Phonecards Accepted Here.
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A Once Upon A Time in a happy land not far away yet many moons ago before our secret-handshaking Masters of Slavelandia sold off all hope for the future and more importantly, the future of the next generations who will likely be born and raised in tents, for whatever personal gain our Masters are secretly receiving but it must be some helluva good backdoor deal they got going for themselves we'll never know about considering how many ANZACS were slaughtered to stop what is happening from happening, not by an invading occupying army but a wholesomely traitor Chameleon called Guv who has invited in legions of hardworking, cashed-up voting property afficionadoes who, working two and three jobs atime to pay off a 3/4 million dollar mortgage have transformed that way of life into our 'new normal' way of life as dictated by the reality of supply versus demand, or, to paint a not-so-rosy picture, like tossing a well-fed lamb into a kennel with a hundred starving dogs Kim Jong-Un style, only instead of a lamb, Kim tossed in his Uncle which is kind of what has been done to the post-Gen Z folks. But our obscenely rich politician/secret-society handshake bretheren have the antidote for these broke-arse 'battlers' in the form of digital anaesthesia where the desperate reality of the present and future to come shall be numbed amidst an endless glow of a 120-herz hyper-addictive 6.2 inch shot to the brain that lasts all day and most of the night . This 'new normal' reality in 'the lucky country', all but denied by our Chameleon Guv who as 'public servants' vote for their own disgustingly frequent pay raises and call-out vocal opposition to Big Australia as the voice of a bigoted minority of racist White Supremacists, are very well aware and comfortable in keeping the wage-slave mice running on their wheel of total worship called Economy as evidenced by their maintenance of the wheel and pledge to get that wheel spinning yet faster by throwing ever-more mice onto it. That way, the mouse on a wheel, always in a state of running, feels he is getting ahead through his efforts though in reality, gets nowhere and achieves nothing apart from prematurely fucking the joints in their legs as well as generating just enough electrical charge for the Chameleon to keep his heater on, thus warming his cold reptilian blood in the night. Thus our Wheel-Maintenance Engineers called Guv-Corp, having all but sealed the fate of the next generation of youngsters to a life on a fast wheel going nowhere while unhappily living at home caring for, or not caring for, mum and dad until they as grey-haired dribblers finally kick the bucket mid-sentence while recounting a story about how everything changed after September 11. And as for the new mice keeping that wheel spinning atever greater supersonic speeds? What are some hobbies and interests that now make up this diversely flavoursome hot pot? Wholesome recreational pursuits such as punching high-velocity holes in elderly folks at festivals, taking photos of their kids on holidays abroad..holding decapitated heads, working elaborate scams ripping off 'vulnerable Australians' such as the elderly and disabled through taxpayer-funded schemes, driving over attendees at Christmas Markets in the old SUV and swinging the trusty machetes while robbing mo-fo's and elderly women for their handbags and car keys in shopping centre car parks and homes. All this while so many descendants of the ANZACS whom the Chameleons revere in word but not deed, are now living in parks and tents and sleeping rough in houses with twelve relatives, but since the old sacrificial lamb soldiers are now all gone our Stockyard Traders can dance on their graves every April 25th shedding tears of joy, having consolidated power have decided we aren't worth a tinned shit and sold us on to multinational corporate abbatoirs have enacted the Kalergi Plan and turned the imported tsunami of a guaranteed voting base of cultists from abroad by the gazillions as matter of policy in this sham of a democracy into something of an art form, making it sound like by destroying us they are actually helping us at the behest of their Alpine Handlers at the Head Office in Swissy Land to destroy all that was once good to the point we're at now where its Christmas Time and you just know there's gonna be yet more mass casualty cultural-enrichment SUV-style inflicted by your fellow diverse new countrymen that conceal their true selves and don't quite hold the same values as you despite your vote-lusting grub Prime Minister not wanting to upset his fly-in voting base yet unable to stop waffling on over and over and over how we're all Australian despite the body-count because its the guns that get radicalised apparently and go apeshit, not the fly-in, fly-out lunatic holding it who just turned up at Sydney or Melbourne or Brisbane Airport from a Jihadi-training camp in their hometown shithole along with a fourteen year-old ISIS bride or two and her 18 kids where they teach these evil arseholes how to bite the hand that feeds them their Centrelink by murdering unsuspecting citizens in cold-blood but now he's back-'home'(here) smiling and calling you mate-this, my-friend that like youre old friends that can no longer attend mass-gatherings and unfortunately you have to warn your children off attending any public social gathering lest they get culturally-enriched compost-style by some homicidal dung-beetle who had a few too many puffs on the pixie-pipe with a murderous fascination with the moon down at the local Alan's Snackbar scene.
