Never a dull moment.
March 2nd 2009 22:13
I moved into a share accommodation place in Loganholme (Brisbane) a couple of weeks ago. The owner of the house is a primary school teacher. She used to be a fat heffer so she had her stomach stapled, and lost 70kg. Rapidly. Instead of eating and exercising she OCD'd on the modern way of dieting = not eating and sitting around all day thinking about food and weighing yourself on the latest set of digital IKEA scales. Now, flabby flesh hangs from her arms and legs, and decorates her body like stretch-marks on an oil painting left in the garage in full sunlight. It's not a good look. She's quite attractive if you ignore the flabby bits. She looks like Wrinkle Barbie. I saw a photo of her when she was obese (fat). She looked happy. Now she's a bitter twisted individual.
Anyway, that's enough backstory. This is about me. I'm on the net. We have to OCD about ourselves and the me factor on the net. It's part of our job description as virtual (false) identities.
She owns a pretty nice house. I suspect her parents bought it for her. They live in an even nicer house up the road a bit. You could play footy in the kitchen. And still have room for 10,000 spectators.
Anyway, this woman is very virtual. She reminds me of most people on the net. The type who can't deal with reality or people. She'd rather SMS text you or email you from her room than have a normal conversation. That would be too much reality.
So, when I met her regarding renting a room in her house, she said, "My room is a bit of a mess." Women are very self conscious about their appearance and the appearance of their houses. Even if they are filthy pigs. Anyway, she felt compelled to show me her room. Normally people do that because their filthy habits are on their consciences. They seem to want someone to reassure them that it's normal to have a pigsty of a room. To soothe their conscience. This woman doesn't have a conscience. Well she does, but it's an uninformed one. She lives in ga-ga denial and delusional land. All she thinks about is how she looks and how much she weighs. And how many words she can speak without taking a breath. Women should be kinder to their gums and give them a rest now and again. Anyway she opened the door on her bedroom due to this compulsion modern women have about being independent and owning a house, yet not owning a conscience or a brain. There was a mountain of clothes on the bed, and floor. It was hard to tell it was a bedroom. It looked like someone had upturned a Vinnies or Salvos charity dumpster bin in her room. I could have gone to the Brisbane Zoo and asked where is the pig pen, if I really wanted to see a sight similar to her room. But it didn't occur to me at the time.
I really didn't give a rat's arse or a shit about the state of her room. I was more interested in the room I was going to be living in. This was about me. I'm gradually adapting to modern life and taking on a 'life is all about me' mentality. It's not working. Life isn't about me. It's about what goes on around me. Anyway, back to the story. Where was I? Oh, that's right. So to cut a really long story a little bit less lengthy, I ended up taking the room in her house. $130/week. The usual thing. Two weeks rent in advance for bond. Two weeks rent in advance for rent. $520 later I had a room.
So, I'm living there and doing my job: Junk Mail and Local Rag (newspaper) deliveries disguised as a postie (So I can ride on the footpath and the cops [PIGS] think I'm a postie, not an ex-postie. Etc. Blah, blah, blah.
When you deliver junk mail or the local rag, these companies employ truck drivers. The truck driver dumps a shitload of junk mail or local rags on your doorstep and it's your job to collate, fold, rubber band, plastic wrap, and deliver them to the designated houses. (I'm delivering crap in Daisy Hill/Shailer Park/Cornubia - Yuppie-ville in the southern suburbs of Brisbane). I chose those suburbs because they're close to the share accommodation place, and it's very hilly, and I have a postie bike, and they pay more for difficult areas where there are hills. I like choosing the difficult options in life. I'm like your local SPAM man. I rock up on my postie bike and deliver the Coles, Woolies, Dick Smith catalogues etc.
And I'm also in competiton with Jim's Mowing. I take a pair of secateurs with me, and trim the excess foliage from the footpaths and around the mailboxes. People look at me strangely and must think, Why is that postie gardening? But I don't mind. The local postie must love me. He has a lot better mail run since I turned up.
