Monday, January 27, 2014


It never ceases to amaze how the punters keep putting their trust in reivers.

Keep trusting the glib, lying bastards.

Keep putting their own stringy necks down on self-supplied chopping blocks.

Keep believing the lies of the propaganda machine and keep believing that their little piece of paper with their easily changed pencil scratches amounts to their one and only contribution to ‘democracy’.

I piss myself laughing these days to see all these fuckwits silly enough to wear that nauseating high vis clothing – that flouro crap – as they go about their menial tasks out there in the street.

Some even seem to believe that their SLAVE UNIFORM lends them some small status;
the poor silly bastards.

The Poms called it ‘livery’ – as in something arranged to differentiate the beasts from their masters – a practice likely adopted from the Romans.

All of which is totally unimportant except for the fact that so many dullards have somehow been conned into dressing like complete loons in this day and age of alleged democracy.

Wake up and think it through you dolts.
It isn’t about safety at all.
It’s about making you all look like complete jokes and prize loons.

Trust me, you do; especially you lot of the foreman/overseer class with your cute, bright orange/ retroflective stripe, ensembles.

If you have a problem with that – consider how the three arseholes of the apocalypse want to dress the bikies during their stay in the concentration camps.

Work it through, you dills.


Leastways back when we were young and immortal it was often proposed via the ‘media’ that elements of the expatriate Vietnamese community living in Australia were systematically annexing property in certain suburbs surrounding our capital cities.

In fact, driving people away from family homes through the use of intimidation escalating toward and ultimately resulting in violence.

Which is probably why the emigrant filth ejected from the southern states are using the same tactics against honest citizens here in boganvillia.

And since so many of our raffle winners are themselves rejects from the southern states – displaying the same perverse interest in manipulative property acquisition and total disregard for ethics and morality in their dubious undertakings – it is no bloody wonder that this once proud redneck state is fucked beyond recall.

Friday, January 24, 2014


Was once queensland – was temporarily ‘newmania’ – is now known as ‘boganvillia’.
And they ride through our skies at night.

What; hey: who does?
Well, ‘the three arseholes of the apocalypse’ do.

Leastways, their pigs roam the streets, their aircraft patrol the highways – they tell us that their ‘drones’now zip about above any ‘incident of their interest’, say, like a damned good party.

In consequence, no silly innocent cunt is safe in our streets at night from the depredations of these raffle winners in temporary control of a police farce somehow become infinitely worse than joh’s corruptibles could ever have imagined becoming.

These wirebound arseholes (these goddamned ‘fundamentalists’ with their vlad, the impaler laws) seem to have forgotten that grinding a few million halfwits under their ‘panopticon’ might result in an adverse reaction to so much unwarranted ‘supervision’.

Put it this way –
Noddy newman has to retire sometime in the future.
As do the other arseholes of his apocalypse.

When they do and when they predictably retire offshore – there will be someone waiting and watching for them to access their ill gotten gains from their private, offshore bank accounts.

And when they try – they’ll be in the slam as quick as boiled asparagus too.

When will they ever learn to leave well enough alone?

Wednesday, January 22, 2014


Hey newman!
I have this letter before me 3/5/2013 from your staffer, ‘Michael Prain’.

He advises us that you ‘understand’ that the death threats bellowed through our front windows are making us ‘very anxious’.

You can say that again, arsehole.

Especially when your police farce want to arrest me for being the recipient of those threats.

I mean, fuck me noddy, where is your head at f’r chrissakes.

I realise the cunt doesn’t ride a motorcycle – but that wasn’t mentioned in your vlad legislation either.

Now, while I do appreciate that the worm is a defrocked cop or something even worse – he’s still brewing meth, is completely off his trolley on some power trip of his own – and consequently needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later.

But for some reason that cunt and his pals seem to be exempt from the law.

I mean, in the immortal words of one of your raffle winning pals, noddy – fair suck of the sauce bottle –
If I were one of your fuckwit, redneck, pals – I’d expect you to have this manipulative, meth brewing, psycho over the road arrested months ago – ON THE BASIS OF YOUR OWN LEGISLATION.

