Feminist agenda’s ugly truth finally exposed

“We want men to die,” admit feminists
“Holy shit, we were right?!?!” exclaim Men’s Rights Activists

The horrifying truth is out: feminists want men to go extinct. These were the exact words spoken by Leader of all the feminists everywhere, Anita Hooks.

”We’ve gotten away with so much,” she admitted in a terrifying one-on-one interview with Muse and Abuse, “and that’s because we hid so cleverly.”

Hooks outlined how feminists kept up a decades-long clever and carefully-constructed façade of equality shrouded in the false search for equal rights and pay, while paying false and disingenuous lip service to ‘seeking legislation that respects women and gives them power and control over their lives and bodies’ – and all to cover up a dark plot to enact global genocide against men.

”We were so devious, so cunning,” she admitted. “It was bold and crafty how we pretended to give a shit about the education, health, dignity and civil rights of women across the world, just to veil our secret desire to drive a wooden stake deep into the heart of men the world over. By saying, ‘listen, we’re not unreasonable demons – we just want to be treated like we’re not sex-craving, brainless sandwich-making dogs you can stick your dick in whenever you want’ we hid our evil in plain sight for years. And we would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for those pesky MRAs.”

The official feminist manifesto, which is being seen for the first time by eyes outside the secret underground society of man-hating, Woolf-reading, placard-making feminazis, has also finally been unearthed. On it are many hundreds of very terrifying goals, including “Castrate and behead all men, making sure to abort all male foetuses”, “make Tumblr the only website on the internet”, “kill jokes and comedy forever with overly sensitive Politically Correct controls and trigger warnings”, “Finally establish the All-Female 1000-year Fourth Reich” and, perhaps most terrifying of all, “remove guns and bikinis and boobs from videogames”.

Meanwhile, Men’s Rights Activists across the world have reacted with surprise and glee.

“I knew it!” said renowned MRA writer and admin of www.reversesexism.net, Staü Mannings, tipping his fedora and scratching his neckbeard with Doritos-stained index-finger. “I’ve been saying this for years. I mean, for a while there even I thought what we were saying and doing was merely spreading misogynistic and hateful slurs, verbal attacks, a constant stream of abuse and countless death threats, but I’m glad to see that was true, justified and significant discourse all along.”

Court finds MRA misogynist “deserved” to be assaulted, murdered

Justice has been served today, after the South African Supreme Court acquitted and released a man wrongfully charged with murder, saying that the victim’s dress sense, irresponsibility and consumption of alcoholic beverages proved that he was “asking for it”.

28-year-old Eric Manson was cleared of all charges of murdering well-known men's rights blogger and Men's Rights Activist, Andrew Hamaray, after courts looking into some of Andrew's compelling posts on the internet found that "it only makes sense, really".

”Some might consider this a sickening, heinous crime, and our judgement a gross usurpation and betrayal of the very idea of justice,” said Supreme Justice Victor Ree, “but we have to ask ourselves very important questions, like ‘what was he wearing at the time?’ and ‘why was he in a dangerous area alone at night?’ and even ‘how much did he drink before being stabbed multiple times in the chest and neck?’”.

Judges examined what was soon revealed to be very damning evidence.

“First of all, he was wearing an expensive, Italian leather jacket,” said Ree, counting the condemning proofs off with his fingers. “He was flashing around his wallet and talking openly on his phone in a risky part of town, and he had drunk a lot of alcohol before the incident. This leaves one conclusion: that he was asking to be robbed and butchered. That it was his fault.”

This judgement is supported strongly by police testimony.

“He waited almost three hours to report the crime,” said the sergeant on duty who took the initial statement. “Why? And don’t give me that ‘he was bleeding to death in a hospital’ bullshit. If this crime was so serious he would have reported it immediately, ICU life-suppport or not.”

Lawyers representing the wrongfully accused agreed, asking why the alleged victim waited so long to come forward to be slandered and discredited by their legal team.

“If they had really had a case based on facts and truth, they would have come forward to be belittled and attacked by us and rabid social media users much, much earlier than they did.”

So strong has the initial evidence been that police have not even needed to consult forensic evidence.

“The fingerprints we took from the scene and blood samples are sitting in their kit on a dusty shelf in the evidence room,” said the sergeant. “It’s clear that we don’t need any more evidence. Real men don't get robbed.”

