Posts Tagged ‘…you sold me and I sold you.’

Queensland’s Labor Governments. As indifferent to the people as the LNP.

June 11, 2017

Am not sure if this old post was used, but might do good to lift the lid, just a wee bit mind you, on the goings-on of Queensland’s Labor Governments. Have updated a point or two:

Was tuning into “Two And A Half,” when I got the last bit of ACA Thursday’s promotion on Housing Commission; their tactics or their attitude unsure of the point of the story, or missed relevant details. About the only visuals I got was of tenants hurling abuse. My experiences as a first time, but now of seven-year duration tenant, living in a three building, 12 tenant precinct, supposedly reserved for the over 55’s is now six years behind me. I stayed because I have had a life, am obstinate, but would have quickly sought decent accommodation had I been younger, in trying to avoid Labor’s unhealthy, poison generated, Housing environments.

I have never phoned Qld H.C. so am not a pest in that respect, but I know they lap-up and enjoy, “he said, she said” hate talk. Have sent a couple of faxes, won’t snivel and grovel to biased staff whose minds are set. They can’t see beyond their fifth column network.

I wrote the Premier’s Dept. after a trade foreman invited me to,”Shut up, you fucking poofter,” after I asked him to tone down his skylarking teenage employees. I had quoted verbatim to a female HC rental person (Silly Filly)

the foreman’s response, who turned on me like a snapping Taipan, then made official complaint my ‘swearing.’

Schwarten’s office was more concerned about the protocol of addressing a Minister, with the advisement future complaints about H.C. staff be addressed to that Department.

I began criticizing the Housing Commission and the Government via my site which had a purpose as a chronicler of H.C. improbity. Threw in a few private experiences in a forlorn attempt at proving my human status. Ping-backs show a wee bit of QBuild interest. People like me have to carefully weigh their words because public service paranoia fear the truth, and are well-practiced in destroying dissenters.

The next door, upwind tenant, bashed on his fly door and railing before first light at the caw of a crow. When questioned this noisy habit, he retaliated by chroming me at evening with air-freshener. Relations thinned. A senior HC rent woman dismissed my complaint, reasoning that Ryan’s longer tenancy made me the protagonist and he the hurt party.

Other grievances cropped up, mainly spent cigarette smoke making life miserable. “Just get out,” was the advice from a ps sniveler, Obrien, when I requested a flat far removed from second-hand cigarette smoke.

The CM used many of my cyber posts, but blackballed me when spent cigarette smoke and Housing were mentioned in the one paragraph. QBuild engaged in questionable maintenance practices and fellow tenants were advised by Woodridge Housing rental staff to give me a taste of Coventry.

Les Johns.

“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

Liberals cranky after Labor realizes it too, can pull off Joh/Lib stunts.

April 27, 2016

Krause: BT 27/04/2016.

Beaudesert’s Dauntless Demon, Darren.

February 24, 2016

Beaudesert’s bucolic, hero-starved weekly parchment finds such local subjects a rare breed and when one comes their way, it’s all systems go. This ever-green tale of self-sacrifice and determination tells of a fearless fighter for everything that is right and politically conservative in the Scenic Rim and of  the  evils that lurk in the terrorist hot-spot of outer Brisbane.

BT Sept 9,2015. Demon Phantom Terrorist chaser.


A quotation with an image is big stuff: The detective observes,”…not all Muslims are terrorists.” Widely travelled Beaudesert Times staff, one of whom is remoured to have made a visit to remote Brisbane, believe the quote opens new ground for mutual understanding and tolerance.


Eager for knowledge, a one-day Logan area seminar enlightened Detective Ward on terrorism and he  knows now that ‘Al-Qaeda and ISIS’ are trigger words for overseas western-haters with an unpleasant agenda. He also “heard” lectures which are mostly free, except for the Murdoch-censored Australian press, delivers to the world every second and is freely available to anyone.

Government reckoned Demon Dave was worth it to have wasted dollars thrown his way and be officially brought ‘up to speed,’  while he adds very important gen about Scenic Rim’s  formidable ‘sovereign  terrorists’ to those manufactured by ASIO, AFP, Tony Abbott’s jumped-up Benedict Quaedvlieg’s ABFarce and whoever else.

The Oxley Academy of Police Excellence is being prepared for the Dux of the year awards of which Detective Ward has a fair chance of taking  off.

The coveted prize is believed to include all 28 episodes of the entertaining, British-made, Foyle’s War, set in the immediate post WW2, whose hero chases and dispenses due justice to the rotten kraut terrorist.



BT 28/10/2015.