But you won’t do that – ‘cos the cunt is of your sort.
He brews meth.
He struts around the neighbourhood like a prize turkey (apparently under the protection of your political police).
He’s more than obviously doing his best to annex and consolidate property around here to create a little ‘power patch’ of his own. (The old Vietnamese gambit)
He’s doing that in the electorate of your ‘police minister’.
And it has become bloody obvious that he’s exempt from law and his bullying bullshit is condoned by your police farce.

All that seems to align with what a horde of people have solidly stated in the public domain about your previous conduct in Brisbane council.

Best put it this way –
We’ve gone through official channels – but your pigs keep threatening us every time we complain.
I have letters here from your office, from the regional pork headquarters and from your CMC.

Yet the pig-dogs over the road and up the street (all opposite a state school) keep acting like Mafiosi loonies and your ‘police’ keep threatening us –
Keep threatening us for what – newman?

Keep threatening us for refusing to move away from our home and go live under some friggin’ bridge.

But you and your sort of excrement will keep up the pressure, won’t you, you arseholes.

Bikies out – politically correct meth brewers in.
Defrocked, psychopathic pigs and utter nutters from every corner of the extended families of the sicko-politosphere .

Yep. A brave new wirebound world.

What a fucking shame that, back in 1922, those slimy laborites who shagged our upper house didn’t write a clause requiring queensland politicians to be queensland born.

If they’d managed that – most of the prize fuckwits causing us all this grief would never have been elected.

Including the present fuhrer.


Consider the following -

Keyword – TONTINE.

In other words a bunch of wirebound mafia style arseholes clubbing together with a few spare bucks.

They hate each other’s guts – but they hate everyone else more.

And the game they play among themselves is completely ruthless – unto death.

Implicit in ‘tontine’.


Apparently, these days in boganvillia, you can be locked up for wearing a ring on your little pinkie.

Their police farce have decided that a cheapjack item of jewellery inscribed with ‘1%’ condemns the wearer as an ‘outlaw bikie’.

I beg to differ.

Actually, that ‘1%’ ring is a rare award offered only to the top 1% of the ‘Society of Honest Accountants’.

Of course, noddy newman or any of his corrupt tontine never mix with honest people.

Which probably explains their error.


Did I hear right?

According to our propaganda service the boganvillia police farce have actually charged a bloke for refusing to take off his ‘Harley Davidson™ leather jacket.

In other words, according to these fuckwits, he’s a criminal for wearing protective clothing provided by a reputable motorcycle manufacturer.

This is utter bullshit.



Mea culpa –
Although I’m reasonably sure I heard a news report giving an account of the above – the only information I’m able to ‘google’ since then - is about some ‘outlaw bikies’ beating up on some bloke wearing a harley jacket.

Which proves what?
• Obviously that its risky wearing Harley Davidson™ jackets in boganvillia -
• that these ‘bikies’ evidently saw this wannabe in the harley jacket before the cops noticed him –
• and that, between one lot of ratbags and another, the whole world has gone to shit.

Whatever the situation – as my Grandma used to say – two ‘wrongs’ don’t make for a ‘right’.

Speaking of Grandmother – her husband, my Grandfather was a member of a secret society back when boganvillia was queensland.
Not only was he a member of a secret society but of an unlawful society.

Which is why he quit that society when he worked out what the arseholes, on a regular basis, were up to.

He gave ‘em the bum’s rush, did old WT.

But what society?

Stap me; those perfidious play templars, of course.
The bloody freemasons.
Thankfully, no amount of retroactive legislation can bother Pop much – since he’s been dead for more than half a century.

But nothing would surprise me lately.

It could well be that the three arseholes of the apocalypse (newman, Dempsey and that jarrod thing) might get dressed up in their bedsheets, dig the poor old bugger up and burn his bones.

Wouldn’t surprise me at all!

Tuesday, January 14, 2014


He said it to the world again today.

He doesn’t ‘like’ his ‘vlad legislation’.

Which means, if he doesn’t ‘like’ his reign of terror being dumped on the head of any silly bastard riding a scooter in boganvillia – that someone was pulling his ‘noddy strings’ in order to have that crap introduced.

