Too Good to Check

A friend sent this.  I don’t know how to check it, and anyway that’s not the point.  This primal scream is a fine example of how dangerous and stupid statism is, and wonderfully reminds us how important it is to fight against the statists, all the while remembering to laugh at them.  And ourselves, of course…


Here you go:


This is an actual letter sent to the DFAT (Department of Foreign
Affairs and Trade) Immigration Minister. The Government tried
desperately to censure the author, but got nowhere because every
legal person who read it nearly wet themselves laughing!

Dear Mr Minister, 
I’m in the process of renewing my passport, and still cannot believe this.
How is it that K-Mart has my address and telephone number, and knows
that I bought a television set, a golf clubs and 6 condoms from them back in 1997,
and yet the Federal Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date?
For Christ sakes, do you guys do this by hand? 

My birth date you have in my Medicare information, and it is on all
the income tax forms I’ve filed for the past 40 years.. 

It is also on my driver’s licence, on the last eight passports I’ve ever had, on all those
stupid customs declaration forms I’ve had to fill out before being allowed off planes
over the past 30  years. 

It’s also on all those insufferable census forms that I’ve filled out every 5 years since 1966.
Also…  would somebody please take note, once and for all, that my mother’s name is
Audrey, my father’s name is Jack, and I’d be absolutely fucking astounded if that ever
changed between now and when I drop dead!!!… 

What the hell do you people do with all this information we keep having to provide??
I apologise, Mr. Minister.  But I’m really pissed off this morning.. 

Between you and me, I’ve had enough of all this bullshit! 

You send the application to my house, then you ask me for my  address!!
What the hell is going on with your mob?  Have you got a gang of mindless
Neanderthal arseholes working there! 

And another thing, look at my damn picture. …  Do I look like Bin Laden?
I can’t even grow a beard for God’s  sakes. I just want to go to  New Zealand  and see
my new granddaughter..  (Yes, my son interbred with a Kiwi girl). And would someone
please tell  me, why would you give a shit whether or not I plan on visiting a farm in the
next 15 days? In the unlikely event I ever got the urge to do something weird to a sheep
or a horse, believe you me, I’d  sure as hell not want to tell anyone! 

Well, I have to go now, ’cause I have to go to the other side of  Sydney, and get another
fucking copy of my birth certificate – and to part with another $80 for the privilege of

Would  it be so complicated to have all the services in the same spot, to assist in the
issuance of a new passport on the same day?? 

Nooooo..  that ‘d  be far too fucking easy.  
You would much prefer to have us running all over the bloody place and then have to find some ‘high-society’ wanker to confirm that it’s  really me in the goddamn photo! You know the photo… the one where we’re not allowed to smile?!.

Signed – An Irate Australian Citizen. 

P.S. Remember what I said above about the picture, and getting
someone in ‘high-society’ to confirm that it’s me? Well, my family
has been in this country since before 1820!  In 1856, one of my
forefathers took up arms with Peter Lalor. (You do remember the
Eureka  Stockade!!)

I have also served in both the CMF and regular Army for something
over 30  years (I went to Vietnam in 1967), and still have high
security clearances. I’m also a personal friend of the president of
the RSL… and Lt General Peter Cosgrove sends me a Christmas card
each year.

However, your rules require that I have to get someone “important” to
verify who I am; You know… someone like my doctor -who was born in Pakistan
!!!…… a country where they either assassinate or hang their ex-Prime Ministers 
 – and are suspended from the Commonwealth and United Nations for not having the “right sort of government”.

You are all a pen pushing paper shuffling pack of pricks.!


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