Anyway, this OCD woman also had another bloke share-accommodating at her house. This guy. I'll call him Alan. Alan mopes around the house thinking about his dead mother and how his brother is living in his dead mother's house and how he technically owns half of the house and how they haven't resolved the matter due to the fact they got lawyers involved, who basically just suck all your inheritance out of you under the pretence of resolving the situation. Alan's got a dicky leg. And he works at a framing factory because he's got no self confidence, no self-esteem and is basically a loser of a metrosexual man who has turned into an old woman. He talks without taking a breath or giving his gums a break, just like old women do.
So there's me. This really great bloke. Sharing a house with two morons. And I'm listening to their life stories. The woman. I'll call her Bec. Cos that's her name. She talks about her weight loss. Alan talks about his dead mother and his evil brother. I sit there and listen to them both dribble shit while I sort and collate and plastic-wrap junk mail and copies of the local rag. Out the back on the patio. I hear the same stories over and over again. "My dead mother." "My weight loss." I'm living with morons again. And to think I quit Orble to mix with some decent people.
Bec tells me about her wayward son. I'll call him Josh cos that's his name. Josh smokes dope and drinks whiskey and plays those stupid computer games with his mates at his mother's house. He's banned from the house because they had wild drug parties. So he's living there. Bec doesn't want him there. But he is there. She can't deal with anything real. She tells me he's banned, and so are his mates. Then they all come around and she stands there like a goldfish which has just had all the water drained from its bowl. As though someone should get Josh and his mates to leave. As long as it's not her. Because that would mean dealing with reality. And she's not into reality.
So I'm living there, doing my job, and mild placid Alan goes berserk one night. I used a bit of his washing line to string up a fleuro light so I could see. Bec doesn't like light. She might see her flabby bits. She prefers 10W globes in the house so you can't see Jack Shit. I nearly ate the cat for breakfast. I thought it was a Cornflake.
So, Alan, who is a metrosexual pansy wanker decides I really should leave the share accommodation place because his whole world has been disrupted. He spends three days sulking in his room and refusing to talk to me. So I talked to him. I said, "Have you always been a bully and a sook?" That didn't go down too well.
Bec's boyfriend is some metro pansy. I said to her, "There's far too many metrosexuals in this world." That didn't go down to well either.
So it became a ridgy-didge conspiracy to remove me from the share-accommodation place. But how to do it? When both people are virtual and can't deal with the realities of life.
Ring the police.
So the police come around. Three Woppos (female police officers). All three look like they've just finished blogging. I refuse to speak to them. It's a domestic matter, not a police matter. So they eventually leave. Like the nasty blogger.
But bugger me dead, I've got an outstanding warrant for an unpaid traffic infringement. So they return to arrest me. No big deal. Go to the cop shop. Do the business. Get bailed and pay the fine.
Not in Queensland. The cops at the Beenleigh watch-house/cells on drag (night shift) like a bit of recreation. They beat the living shit out of anyone who comes in there. So three of these pigs grab me and kick and punch me for about five minutes, then throw me on the floor of the padded cell and stomp all over my head and back with their police boots. How lovely. Police corruption is alive and well in Qld. Forget Underbelly ... get out from behind the pc and live.
About 7am the next morning they let me out of the padded cell and put me in the holding cell with all the other criminals. We get a cup of tea. A bloke asks me what I'm in for. I say, "Not wearing a chin strap on my motorcycle helmet and riding a motorcylce with a blood alcohol level of .07 What are you in for?" He says, "Armed Robbery and Murder. I'm a good bloke but I turn into a prick if someone pushes my buttons." I say, "I won't be pushing your buttons." He gets it. He's smart but really dumb. To get caught. We have a lot in common. So we have a chat about his armed robberies. Apparently if you commit an armed robbery you kill the police because it's either you or them. He tells me he's a local and knows all the local coppers. Blah blah blah. We walk back and forth in the cell as though one of us is about to give birth, and we're in a maternity ward. He says, "You have to keep moving in here. There's nothing else to do." I had to agree.
I think I walked 25 kilometres that morning. At 1pm they finally call me up, and I go to the magistrates court. That takes about two minutes. The magistrate says. $400 fine. 2 months loss of licence.
I get my property back. And leave. Catch a cab back to the share accommodation place. Pack up my stuff and leave. Book into a caravan park down the road. Which is a lot better value. It has a swimming pool.