Which means he’s nothing but a friggin’ PUPPET.

So who the hell is pulling his strings, then?



One day you bludgers – you SHEEPLE – might wake up.
This time last year a fair deal of this little town was flooded.
That’s when the corrupt bastards made their move.

So much went underwater for so long that too many moved on.

When they did move on – what one week was a poor man’s lifelong bad bargain (sold to some poor, ignorant blow-in peasant in the first place) became a total loss expediting his moving on elsewhere.

Whereupon the parasites annexed what he believed was his - at basement prices.

All of which was just too bloody bad – but what can you do in these extreme circumstances?

After all those dirt poor southern immigrants from rural Victoria and nsw aren’t exactly solid citizens, are they?

And we need to do something about the drug problem they’ve brought up here with them.


So suck ‘em in, set ‘em up and rip ‘em off – then send them on their sorry way – somewhere else.

Sorry, cunt – didn’t we tell you that you’d bought into flood-prone land?

Too bloody bad for you – but there it is.

Amazingly enough – those same flood prone dwellings have recently been repaired.

Repaired in good time for the next mob of innocent southern punters to move in – just in time for the next fucking flood.

I only bother mentioning this because I was stupid enough to have been born here.
I never had to mention this in the past when this corrupt little burg was being run by those born here.
I didn’t have to mention it in their day because those born here, running the show then, despite being thoroughly corrupt, were not vicious, unscrupulous parasites.

No. Their sort have expired.
They’ve been replaced by a crop of southern blow-ins perfectly prepared to exploit their own.

A wonderful place this queensland/boganvillia has become.

Southern criminals ripping the guts out of southern dunderheads while the few remaining northern gentlemen either put out their hands for a cut of the action or turn their heads away in utter disgust.


Two articles ago, in these pages, a bloke who died over fifty years ago was mentioned.

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

As best as we can tell what was once Eddie Walsh’s home was busted by our bold gendarmerie as a meth lab. (Mind you - it does have me completely buggered why Eddie came to mind – why I was writing about him when his cottage was being raided.)

Of course Eddie wouldn’t give a continental about that since he’s been dead for over fifty years.

Nonetheless, at least some of the stench poisoning us in cycles in this neighbourhood has been coming from what was once his humble home.

His once humble home IS INDEED a bit upwind from us.

But so are other, more convenient locations – so to continue -

Trouble is that his little cottage is not big enough to contain enough equipment to cause the industrial scale pollution that we’ve been subject to the last few years.

Nope. That nausea has been coming from the compound a little closer to us.

Know what I mean – closer, bigger, involving more people – nastier people – people who seem to be able to call on the local cops whenever someone complains.

Funny that.
My lady Wife had this tiny health problem – like down to 20% renal function.
The Ha Ha ‘health system’ couldn’t provide an explanation.

I could.
Systematic poisoning from airborne meth lab effluent – not from old Eddie’s cottage – but from the surviving, unbusted, police protected and condoned, industrial scale, meth factory just over the road.

To put all that into plain language –
The police are all corrupt beyond any recall.
Their political masters intend to sack any remaining cops who display any sign of honesty.

The political masters of this regime are in no way different from the last mob of meretricious laborites – except for the fact that the laborites are gone and the lnp filth now hold the chequebooks.

Both of these tontines mutually agreed to sell off what little is left of queensland years ago.

Meanwhile, the rest of these goddamned ‘new party’ maggots are trying to capture what might be left at the tail end of the action.

A useless, dysfunctional, non-functional, unicameral, pretence of a parliament is the tool of their collective criminality – and beyond miracles – there is fuck all anything any of us can do about it!

Is that why our new age pigs condone industrial scale meth labs?

After all – who gives a fuck about the serfs in this dump?

Hey – we’ll all soon be under new management anyway.


Why bother voting any more?

Vote for the present reich in queensland/newmania/boganvillia and you might find that the chairman, secretary and treasurer of your netball team or bridge club will be next to be locked up without bail, in solitary confinement.

Just like those ‘bikies’.

Then when they pull YOU up for, say, a ‘random breath test’ – then YOU might be joining them.