Go back in time ten, twelve years perhaps, and the guardian angel bears an astonishing resemblance to an ardent, younger plain clothes copper who, to  allay suspicion, would take a  10/12 year old boy, presumably his son, into hotel bars or annexes where poker machines were then situated and begin inquisitive, ‘friendly’ conversations with players, mainly about their poker machine proclivity. Without certainty, I guessed he was looking at their money source, hoping to nail a dope dealer or three in a trade very important to Beaudesert’s black or unofficial economy.

He was so obviously a rank novice at the sneak, sniffing the sheets, delving game, I had a profound commiseration for the fellow’s absolute uselessness. An obvious and profound novice.  If the boy followed his clumsy father into the same game, I do feel there’s some amusing Pink Panther copy that might interest sequel writers.


Wasting time at the truly dreadful, stale nicotine stinking Logan & Albert Hotel a year or so ago, a tall, smartly groomed young man with flawless, smooth, very non working-class hands presented at the next machine. His blue overalls carrying the folding marks of work attire only a short time before removed from its package.

Rathdowney cop reaction to his removal.BT 28/10/2015.

“How ya goin”? he started. Without a shadow of doubt, and long ago forgetting the hapless original, here was The Son of Darren, Darren Two, even. We were immediately joined by a similarly aged, tubby, ordinary  young woman using the same false matey approach, straight out of Kath & Kim. These hopeless cunts can only nab those equally short in the nous department. Inept crook chasers will only nail the Walter Mitty Darcy Dugans, thinkers with half a gram of iq will avoid the can for much longer.



Beaudesert’s far right RSL uses its corrupt management to nail and cause ever-lasting harm to dissenters or to those whose opinions don’t match theirs.

Guilfoyle bust.
Nasty singular master of hate.

Smokers kill. Phantom Terrorists don’t. Attn. Horan, Jaala, Hillhouse of Qld Housing Commission.

December 15, 2015

A little over four years ago my blog utterings on the activities of recent arrivals to my flat precinct earned the disapproval of the establishment who sent a policeman to caution me. The world war two barrack-style buildings run east to west each has four flats and are sited diagonally opposite Beaudesert High School.

Paul Cowan, on first impression was just another old blowhard who soon joined a couple sitting in the gazebo and placing his landline extension on the table set upon establishing his importance.

“Can’t move too far without that.” he coyly explained, leaving a wee bit of theatrical mystery to come. “Lot of people rely on my assistance.” Mobile phones were common-place irritants then as they are today, beyond his budget, I’d be thinking. He had, in any case, with those few self-glorifying words, exposed the drab existence of an utter boor and one to be avoided at any cost.

The creature turned out to be a nasty self-centered do-gooder, motivated solely by the ego-cream of local recognition than by genuine altruism, had set himself up, sans accreditation, as adviser/counsellor to Magistrate Court clients conned into accepting his ‘advice’ or receive harsher parole conditions. Unfortunate miscreants copping shit like this leave little doubt about why their rebellion gets them back inside.

A Queensland Govt ‘official’ who, as far as I know, was not officially of the carabinieri, but officially of the Woodridge Housing Commission, Horan by name, suspected, with colleagues, Jaala and Hillhouse, from the same office, of having strong stasi influence, took me to task, “He’s a former Sunshine Coast Councillor,” she insisted, “and as such, must be respected.”

Well there you go, a petty Qld Govt clerk pulling nanny-state rank, can’t abide a tenant who thinks, and gets the police in to encourage contriteness. The Church at work as well, I shouldn’t wonder.

I under-estimated these malevolent women, Given brains in error and named in an earlier story, their complicity in one-sided tenant treatment should be opened like the can of smelly worms it is, doing so would invite a tome of Atlas Shrugged proportions. Will give that old story a few links:

Jaala And Hillhouse, Given brains in error.

A Psychiatric Puppeteer is Pulling Strings.”

Dept of Housing. (Beaudesert area)

This preamble is all about the possible variations to the consequences of this discourse. The last time I referred to stasi operatives and Qld Govt.Housing Dept, my doorway was graced with the shadow of one Senior Sergeant, on Tuesday, 25 October, 2011, after hinting a tenant couple mirrored similar activity to Stasi activity featured in a recent East German intrigue had aroused my suspicions.

The lead letter in the under cutout features a loathsome, self-centered female of Macbeth proportions, a former Councillor with great contempt for those unwilling or unable to benefit the ‘lady’s’ self-promotion. Those refusing to promote or back her became invisible. Her fierce defence of the cowards who deliberately damage the life systems of fellow beings, sums up her despicable mien absolutely.

