirical take on Queensland politics,“Dad In Politics.”

Smith, the member for our district, died one day, and we forgot all about him the next. Not that a politician is ever remembered much after he dies, but Smith had been a blind, bigoted, old Tory, and was better dead. Politicians are mostly better dead, so far as other people and their country is concerned …

Appreciation once again to the invaluable Wikipedia.

Remember that one about empty drums making a profoundly hollow noise? Sadly, that’s how it is in Main Street, Ennytown. The less equipped talking over the top of those who hesitate a few seconds to intelligently consider before making an impulsive retort. Walking away from and avoiding these anti-social boors gives them free rein to become the insufferable Cambell Newmans and the cautious mayor never secretive about the wider picture, ready to tilt at fuller tills. Newman doing a Charlie Sheen, a wind-bag pushing his amusement interest beyond the ho hum, his Peter’s Level exceeded.

Of mundane, domestic interest, my Saturday visits to the library involuntarily suspended after strong implications I risk tarnishing a blameless life by indulging in petty theft. Inquiring on consecutive Saturdays the absence of that days Curious Mail, the third Saturday was set upon and told that stolen chronicles a problem and I could have access only under supervision. Dumb Les again the schumck. I would rather be accused of ram-raiding an ATM machine.

For an anti-confrontational peace lover, I never can comprehend why is it so that the shortest of outings has me arriving home with another conundrum or two. Even a glance from my study window could invoke a committal hearing. I and one other sixtyish, tubby, curmudgeonly Cromwellian look-alike and imitator were the only users of the reading room first thing, he on the dot machine and the one most adept at sowing seeds in contrite, bucolic minds.

Unknown to me initially, I expressed wonderment at the ease an amateur’s letters being used by NY Times and Guardian even before I was conversant with email. Reminding him of my novice status, I reluctantly agreed to ‘edit’ his three emailed stories, every line a paean to the cause. His intro. notes a grammatical and structural mess, an obvious lure. I was livid and had it out with him at the library.

When one gets in bed with government, one must expect the diseases it spreads.

This bloke wears an array of hats, significantly that of founding member of a local revamped political party who put an eventual turncoat in Parliament, has now endorsed a mate to grace George Street Looter’s Club. It was a church cap that propelled his belief once too often and the rift. “It’s my job,” he excused his enthusiasm. He may well have used “God made me do it.” I’ve already speculated on yet another hat where a Council building contract to unnecessarily replace a popular faculty has probably been decided.

Newman stands condemned as far as I’m concerned, for reassuring the major State Bureaucratic criminals of their everlasting top-level omnipotence. Contra stitched deals between the new head-man and back-room bastards hiding behind the elected pretenders of democracy, whatever the individual’s take on that word. Whoever the ultimate power-brokers, the status quo won’t change and my naive mind suggests there is little to be gained by exchanging one lot of $1,000 a day rank thieves and bludgers with a similar crew.

I suppose that is a version of democracy at work, rotate the bandits to shush and appease ’em all. We could be reminded more often of their personal sacrifices to serve the community they love for a miserable $!,000 a day when their real worth in the real world outside George Street would get them much more than tea and biscuit money. Les.

Drop into your search bar for 60 more good reasons for dwelling in the desert.

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