Yet, unless the propaganda bureau is lying – the laborites agreed with noddy newman’s crapola.

Bullshit they agreed.

It was those previous laborite arses with ears that handed him their draft legislation when he slimed into ‘power’.

One parcel of these manipulative psychopaths is as bad as the other.

So why not vote for Mr Palmer and his five daughters?

Go on; take a guess.
Try contacting his ‘party machine’.
Waste your own money trying to contact any of his ‘team’.

Discover for yourself that ‘he and his team’ are somewhat like the other parties and our so called ‘representatives’.

Like ‘Major Major’ in “Catch 22” they are ‘out when they are in’ and ‘in when they are out’.

• “Major Major is a commander who doesn't command. He hates dealing with people, and is somewhat frightened of them. He therefore instructs his receptionist/orderly that, whenever he is in his office, any visitors should be told he is out. When he leaves his office (sneaking out the back window), the receptionist can send visitors in to see him. In short, the only time you can see Major Major in his office is when he's out. If he's in, you can't see him. It's an example of Catch-22, although the catch is not explicitly mentioned in this connection.”]

So, what exactly is the point of voting for ANY of these prize arseholes?

Tuesday, January 7, 2014


It used to be our local corner store back in the day when supermarkets didn’t exist.

Old Jock Stockwell owned the place then and I went to school with his daughter.
In fact, little Jeanette was my very first girl-friend.

In those days many corner stores were located near schools and thus provided a vital service to the community and pupils, both.

Jock was quite innovative and provided, in microcosm, all those years ago, what supermarkets are busting their guts to do these days.

Jock networked with local suppliers and was brilliant at offering a range of seasonal local delicacies fruit veggies, smallgoods – as well as keeping his stocks of staples and supplies – fresh and within their use-by-date.

Then an elderly lady neighbour of his had to move on.
Jock acquired her residence and built a new shop front on that residence, directly next-door to his original corner store.

It may not have been the best commercial decision he made since he was fairly close to retirement age and having to sell off his original corner store to people who converted it into a ‘fish and chip shop’ - on top of building new premises - must have eaten into some of his turnover from the local schoolkids.

Yet he soldiered on in his new shop for a few years and if anything his turnout just kept improving while the brats attending the new fast food joint just kept getting fatter, pimplier and uglier.

Back to Jock -
Somehow he seemed to know beforehand, when my old man had become bored smoking ‘Rothmans’ and wanted to change to ‘Camels’, or something, for a few weeks.
Or if it was paper clips, a mapping pen, exercise book, or a bottle of red ink – he had it in stock too.

Likewise for the regular tin of ham, loaf of fresh bread, or occasional tin of special jam for poor old Eddie Walsh down the corner.

If some snotty nosed kid walked in and muttered – “givusaslicerwatermelun, mister” –
Jock would have this green, cylindrical, object lying on the bench and a wickedly sharp knife in his hand.

Before you could blink Jock would have extorted threepence for a paper thin slice of tissue wrapped water melon, tapped the snotty brat on the top of his head and sent him on his happy way.

Jock wasn’t just smart – he was, in his quiet way, a showman who, were he a samurai in another lifetime, would have wielded his tool of trade with equal precision.

The same with his doling out ice cream cones or anything else in his inventory.

No archbishop could have done more of a show-man-like job with the Host.

He knew each and all of his customers intimately – knew their foibles and ways, and bloody well knew how to keep them happy despite wrenching every penny he could out of their pockets.

But Jock, for his own reasons, decided to retire and move away.
He didn’t go broke – he packed up with his family, moved out of town, and as far as I know has never come back.

I believe he decided to take his nest-egg away to Brizzo where his youngest, the ‘Dux of the school’, my first girlfriend, might acquire some semblance of education.

Meanwhile, afterwards, over the road, a succession of ill-financed punters did their best to exploit Jock’s legacy.

The times have changed and schoolkids have progressively, increasingly, been actively discouraged from attending those traditional corner stores which served the generations so well.

Oh, it takes quite a while for our political masters to screw everything up for everyone.

As I mentioned, Jock, the canny old bastard, saw the writing on the wall and took steps – bloody long steps away from the futility of trying to make an honest buck in this locality.