Who now from the constabulary will visit me and urge a voluntary ‘mental evaluation’ examination for my criticisms of former public figures. Moffatt’s public profile seems to have dimmed lately but wait, I’ve a few cutouts from Beaudesert’s weekly journal that might contain the clue to the hypothetical question.

Two Beaudesert Times cutouts at bottom of story with words to be added in the next post.


BT Sept 9,2015. Demon Phantom Terrorist chaser.

Police shut BT 28/10/2015.


“It profits a man nothing to give his soul for the whole world … but for Murdoch, Syvret”?

June 28, 2015

Syvret, a likely 5th column within the Labor tent.


Death is a distant rumour to the young.”

“Blue-rinsed and Botoxed:Life among the plastic people.”

Inside Labor’s house are many rodents; common stand-over ratus-ratus of the Obeid variety abound. Timid, jittery mice who, the moment they tried to shrug off Shorten’s role in besmirching Gillard became woven into Labor’s bubonic ridden patchwork of brinkmanmanship.

Rudd’s wounded ego had to be appeased as soon as possible. It would have been a nice Aesop fable of poetic justice had he waited in the wings, at least until after the next election before exacting revenge. History couldn’t wait, Rudd prepared his long-knife. The Party had to collapse and die with Gillard.

Such is the single mindedness of the smug wrong-doer who feels his nefarious underhand deeds pass unseen and unknown. One who ‘runs with foxes and hunts with the hounds’ is Brisbane based self-glorifying (gratification) Murdoch mole/flea, Syvret.

Ghost of PJK ‏@GhostOfPJK

Why isn’t the #MSM openly mocking #Abbott’s backward views, divisive language and general fucktardery? ##auspol

“Bed-wetters in the Newscorpse bunker.

In the past, I might have argued, or sided the metadata case for the common journalist, but the recipients of my emotional effort would have been the very contemptible creatures who caused their own angst. By dint of their corrupt perjured employer, Rupert Murdoch, defending his Liberals is a job requisite and to the Devil with the Advocate.

Metadata retention’s effect on the non-professional or home computer user hasn’t aroused much sympathy from the MSM, yet spirited company-owned journalists are soon reminded not to upset the ASIO/AFP house of cards.

Syvret is ill-equipped to mentor any line other than his corrupt employer, and a boofhead espousing football doesn’t prove Labor links.

In his Courier Mail column of 2006, Syvret’s open contempt of oldies and pregnant women says much about the man. To get a greater idea of his makeup. Zoom in and make his words readable.

Saved a few of Syvret’s Tweet urgings to my media library, now shown under:


Syvret’s Labor disavowal came some hours after I posted my comments of his treachery.


Labor’s Right mounting push to adopt boat turn-back policy – why I won’t be voting ALP


(Posted by Syvret on Twitter,  Saturday, 14/03/2015)

“Fewer sitting days in State Parliament equals less scrutiny of the Palaszczuk Government.”


(Posted by Syvret on Twitter,  Saturday, 28 /03/2015)

“Like him or not John Howard is a loved husband, father and respected by many. I wish him well. Don’t be ugly Twitter.”


(An old Syvret Tweet.)

Heavily pregnant refugee tries to harm herself after denied urgent medical help. “An-eight-month-pregnant-refugee-tries-to-harm-herself-after-being-denied-urgent-medical-help. Australia, hang your ugly head.”


Syvret 3 C.M. Tuesday,August 8, 2006  p21

Queensland Housing. Jaala and Hillhouse; dumb and protected. A reprint.

February 23, 2015

More material on

But firstly, a preamble:

Writers and novelists, uncomfortable with a word or phrase, have spent a lot of time flipping Thesaurus pages to find that elusive word with the exact nuance. As an amateur tyro without lofty ambition, my rewrite intent went west after one word in para. two was dropped. And yes, anon reader, I should have pulled the lot; and then there is (or was) the one about starting a sentence with a conjunction.

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.

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, descendents 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.

“Lament For Maid Melbourne” by Dame Everage: From The Archives.

November 6, 2013

When good Adelaide boy, albeit Anglican, (Sir)Alex Downer ruled Australia’s diplomatic British roost.


Maid Melbourne

“Trust me, my name’s Tony (strawman) Abbott, and I wouldn’t know how to lie.”

August 8, 2013

Abbott (new text)

“You have enemies? Good…! That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.” 

November 8, 2011

The Monty Python skit on oldies is under rabid walloper end para 2. Appreciation to Gingerzilla for that. Tongue-in-cheek is an invaluable commodity. Yanks, I understand, are irony-blank.