I'd rather live life with all its dramas and torments than spend my day on the net living in virtual ga-ga land. Been there, done that. It's a bullshit way to live. I'm not saying I want the shit beaten out of me every night by three corrupt Qld coppers but life was meant to be lived. There's plenty to write about if you live. If you don't live or engage in life, you become a full-time blogger. And pontificate. I'll pontificate and live. And if you don't like it? Bad luck.
Anyway I've got junk mail to sort.
Anyway, that's enough backstory. This is about me. I'm on the net. We have to OCD about ourselves and the me factor on the net. It's part of our job description as virtual (false) identities.
She owns a pretty nice house. I suspect her parents bought it for her. They live in an even nicer house up the road a bit. You could play footy in the kitchen. And still have room for 10,000 spectators.
Anyway, this woman is very virtual. She reminds me of most people on the net. The type who can't deal with reality or people. She'd rather SMS text you or email you from her room than have a normal conversation. That would be too much reality.
So, when I met her regarding renting a room in her house, she said, "My room is a bit of a mess." Women are very self conscious about their appearance and the appearance of their houses. Even if they are filthy pigs. Anyway, she felt compelled to show me her room. Normally people do that because their filthy habits are on their consciences. They seem to want someone to reassure them that it's normal to have a pigsty of a room. To soothe their conscience. This woman doesn't have a conscience. Well she does, but it's an uninformed one. She lives in ga-ga denial and delusional land. All she thinks about is how she looks and how much she weighs. And how many words she can speak without taking a breath. Women should be kinder to their gums and give them a rest now and again. Anyway she opened the door on her bedroom due to this compulsion modern women have about being independent and owning a house, yet not owning a conscience or a brain. There was a mountain of clothes on the bed, and floor. It was hard to tell it was a bedroom. It looked like someone had upturned a Vinnies or Salvos charity dumpster bin in her room. I could have gone to the Brisbane Zoo and asked where is the pig pen, if I really wanted to see a sight similar to her room. But it didn't occur to me at the time.
I really didn't give a rat's arse or a shit about the state of her room. I was more interested in the room I was going to be living in. This was about me. I'm gradually adapting to modern life and taking on a 'life is all about me' mentality. It's not working. Life isn't about me. It's about what goes on around me. Anyway, back to the story. Where was I? Oh, that's right. So to cut a really long story a little bit less lengthy, I ended up taking the room in her house. $130/week. The usual thing. Two weeks rent in advance for bond. Two weeks rent in advance for rent. $520 later I had a room.
So, I'm living there and doing my job: Junk Mail and Local Rag (newspaper) deliveries disguised as a postie (So I can ride on the footpath and the cops [PIGS] think I'm a postie, not an ex-postie. Etc. Blah, blah, blah.
When you deliver junk mail or the local rag, these companies employ truck drivers. The truck driver dumps a shitload of junk mail or local rags on your doorstep and it's your job to collate, fold, rubber band, plastic wrap, and deliver them to the designated houses. (I'm delivering crap in Daisy Hill/Shailer Park/Cornubia - Yuppie-ville in the southern suburbs of Brisbane). I chose those suburbs because they're close to the share accommodation place, and it's very hilly, and I have a postie bike, and they pay more for difficult areas where there are hills. I like choosing the difficult options in life. I'm like your local SPAM man. I rock up on my postie bike and deliver the Coles, Woolies, Dick Smith catalogues etc.
And I'm also in competiton with Jim's Mowing. I take a pair of secateurs with me, and trim the excess foliage from the footpaths and around the mailboxes. People look at me strangely and must think, Why is that postie gardening? But I don't mind. The local postie must love me. He has a lot better mail run since I turned up.
Anyway, this OCD woman also had another bloke share-accommodating at her house. This guy. I'll call him Alan. Alan mopes around the house thinking about his dead mother and how his brother is living in his dead mother's house and how he technically owns half of the house and how they haven't resolved the matter due to the fact they got lawyers involved, who basically just suck all your inheritance out of you under the pretence of resolving the situation. Alan's got a dicky leg. And he works at a framing factory because he's got no self confidence, no self-esteem and is basically a loser of a metrosexual man who has turned into an old woman. He talks without taking a breath or giving his gums a break, just like old women do.