Jock may have only been a shopkeeper – but his apparent rule, like Wellington, was ‘never reinforce failure’.

But he didn’t mind selling off his assets to gamblers more stupid than him.

And so the times change.

Since his time, living over the road, we’ve seen a dozen or more punters moving in and attempting to make a go of a lost cause in that superannuated dump over the road.

We’ve known all of those decent people doing their damnedest, these last few decades, to make a go of what Wellie would call a ‘forlorn hope’.

We’ve known them because they were mostly damned good neighbours – and even if we disagreed – or they didn’t agree with whatever was happening here – we were still neighbours able to meet and talk things through.

All of which was fairly ‘neighbourly’ until the present set of un-neighbourly prize arseholes turned up there a few years ago.

They moved in, set up shop and a few days after I went over to order a snack.

Most long term residents tend to be put off by new owners treating, us, their neighbour customers, like a smear of shit they’d found under their shoes.

I’m stupid. I placed my order, paid up front (BIG mistake), said I’d be back in 20 minutes to pick up my spring roll (or whatever it was).

Then when I returned for my portion of offal – I literally had to reapply for its provision.
Then, after much argument, when I returned home with the object - it had apparently been thrown into the fryer in its plastic™ bag.

It appears that our new ‘resterauntuers’ were an uppity, meretricious, careless cooking mob of losers who obviously didn’t want our custom. (Okay, fuckem, ‘once burnt, twice shy’, we can immediately deal with that by sacking ‘em without asking for a refund).

That was the early days.
Since then it has become infinitely worse.


I don’t particularly give a fuck at a flying doughnut about what the neighbours are up to – unless they are directly messing about with our ‘quality of life’.

But when these sad sacks of shit try to poison us when we innocently walk in to their ‘new enterprise’ – not only poison us but charge more than twice the going rate for a fucking spring roll – then something has to go on notice.
Especially when you consider that a commercially packaged spring roll IS NOT contained in its little slip prior to cooking.

So to be handed a blackened cylindrical object smelling of burnt plastic would definitely have to be a feat beyond the scope of the average friendly corner hash-slinger.
In fact, the provision of such a disgusting item would definitely have to be a case of malice aforethought.

If you’d been living these past few years opposite this vomitorium pretending to be a fast food palace – then you’d have to be, not only amazed, but completely mindfucked, as to how these stinkers could ever possibly stay in business.

Like us, you’d be over the road from them wondering why it is that their manners match those of the craziest of the muja hadeen.--------------------------

I don’t believe it too much to ask as to where the hell this new proprietor, ‘G W’, came from.
The real question is why this prize psycho arsehole had to arrive across the road from us.

I’ve only lived here for sixty years and have never had to engage in fisticuffs with anyone except little timmy white whose parents took over that corner store from Jock about fifty years ago.

But even little timmie finally managed to control his anger in his adolescence –
Whereas this present arsehole, ‘G W’, screams death threats at us through our windows in the dead of night.

The same crock of shit raises his fists at me first thing in the morning – tells me that the polis wants him to smack me down.

Nice fellow that ‘G W’; prominent local businessman. A bloke you could trust.

As one of my lifelong friends said the other day when I finally conned him into listening to the recording of this cunt – “Jeesus, he needs some help now, right away!”

But ‘G’ can shout death threats through our windows then have the police pounding on our door next day.
I answered their pounding with the recording of ‘G’ in my hand, ready to replay, for their advice.

They flat refused to listen to it.

Since then it has been provided to the CMC, the office of newman, our fuhrer. And various other agencies allegedly poised waiting and supposedly ‘of jurisdiction’ in order to immediately pounce on perpetrators of chemically and alcohol fuelled violence.

In fact they have the recording in attachment to submissions lodged in writing to these agencies.

But guess what.
It appears that this ‘G W’ is exempt from the law.