And no, Laze and Gen of Queensland, before Bligh’s thought police return with reinforcements to cuckoo nest me for the heading of this story, I hasten to add the title came not from my disturbed, excessively introverted “black duck” mind, but from master tactician Winston Churchill a sufferer, with Stephen Fry, of a mental condition known as manic depression who, because his rarefied, untouchable pecking order offered some protection from Government nannies and do-gooders. Public housing tenants like the writer live in constant fear of impending mental incarceration for blog comments too close to the mark. The possibility of electric shock treatment and its permanent memory loss lie before me if authoritative Queensland threats are followed through. So, for the time being; I know nothing, see nothing, feel nothing, and hear nothing, so would you please pass the mushroom and forget the convulsions.

Earlier in the year, an unnaturally high number of ready to publish material went to cyber heaven minutes before it was to be edited. I have theories, imagined of course, which will get some attention later on. I suppose my mental retardation and general stupidity, blessed and normal in a non-public housing society, but condemned as dangerously reactionary in dissenters, caused my doco file to repeatedly crash. (Oh, really?) I urge other similarly affected people with vanishing text to use their email or dashboard draft folder for all writing. I’ve not lost a word since I had the idea. A reluctant doctor visitor, I went to an MD recently and left without an intro letter to a shrink, but this fellow lacks the confidence a two-week introductory course in psychiatry imparts on a rabid walloper in nutter recognition.

Medics diagnose and heal by numbers, or how many visits (bucks) their deep patient concerns can suck out of the gullible. Each and every one of Bligh’s commendable script-writers insist oldies are nuts who are tired and need help. If that’s the case, then I’m presuming the Federal Department for Mental Jobs reward States for their diligence in apprehending these hereto undisclosed potential axe slayers, especially those unpleasant thinking oldies given to using the internet to expose turds and their effect in Queensland Housing.

Remnants of Queensland’s notorious Special Branch tagged me a dark duck for maintaining blog attacks on two particularly accomplished and obnoxious stasi deployed for the time being with the Housing Department to displace an unwanted tenant. Bring down the opponent any which way is the whole deal and I will try to explain the system next post. A uniformed stasi inquisitor presented a convincing argument to quit printing anti-Housing thoughts. The generally accepted freedoms are passe in this State and those young marchers having picnic rallies really have no idea the depth of the devil.

I’d dearly like to hear what my 1960’s mates might have to say about the removal of hard-fought for freedoms. Throughout my blogs, I’ve stressed a 1984 emergence with Bligh’s mind-control methods of retaining the Treasury too extreme. You won’t hear a word of dissent from me though, the denouement of compulsory containment predicted in my story is like, ” Ah, Mr. Doppleganger, at last we meet.” Freedom Lost! The alternative to freedom is shame. My words have been my imagination. Following an enlightened conversation, I am now convinced that I should submit to stupidity for the present. Conspiracy Theory m.s. I can’t use names, or it’s, “Hi-ho, Hi-ho, it’s off to the zap factory you go.” my kicking-boy status frowns on thoughtful observations.

Mike Kaiser retaliates.

We’re In Queensland, And Nanny Ratched Called On Me.

November 3, 2011

In Queensland, Nanny Ratched Called On Me.”

I had had an amiable relationship with the R.E. agent and out of decency gave me 4/5 months advisement of sale of rented house. Applied for and got a place. After procrastinating for three months and paying two rents, I ignored the strong premonition of disquiet that engulfed me whenever I drove past the State accommodation precinct at 220-226 Brisbane Street, Beaudesert and moved in. The denigration is immediate with the official description of the residence that most new arrivals want to make a home. They haven’t come to a flat or unit, they’ve come to “accommodation.” And who made this directive? Why, none other than the Ministry Of The Homeless. Is that title in itself not a grand piece of bureaucratic importance? Their motto; Be Contrite or Be Homeless. Companies spend good dollars on a logo that befits the projected image. The implication is you are there by their grace, to dry-out or to recover from a bad dose of crack, then move on. It’s part of the put-down.

Shortly after my induction to this place, residents were issued instructions to use flowery terminology like apartment when referring to their digs. Back then, few people were drawn back to the place and the bullshit supposed to be a lure. I soon discovered that dismissing one’s prescience can have an unpleasant and long-lasting consequence, that public renters like me who query arbitrary decisions have become the new kicking boy displacing the aboriginal race, formerly the favored target of a copper’s tongue and boot. A disgraced redemption of sorts is won by selling your soul to mendacious and venomous Station Road harridans. I.Q.numbers on tenants are elastic but with Google showing 62 for the average aboriginal, white renters and staff should be happy with a 55 rating.

Intellectual activity is a danger to the building of character.Goebbels.