Social media has also voiced its opinion, emphasising its agreement with the judge’s findings.

“He was an affluent manwhore prick," said one of many thousands of comments that weren't made under anonymity. "All these Men’s Rights Activists make me sick, saying men should be allowed to wear what they want and drink what they want. They should just STFU and go back to the garage repairing cars where they belong."

Family of the man have fully supported the court’s decision, saying, "we stand by Drew's words."

“Drew was always very vocal about the issues he cared about on social media, and never failed to air these exact same opinions on his twitter page,” they said. “We accept the court’s findings. Really, when you look at it closely, it’s what Dan would have wanted.”

Drug dealers to hire white Uni students as quality control

Following the widespread crackdown on low-quality or ‘cut’ narcotics, drug lords are working with white university students to launch a new joint campaign today, aimed at inspiring faith in the minds of their customer basis.

These white university students will reportedly work as quality control personnel, so as to combat the rising lack of trust by buyers and reassure loyal customers that they're getting "the good shit".

“When you think of a lot of the controversies we face – like with other unethical dealers selling coke cut with flour, or meth cut with powdered glass, or even selling aspirin and calling it X – we just don’t want to be branded with the same iron,” said 39-year-old marijuana dealer and lecturer of Ethnic Musicology Aaron Winters. “So how can we reassure our buyers that this really is some good shit? Well, the answer is simple: white university students.”

Research has indicated that many white university students – especially those who wear obscene amounts of red, green and yellow and listen to “real music, not that fake sellout shallow radio pop” – are veritable weed quality bloodhounds, able to tell if a weed is strong or good, often with just one sniff. And students agree.

“Man, I remember this one time I had a friend over to do the weed, and he just opened the bag and said, ‘oh yeah dude, this is some really good stuff’,” said 23-year-old university student Jake Henderson. “I’m really glad he was there. I know he isn’t a legally qualified chemical analyst and that he doesn’t have the decades’ long experience in trying various kinds, brands and strengths of Maria Jay necessary to make such a judgement, but without him, I probably wouldn’t even gotten high when we injected the chronic into our arms.”

The dealer-certified Post Grad student in Philosophy of Art was reportedly on top form, and upon opening the small bank baggie immediately remarked “oh man this smells good”, “yeah this is some good stuff you can definitely smell it”, “so cheesy” and “god I wanna live in here”, before commenting that the contents were “not too harsh, but not too sweet” and “would probably give you like a really mellow high”.

“Oh, I’ve faced my fair share of scepticism,” said the quality control expert, 24-year-old Bradley Jeff Johnson. “A lot of people will say ‘you’re just saying that to make people feel obliged to share the spliff’ and ‘oh, tell us again how you’re the Heston Blumental of Skunk’, but they go quiet when I inform them that I own an acoustic guitar and am in the process of getting sick dreads. Sure, lots of people say that these aren’t really indications, but then they shut up completely when they realise I take Ethic Music Studies and African History as majors, play up to 2 hours of Hacky Sack a day, have an extensive vinyl collection of Bob Marley albums, and punctuate every sentence with ‘chill’ and ‘mellow vibe’.”

He added that he reads, like, several weed websites and regularly hands out fliers to people to show people the truth about this misunderstood plant.

The reaction has so far been positive.

“We’re really seeing some great feedback,” said Winters. “When it comes to weed, we’ve learned that white university students are like patchy-bearded white hipsters talking about 'real' photography, or old white guys sniffing a glass of wine with a ponderous, thoughtful expression glinting in their slightly-squinting, into-the-distance-peering eyes telling us which wines are good.”

Newspapers don’t publish

Newstands and paper racks across the world were utterly bare yesterday, after news organisations worldwide failed to publish a single newspaper because “nothing bad happened”.

“As we all know, traumatic, horrifying, shallow or fear-mongering stories are our bread and butter,” said News Media Expert Ngud Gnuus. “But yesterday, there was no war, no famine, no murder, no rapes, no burglaries, no car accidents… nothing. How can we make a 24-page newspaper if no one dies or does something that makes you want to draw the curtains, stay locked indoors all day or just straight-out kill yourself?”