This shiteheel and his companion, ‘H W’, have been operating a business or two over the road for years now.
Recently they’ve dealt with council with his missus acting as ‘principle’ –
(See P 188 of 245)
“Council has received a request from Helen Wittleton, the proprietor of a business known as the Fishin Chicken at 53 Walla Street, Bundaberg South. There are two other businesses in the complex, a Hairdresser (Snipitz) and a Massage Centre (Bundaberg Remedial Massage). The complex is situated in Walla Street immediately opposite Bundaberg South State School.” – continues in the public record.

So his missus does his dirty work for him– yet, he, himself is ‘invisible’ on the face of the public record.

So what IS this bastard?
Some defrocked cop – some arch crim on some witness protection programme – or just some piece of filth related to enough contacts in this corrupt state permitting him to behave like the arch-cunt he’s adequately demonstrated – that he is?

Anyway, the ‘G and H, W’ team turn up and take over a completely collapsed fast food dive then start to take over the neighbourhood.
They don’t do that by improving the air (oh goddamn it, the place stinks to high heaven).
They don’t do it by being good neighbours.
Instead, they do it by letting their closest neighbours know that they want them to move out – to encourage us to fuck off under a hail of threats.

When their neighbours refused to move – they bellowed actual death threats through their victim’s windows.

Oh fucking yawn, gav – get real! (Whoops, I slipped and mentioned the slimer’s name).

Then next day the local pigs arrived supporting his pitch (which made things Bizarro world – but serious).

According to gav’s mate, dempsey – only ‘bikies’ are supposed to behave this way in boganvillian society.

But stop there –
We’re talking about Bundaberg – ‘fun’daberg – the most boring yet corrupt town anywhere in Australia.

Could any of this mafia mis-behaviour have something to do with drug production?

PS – We have letters here from the CMC and the premier’s office about this smarmy cunt and the industrial scale meth production over the road.
We also have a threatening letter from the police farce.

The letter from the premier concludes with – “I can understand that this situation is making you, your wife and your son very anxious.
Similarly, if you have any concerns about you or your family’s safety then you should also report this to crimestoppers, or telephone 000 in case of emergency.”

BRILLIANT! – this, from the office of the present fuhrer – the sad-sack who now wants bikies locked up for allegedly similar behaviour as mentioned above.

I began to see the score some time ago. After all, Joh’s regime DID offer a few pointers.

It required the services of FitzGerald to topple Joh.

What form or style of exorcist has the strength to break this present regime?

Friday, January 3, 2014

26 JANUARY 1808 DITTO 1901

Key words/phrases –

The world of Australian politics has not changed since governor bligh was set-up by the rum corps – the first military coup and the establishment of the first corrupt military junta in our HA! ‘once proud land’.

The Australian broadcasting commission/corporation wasn’t around back on the 26 January 1808 – but if they were – I’m sure that those smarmy bastards employed by our propaganda ministry would find a way to pass off the coincidence of that date with our joke federation without the slightest grimace on their po-faces.

In fact I’m absolutely sure that the Gay Bee Cee wouldn’t have a problem reconciling the coincidence of date of our first coup with the date of federation – of Australia day.
I’m sure they wouldn’t because they are as useless a mob of arseholes as the oppressively cynical cunts who have been running the show here ever since 1788.

It completely beggars description.
I’m speechless as to how fucking cynical those masonic arseholes of the Melbourne club, those in ‘politics’ and of the (vomit) ‘legal profession’ must have been to shove that date up our noses expecting us to keep celebrating the day those poxed, corrupt, bastards of the rum corps turned against and destroyed what little there was of the flawed rule of martial law as was then being administered fairly well by Governor Bligh.


Now I DO understand.
Now I do understand why there is no justice anywhere in this dump – except for the corrupt spawn of the friggin tontine.
Does not this ‘coincidence’ drive the circumstance of our crapulous state well and truly into our vitals?

As for the gay bee cee?
Dear old auntie, abc?
The ‘propagandaministry’?

Well, there has been a few times I’ve wondered why they shit-can what I’d considered to be reasonable and reasoned comment from countless thousands of people who would have liked to have had their say.
Decent people who, according to the charter of the abc/gay bee cee, have every right to have their say

But now I know why they have no right to have their say – according to the gay bee cee.