So there's me. This really great bloke. Sharing a house with two morons. And I'm listening to their life stories. The woman. I'll call her Bec. Cos that's her name. She talks about her weight loss. Alan talks about his dead mother and his evil brother. I sit there and listen to them both dribble shit while I sort and collate and plastic-wrap junk mail and copies of the local rag. Out the back on the patio. I hear the same stories over and over again. "My dead mother." "My weight loss." I'm living with morons again. And to think I quit Orble to mix with some decent people.
Bec tells me about her wayward son. I'll call him Josh cos that's his name. Josh smokes dope and drinks whiskey and plays those stupid computer games with his mates at his mother's house. He's banned from the house because they had wild drug parties. So he's living there. Bec doesn't want him there. But he is there. She can't deal with anything real. She tells me he's banned, and so are his mates. Then they all come around and she stands there like a goldfish which has just had all the water drained from its bowl. As though someone should get Josh and his mates to leave. As long as it's not her. Because that would mean dealing with reality. And she's not into reality.
So I'm living there, doing my job, and mild placid Alan goes berserk one night. I used a bit of his washing line to string up a fleuro light so I could see. Bec doesn't like light. She might see her flabby bits. She prefers 10W globes in the house so you can't see Jack Shit. I nearly ate the cat for breakfast. I thought it was a Cornflake.
So, Alan, who is a metrosexual pansy wanker decides I really should leave the share accommodation place because his whole world has been disrupted. He spends three days sulking in his room and refusing to talk to me. So I talked to him. I said, "Have you always been a bully and a sook?" That didn't go down too well.
Bec's boyfriend is some metro pansy. I said to her, "There's far too many metrosexuals in this world." That didn't go down to well either.
So it became a ridgy-didge conspiracy to remove me from the share-accommodation place. But how to do it? When both people are virtual and can't deal with the realities of life.
Ring the police.
So the police come around. Three Woppos (female police officers). All three look like they've just finished blogging. I refuse to speak to them. It's a domestic matter, not a police matter. So they eventually leave. Like the nasty blogger.
But bugger me dead, I've got an outstanding warrant for an unpaid traffic infringement. So they return to arrest me. No big deal. Go to the cop shop. Do the business. Get bailed and pay the fine.
Not in Queensland. The cops at the Beenleigh watch-house/cells on drag (night shift) like a bit of recreation. They beat the living shit out of anyone who comes in there. So three of these pigs grab me and kick and punch me for about five minutes, then throw me on the floor of the padded cell and stomp all over my head and back with their police boots. How lovely. Police corruption is alive and well in Qld. Forget Underbelly ... get out from behind the pc and live.
About 7am the next morning they let me out of the padded cell and put me in the holding cell with all the other criminals. We get a cup of tea. A bloke asks me what I'm in for. I say, "Not wearing a chin strap on my motorcycle helmet and riding a motorcylce with a blood alcohol level of .07 What are you in for?" He says, "Armed Robbery and Murder. I'm a good bloke but I turn into a prick if someone pushes my buttons." I say, "I won't be pushing your buttons." He gets it. He's smart but really dumb. To get caught. We have a lot in common. So we have a chat about his armed robberies. Apparently if you commit an armed robbery you kill the police because it's either you or them. He tells me he's a local and knows all the local coppers. Blah blah blah. We walk back and forth in the cell as though one of us is about to give birth, and we're in a maternity ward. He says, "You have to keep moving in here. There's nothing else to do." I had to agree.
I think I walked 25 kilometres that morning. At 1pm they finally call me up, and I go to the magistrates court. That takes about two minutes. The magistrate says. $400 fine. 2 months loss of licence.
I get my property back. And leave. Catch a cab back to the share accommodation place. Pack up my stuff and leave. Book into a caravan park down the road. Which is a lot better value. It has a swimming pool.
I'd rather live life with all its dramas and torments than spend my day on the net living in virtual ga-ga land. Been there, done that. It's a bullshit way to live. I'm not saying I want the shit beaten out of me every night by three corrupt Qld coppers but life was meant to be lived. There's plenty to write about if you live. If you don't live or engage in life, you become a full-time blogger. And pontificate. I'll pontificate and live. And if you don't like it? Bad luck.