No. This painting reaches further back to a time when the people were free-range and not handicapped by those cursed things they just can't put down. A time before the country became a Stockyard with the livestock sold to the highest bidder. A time when the hardworking servants, chimneysweeps, farriers, manure-scoopers, gum-off-the-sidewalk-scratchers and townsfolk in general of the sleepy Hamlets and Burbs were more or less the same. Same as in no more alike or different to the lad or lassie next door or across the street. Equally unimportant you might say. Everyday hardworking folks with the same generic problem sets their ancestors have had all the way back through history to the days when fellas running around the tundra with clubs wearing nothing more than fig-leaf dick-togs worked out a better way ie; wolf skin coveralls like Conan the Barbarian, to cover more skin and more importantly, cover more of his old lady's skin while keeping warm so less fellow warriors would come sniffin' around her when Vlad was out on a hunt chasing Bison around the vast ball-shrinking Siberian ice-box. Back then and all the way up to the late Twentieth Century little changed with the problem sets the working man faced. They enjoyed good food, they enjoyed bad food, they enjoyed food that rotted their guts and at the same time rotted their teeth. They swilled down cheap liquor into the early hours of the morning before calling in sick to work without a hint of regret. Many even enjoyed drunkenly hitting on alluring vixens down at the pub after work while the missus was at home caring for her 18 children, all of them with nits. Yes. They were the same, yet still so different. Different to the mice running on a great spinning wheel going nowhere called Economy most have become today. A time people were more than two-legged rats gnawing flesh off the weak for a buck or two. A time when innovation and progress wasn't coerced? Didn't sicken and enslave? A time less pressed? A time less expensive? Less invasively crowded real-estate wise? Less traffic congestion? Less eyes, two eyes and not five. Less pessimism, more optimism in the ventricles of our hearts that are hopefully not clogged with fatty plaque from the excesses that became habits of the day. A time one could happily go days on end without either making or receiving a phonecall and the world didnt end or split in pieces because back then everyone knew absence made the heart grow fonder and when that beige Telstra button phone hanging on the wall did ring you could bet it was always when you were in the shower with shampoo in your eyes or down the backyard and would stop just as you picked it up and then spend the next hour wondering who the Hell it couldve been because they didn't call back like some dodgy-AF foreign scammer that says he's from 'the bank' and wants you to verify your details by providing your PIN and account number for the fifth time today.A local call cost forty cents and bills were received in the mail itemising every long distance phone call and was paid at the post office to someone who knew your name and identity theft was something only the Bond villains in the Saturday Night movie would engage in for SMERSH and for extra privacy there was the local phone booth with the White Pages to look up a girl's number and there were no hook-ups, only hang-ups if her dad answered the phone and didn't like you and if you had a dollar left over you'd prank call some random number and ask if Mr Wall was there or Mrs Wall or any of the Walls and if not they'd better get out before the roof caved in, all the while writing your buddies phone number on the wall of the booth promising any prospective callers a good time. An STD was what they called a long distance phonecall and not something you catch and on the walk home with a Pepsi in your hand and your $1.20 spent it was quiet and looking up at the early night sky you saw stars and what you didn't see was 51, 52, 53 surveillance cameras of different size, shape and style looking down on you like the Sword of Damosceles waiting to drop and a fellow felt more alive when he wasnt being recorded the moment he stepped out of his front door like the Truman Shit Show our society has become today. A time when you owned a phone and the phone didn't own you like nowadays 99.99% of the folks you pass in the street or the shops just stare down at those cursed vortexes into oblivion with faces like they've just been into a bottle of Mum's Little Helpers aka Valium an hour before and when you ask them anything you got to repeat the question three or four times because the cerebral synapses just aren't firing no more since they've been eating that Apple that isn't a fruit at all and unless your question is about something on Netflix or TikTok or Facebook or Instagram well you get that 'hey, aren't you that Jeffrey Dahmer fella?' look because in 'em the hook is deep and they no longer own a phone because their phone and all the illness of the world wide spiders web owns them like flies stuck wriggling in that web and just waiting to be ate.
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Time to time you can still see those neglected booths and wish, just like Doctor Who the old one, that i could hop inside the Telstra Tardis, close the door even though they don't have those doors any more that would jam your fingers and nearly amputate them and punch in a number on the key pad to correspond to a year to jump back to Tartaria though not so far back like Cher to the 1680's where a fellow could quick die of the plague because a person with eyes that see beyond the hypnotic glow of their fake AF A.I generated content can see that something is seriously amiss in our midst.
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Enter the 'voluntary' (temporarily like that other get-rich-quick scheme called COVID vaccine) Digital ID.
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The phone booth depicted is outside the Grandchester Hotel along Ipswich Street, Grandchester, QLD.