And that is because their views, their comment (unknown to them) might be opposed somehow to the policy of that incestuous fucking rum corps tontine – with its spider’s web threaded throughout our society and a fair deal of it gumming up our ‘free national broadcaster’ the corrupt bloody abc.

I tell you Herbert – she’s gone to buggery, this dump – if it ever was intended to be started.

Have none of you ‘original people’ ever noticed this ‘interesting coincidence’ about the dates of federation and the first military coup?
And if not – why not?

But if you, original, aboriginal, dudes can’t work out how much I hate what these faceless arseholes are doing to us all –
And if we can’t get together, work together, and deport these cynical bastards doing this stuff –
Then there is no hope for any of us who have had the bad luck to have been born here under their foul regime.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014


Funnily enough – the seppos keep bleating about their ‘tea party’.

Looks like the majority of the citizenry in the usa haven’t been taught about the ‘Boston rebellion’, the ‘tea party’ – that vaunted demonstration leading to their secession from the British Union.

Seems like their big cover-up is about disguising the fact that their secession started out with a succession of plain old fashioned terrorist acts.
They certainly went ballistic when the southern states wanted quit of the north.

Similar lapses occur in the historical education of our brats here.

Or could it be that they ARE putting something in our water, or the weet bix?

Or have mind controlling, lizard, alien, zombies taken over our various governments?

No. I don’t think so.

Maybe we’ve been taken over by mind controlling, lizard, alien, JUGEARED, zombies?

Now, that DOES fit the big picture.

(At this stage I googled – “jug ears in politics” – knowing that our blessed fuhrer, ‘newman’, our arch-fuhrer, ‘abbortt’, and that potus, ‘terbaccy banana’ should feature large.

But guess what?
The censorship is well in place all over and under this planet.

Which does tend to explain and support my observation about our brats not being taught much history.

But why should I single out their ears for comment?

Easy peasy.
Most people with such jutting auditory appendages should be able to hear well.

But for some reason these ‘statesmen’ mentioned above – don’t – or pretend they can’t.

At this stage I inconclusively googled the matter. A shitload of obfuscation/contradiction about oversized human lugholes – but quite a lot about the superior capability of other animals with big lugs able to hear for miles – and at frequencies/modulations/amplitudes way beyond human capacity. There was a hint there somewhere that apparent humans with excessively big ears might well be atavistic hunter homonids, evolutionary/environmental/artificial mutations, or some sort of hybrid beings. Despite the amazing number of jug-eared politicians extant, they, somehow, seemed to avoid the discourse.)
So, what confronts us?

Firstly – history ignored.
They can’t or don’t read.
That seems to be an asset of the job; a pre-requisite for pre-selection as a candidate for public office.

So what follows after the raffle -
A mob of numerically ever increasing raffle winners who never listen to those they are constitutionally bound to represent.

A fair share of these arseholes equipped with ears large enough to stand beside a deep space radio telescope array and not look out of place.

Yet not one of these cunts pretend ever hear a thing when it comes down to their electorates bellowing into their flapping jugs from five feet away.

Those huge flapping ears are useless – cannot hear for the life of ‘emselves - nothing but a con.

But these wackos have their staff ask their poor bloody constituents to ‘put their grievances in writing’.

Then some of those ‘constituents’ do exactly that.

Ah - Catch 22. Remember, they can't read either.
That's what their corrupt, nasty little staffers are employed to do for 'em.
Yep. The staffers can read after a fashion but they pretend that they can't assimilate the information.

So if the 'constituents' are lucky – some months or years later ( usually, magically, just past the relevant statutes of limitations period) they finally get a reply.

That reply usually paraphrases politely – ‘go fuck yourself. You are, unfortunately, one nanosecond too late.’

They’ll go on to say something like – “but don’t take our word for that – get legal advice. They’ll screw you hollow too.”

Yet we are paying money every day in so many ingenious ways for these corrupt shiteheels, and their pals, and members of their incestuous extended families, to screw all us mere peasants – to screw us crosseyed.

As for mind controlling, lizard, alien, zombies?
Forget ‘em.

Those silly dills wouldn’t have a chance against our home brew, incestuous, brain dead, raffle winners and the corrupt cunts destructively flitting about in their offices.