Anyway I've got junk mail to sort.
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Comment by Teresa Ralton
MRS SMITH
READ THIS
SISTERS IN CRIME
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
I am a funny bloke. Very few people appreciate my caustic sense of humour.
I'd like to meet Chuck Palinhuik (who wrote Fight Club). And punch him out. He made shitloads more of money from his writing. [Only joking. I love Fight Club. I'm more of a John Doe fan anyway. I can relate to him. He likes vomiting on people due to their penchant for living lives of bland mediocrity].
I used to be quite a nice bloke till I signed up for the net. Nowadays though, I prefer to abuse people. I'm very people-intolerant. They all think life is about them, whereas it's all about me. Don't worry. I'll edumacate them.
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
Dont worry about it. Most of the people on the net are a bunch of tossers. Ignore most of them or delete them [before they do it to you].
Comment by Teresa Ralton
MRS SMITH
READ THIS
SISTERS IN CRIME
Comment by Lilla
From The Home Front
Enviro Warrior
Dream Herald
Esoteric Bookshop
I am so terribly appalled and saddened to hear of your *adventures* out into the non virtual jungle of Q*s suburban wilderness and law enforcement ..(..and I use the term lightly) .. reality. Unlike in here in virtual land, I guess things are not always as they seem out there *chuckle* obviously, one has to be careful in any landscape : especially of folk who look so apple pie *normal* in the *real* world? Perhaps a good rule of thumb is to look for weird and *out there* next time and just blend in there?
Actually Becs younger brothers drug house? .. sounds like it would probably be the sanest, safest place to be, compared to the *normal* you experienced?
*still shaking my head in disbelief*
I truly hope you are on the mend and feeling better today and that you took lots of pictures of the bruises. One thing about caravan parks, is that they have a great atmosphere, which can be so healing, not to mention a swim at the end of a long hot day of delivering all those forests to the deceived.
Going to start a campaign to recycle junk mail into newer, recycled junk mail, *lol*
EnviroLilla ..
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
I didn't realise there was another one. I'll have a look and delete it okay?
I'd do it right now but I'm busy drinking.
Comment by Teresa Ralton
MRS SMITH
READ THIS
SISTERS IN CRIME
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
My main concern atm is not my physical injuries. I can live with them. I bought two K-Mart pillows last night and had a great sleep. I also bought a monster fan to cool this caravan park cabin down. It's sitting on the floor atm blowing a cool breeze into my face. I'm going to leave it on permanently and suffer the consequences (As in, pay the electricity bill. Which will be huge. I'm sure it will blow out to at least $10/wk).
If I want to have roast lamb, all I have to do is turn the fan off, shut the windows and doors of this cabin and just put the meat and vegies on the floor, go out for half and hour, and then come back and lick it up off the floor like a dog.
As for the police? I'll be writing a "nice" letter to the Police Corruption Commission detailing all the details. I might even take photos of my injuries, but I'm a bit concerned that the women police will see them and neglect their duties to satisfy themselves. I'm a very modest person. I like to keep my nether bits hidden. It adds to the excitement when women get their gear off.
Have you ever noticed that women have great breasts?
I really should do some work.
RecycleDavid.
Comment by Kleonaptra
Kalikapsychosis
*Giggles* from me. The darker topics suit you well.
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
I bought a portable fleuro light. I'm stepping out of the dark into the light.
Comment by Lilla
From The Home Front
Enviro Warrior
Dream Herald
Esoteric Bookshop
Hmmmm, I see your point, although those police women sound like they deserve to suffer a little bit, too?
As for breasts on women, well I have noticed differences ... but I doubt they have the same affect on me as they do for you?
L.
Comment by Janet Collins
Acceptable Etiquette
The Social Critic
Janet Collins Blog
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
It's not the woppos that concern me. It's the three thugs in police uniforms who bashed, kicked and stomped on me.
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
The post blog look is one of smugness and superiority. Don't you have a mirror when you blog? I thought everyone did.
Comment by Damo
You had me at the wrinkled Barbie.
That Share house sounds just like classrooms and classrooms sound just like blogs.