On Tuesday 25, October, I had a caller supposedly representing a sub-agent of a Queensland Government Department. My imagination-inspired ver batim report later. Cryptic bits; the writer, “With age I find my own company much more enlightening and preferable.” Response…”Dark duck.” Meaning? Googling not much help–but coming from his type of person, it wouldn’t be complimentary. The tag most likely applies to an abnormally introverted person, ie in police parlance, not a beer swigging yob to detain later for drunk driving; not one of the herd? Then definitely a potential axe killer in preparation, should get a martyr medal for picking this bastard. Explains his hesitant approach… These amateur, two week experts must fuck the lives of lots of good people. I’ve had a few nutty acquaintances over the years who took up various areas of psychiatry,” Why not capitalize on what you know a fair bit about,” was their collective attitude. A mature chap of brief acquaintanceship surprised me a couple of weeks ago me with that very same admission.

Went on another Google search for the current police logo. Found the wording to a site that had “To Harass And Collect” shut down–embargoed. We Must Be In Queensland. The Q&A went something like… Why …??? Self replied “So and so…” and on adding,” but I would need the best Conspiracy Theorist in the word to collude with me to explain it convincingly.” This comment followed… “We will go to your doctor immediately and organise a mental assessment.” His voice recorder has my words. His message encapsulated what this blog has been about; of my life since becoming a Queensland Public Housing tenant and its descent into an alien, unnatural, open prison type of existence. Add humiliation and despair. My indifference and ennui was soon replaced by a curiosity and a wish to confirm that the exposed vindictiveness and manipulation were not one-off, rare act of retribution, but on-going deeds of Machiavellian revenge.

Few academic Australians under fifty years of age would remember Hitler’s infamous propaganda minister, Goebbels, and how his name was as reviled as his Fuhrer, yet all Labor backroom propagandists a la Mike Kaiser, would have short stasi lives if they didn’t follow his dictum of repetition, “Tell the people a lie often enough and they’ll come to believe it.” The Bligh organization the most rapacious user of this less than subliminal message of reminding poor starving pensioners of their everlasting plight. I would like to believe she would win more general voting support if she opened these popular appeals by reminding welfare recipients that, despite the machinations of some rabid Queensland Housing operatives whose bias has led to bad deeds, it is not yet a criminal offence to think for themselves, that using common-sense is possible if the motives of Labor Government public servants can be monitored and corrected. The present Queensland Labor Party threatens obliquely if their mind-control fails. Click on Germany in the thirties.While the Welfare State has commendable attributes, the Nanny State is double talk for brain-washing and intrusion of suspected opponents.

The nanny-state mentality is stuffing Australia. It has stuffed the economies of those countries whose unctuous legislators have corrupted a once grand welfare concept for the false, feel-good theorem of instant gratification, not unlike the laziness that follows an acceptance of masturbation over the real thing or being satisfied with a rare poker-machine win. While the subject of aging and its consequences is anathema to commercial TV broadcasting, ABC TV conversation programmes like Q&A et al often feature the views and opinions of widely accepted interviewees who all stress the need, indeed the necessity of keeping the brain as stimulated and as tuned as the body should be. Active older minds are induced into a state ordered comatose condition, and working, still active minds of self-reliant oldies like the writer spits on Bligh’s rhetoric picture of life’s,”…hard done-by pensioners suffering deprivation,” surviving on cat-food, pitifully attired in rags seeking alms by rattling a rusty jam tin. Melodramatic violin straining heartstrings in the bare, cold attic where our poor little hands stay cold until summer’s zenith when the air-conditioner breaks down on cue. Don more socks or remove them to suit the climate. It works for me. I keep a late model Falcon in better than legal and safe condition, get regularly ripped-off by computer parasites, eat too well by utilizing the major retailers to my own advantage, won’t recognize fast-food establishments, last partaking of their overpriced and overblown product post-funeral in 1997.

Less resolute people capitulate to the never-ending mantra of Australian politicians. The rhetorical asks what is more repugnant or depressing than our Premier’s constant reminder to all welfare recipient of their gullibility. Will they ever get the message to get off their fat butts and help themselves? Greece is today’s model of Australia five years hence. Much sooner if primary exports fall over. Mandatory, State-enforced helplessness; compulsive compliance of nannyism is not helping the independence of conscionable oldies like me in conflict with a State Government which throws millions more into self-promotion. Throughout life Ive striven to sort-out my own problems, an early manifestation of the ‘trust no one’ philosophy. Being extraordinarily perceptive which means my shit detector was well-honed, that the bland acceptance of deceit as the template of the health industry easily persuaded me to avoid their practices and their practitioners. Savor freedom while it still exists. The word tyranny rings a bell. Is it Queensland-centric, I wonder?

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