Monday, December 15, 2008

Did FDB and the Media kill a 15-year-old Boy?

Call to overhaul cyber-racism laws

Asher Moses
December 15, 2008 - 12:24PM

“One racist nationalist group that has grabbed the spotlight following the shooting death of Tyler Cassidy, 15, by police in Melbourne last week is the Southern Cross Soldiers. The group uses MySpace to recruit Australians such as Cassidy to violently defend their country against migrants

In the meantime, Henderson-Hau has decided to use the proliferation of racist groups on Facebook and MySpace to his advantage, mining the sites for valuable information on the far-right such as photographs and the connections between individuals and groups across national borders.
He said Fight dem back! stored this data until it became useful.
"For example, Johnny X may have pics on his Facebook or MySpace of him doing a Heil Hitler salute in his boots and braces," Henderson-Hau said.
"Johnny X might one day wind up pitching for a government contract for his plumbing business. That is when those pictures would be sent to the relevant authorities."”

Who supplies the Police with info? Who collects info from Face Book accounts and then passes that information along with an Intelligence report to the Police? Mathew Henderson Hau does. And what do the Police do with this info? Well they use it to make an assessment of a possible NAZI. What was the brief that the Police were given on Tyler? Did it come from FDB? Probably. It’s a game to them but a game that gets people killed. Sure the Police shot this boy. But FDB and the media loaded the gun.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

After admitting to enjoying child abuse and vandalism online, Matthew-Henderson Hau has no moral authority to be contacting any employer about their employees political persuasion, especially after writing the following on his blog in 2004 (still waiting on that Pulitzer Prize winning book, Matty!)


16 February 2004:

Fat kids

“I have discovered a new sport. It is a cross between tenpin bowling, ironman and Turkish mud wrestling. I don't yet have a name for it; maybe one of my erstwhile readers will concoct something based on the following description.

The game is played in the surf, in rough surf with decent booming waves. Instead of simply bodysurfing and catching waves into shore for the pure physio-aesthetic appeal of it, you catch waves and bodysurf whilst aiming your trajectory at very fat children, the aim being to scatter them like tenpins. Now, I've always had time for fat kids, I think they're a fantastic source of visual entertainment.

Saturday was a bumper crop; I waded out into the surf and cast my eyes around for prospective targets. I spy a cluster of five or six little fat cunts, all of them resplendent with the best man bosoms you've ever seen, one of them is wearing a mini wetsuit and you can make out each goddam individual roll of chubber - he was squeaking as he walked.

I swam out past the sandbank and waited for the next set to come in. I lined myself up with the target, moved a few metres to the south to allow for the current, looked back and saw my wave approaching. I sprang up from the ocean floor and hooked myself on it perfectly, keeping my torso ahead of the break; I steamed towards my Burger King sponsored tenpins like a fucking rocket.


They were all waist deep in the water midway through the sandbank when my head collided with their blubber. I must say, it was probably the softest and most bouncy collision (intentional or otherwise) I've ever been involved with.

They scattered. One flew back on his arse and then rolled over on his back; another two clashed heads and stumbled over sideways. Their leader, who I christened "Double beef, bacon and cheese" - or "D-BAC" for short, managed to hold his footing by virtue of his superior weight; the waves could have broken against him all day and he would have remained as immovable as a fucking lighthouse.

I didn't see where the rest of my targets lay but I took a great deal of pleasure in watching them dedicate a weeks worth of physical exertion to the basic primal activity of getting back off their arses. They heaved, grunted, sweated and mumbled obscenities as they re-grouped. I duck dived and swam back out, waiting for another ideal wave¦.

As I rose for my first gulp of air in what seemed like hours, I bore witness to a repeat of the spectacle I'd just witnessed. Fat little cunts all struggling to get back on their feet, some of them hobbling now and a very pissed off looking D-BAC clutched his jaw and shot me daggers. I felt it pertinent to say something so I chirped out the usual up-beat apology that one offers in mid-surf collisions and made my way back out to the catching ‚

It wasn't the most ideal wave but it held up for long enough to give me some serious steam, this time I wasn't going to make it look like an accident. I torpedoed on towards them with arms outstretched and fists clenched, legs kicking like a madman to build up even more speed.

Q-PAC was the first to notice and he yelled a warning to the others but it was too late. D-BAC took my impact head on, well 'belly-on' anyway. He was finally dislodged arse over tit, signalling an end to the game and a victory to yours truly. The rest of them lay in a similar manner of physical disarray, moaning, groaning and (here is where I felt a bit too slack), one of them was actually bawling!

M. posted by Darp @ 12:06 PM

Thursday, February 19, 2004

Dear Phyllis (I've given assumed names to both of my player haters here).You use the term 'beat up' FFFFAAAAAAAAATTTT kids at the beach. I don't think I ever beat any of them up, I rocketed into them at a million miles per hour and scattered them like the little lard-bucket ten-pins they are but I never actually beat them up. THEY CRIED BECAUSE THEY LOST THE GAME, not because they were hurt!If any of them got hurt during our little game maybe they should take a look at their own lack of speed and dexterity - see, if they weren't roly poly fat little fuckers, they would have had agility to avoid my cannon ball runs and thus NOT be hurt.That is that issue settled. YES, I think it is funny to laugh at fat children. HA HA HA HA BLOODY HA HA HA HA."

From '
Monday 1st December 2003:

What with all the fart-arsing around I did in Melbs, (sic) I haven't had time to shave my nut-sack. As I hopped into the shower this morning I gave my pubic region a quick glance.

It looked like Chewbacca after a fight. Soon fixed that up.

Most of you know I had a few issues with my hotel in Melbourne and that I took a few steps to leave my mark upon the place. It seems I can't stay in any overnight accommodation without doing something evil to the carpet, the bathroom or the bedroom curtains. So here, dear readers is my guide to trashing hotel rooms.

Firstly, you gotta (sic) get the whole "Keith Richards TV out the window", Rock Star type trashing. The sort of shit I do is much more subtle and undetectable at least for a few days. It's also much more expensive to clean up and much more damaging to the proprietor seen (sic) as they usually cannot use a room I've just vacated - not until the fumigators have finished anyway.

1) Take a dump in a brown paper bag and squash it flat. Hide a few of these under the bed, behind paintings and under the fridge. In a few days time they'll know about it

2) Empty out the ice-cube tray and refill it with piss. Re-freeze it.

3) Piss on the carpet.

4) Empty all teabags and coffee sachets into the bed.

5) Put a condom on the door handle.

6) Piss in the flower vase.

7) Piss in the kettle.

CoolBasically piss everywhere except IN the dunny bowl.

9) Fill the bathtub to the brim then drop the bedside clock radio into the tub, remembering to unplug it first.

10) Make your own bath stew; load it up with towels, Maccas (sic) leftovers, milk, the Gideon if you're REALLY feeling evil and leave it to brew for a day or so prior to your leaving. Remember to put the "Don't clean my room" sign on your door.

11) Hide food scraps and unwashed cereal bowls in not so obvious places like the dryer, under the bed covers, the washing machine, the drying closet and the mini bar.

12) Empty out the Scotch, Bourbon and Brandy mini bottles and replace them with piss. Drink a Berocca before hand to ensure colour consistency.

13) NEVER wipe your feet.

14) Upon leaving, put a turd in the microwave and/or the dryer and cook em up. The stench is kinda instantaneous so you gotta (sic) check the fuck outa (sic) there pretty quick.

15) Deny everything.