Gnuus went on to say that, despite the ever-worsening conflict in the Gaza strip and between Israel and Palestine, deeping strife and socioeconomic disparities across the seven continents and rampant crime rates, there was somehow nothing bad enough happening out of which to make an endlessly repeating loop of controversy and stern-anchored news coverage.

“It makes no sense, we know, but nothing bad happened. Usually there are any thousands of examples which we can shock and horrify you with, but yesterday it was only good stuff. How can we possibly sell papers with that?”

However, some newspapers have decided to rise to the challenge, releasing small online reports in spite of yesterday’s paucity of source material.

“We’ve decided to put a different spin on it,” said Editor of CNN Deborah Hardings. “We have headlines like World braces itself for inevitable explosion of crime, death and Bus full of School kids will definitely careen off road into ravine and blow up tomorrow, say experts. If the news media knows one thing, it’s how to turn no story into the top story of the day. Just look at any news story where our cameras and microphones are outside in the street or at a press conference or even outside a hospital where a royal baby is about to be born. Usually in these spots, we are just waiting for something to happen. That’s news, baby.”

Muse and Abuse will keep you updated today, as more nothing happens.

New App revolutionises how we remember Huge Life Events

Life-changing experiences will never be the same again, thanks to a new App that is making huge waves in social media circles.

Insta-Mem, which has been downloaded 6 million times since it hit the App Store this weekend, automatically takes your boring, unspecial photos and diary entries from incredible experiences and journeys and converts them into a more representative and social-media friendly format.

“Times have changed, and with ever-ubiquitous modern technologies in our increasingly digitalised world, it’s about time we updated and modernised the way we remember the special moments in our life,” said creator of the application, Ian Staygram. “Let’s say I went to Naples and lay on the warm white shores of the Mediterranean, gently out my slowly-bronzing legs out on the beautiful soft sands just meters from the warm waters and taking in the simple pleasures of life in a moment that hope will stay with me until I die - how am I supposed to remember that without multiple selfies, social media check-in posts and filter-heavy shots of the local cuisine?”

Thousands have agreed.

“What, really, is the holiday of a lifetime if it isn’t posted online for your friends to like and comment on? And if you do take photos of the mountains or scenery, how am I supposed to know that I, or anyone who was apparently there, was *actually* there?” asked internet user and fervent Mem-er Jake Henderson. “I think we can all agree that, whether you’re diving in the Pacific Ocean with Whalesharks and Sunfish, or sitting on Mount Everest watching the sun rise over the distant smoky hills like a magnificent orb made from burning gold, the most important thing is that everyone you know knows that you – you, with your face, maybe your mouth curled into a cheesy grin with an accompanying peace sign or thumbs-up – were there. Everything else is meaningless.”

Social-media users no longer need to fear forgetting these magical moments, says Staygram.

“The app is so simple to use, that even a Twitter user wouldn’t struggle. All you do is take a photo of yourself, and our Smartscan technology will do the rest. All those yawn-provoking shots of the scenery and panoramic views of the island snoozefest you were staying in will now be updated to have you in them, even if you didn’t take any selfies on the trip,” he said. “Hell, if you didn’t even take pics at the place, the app just searches Google for sunsets and snaps in that area and edits those into your album. It’s not like anyone will be able to tell the difference between sunsets or check that you actually took the pictures.”

The app also automatically adds a relevant filter and hashtags.

“When I visit memorable locations, I don’t want to have have the stress of taking periodic selfies that reaffirm that I do actually exist and am actually in Paris,” said another user Mary Marie. “I don’t want to bother with the profound hassle of picking between ten slightly different pre-set image filters, or the philosophical wrestling match of coming up with seventeen hashtags that adequately sum up the profound, life-altering trip I’ve taken. With Insta-Mem , never again will I forget that I travelled and visited the Top Ten places in Paris that I read about in a listicle."

Already, many thousands are wishing they had had this app when they travelled the globe to broaden their understanding of the myriad different cultures and peoples of our beautiful, rich planet.

“Nowadays I just sit in my chair trying to work out what I did between the years of 1968 and 2010,” said senior citizen Jerry Attrick. “We didn’t have Twitter or Facebook back then, so how were we supposed to remember those moments that changed us deeply and profoundly for the rest of our lives?”

Staygram now says they have their eyes set on video format technologies.

“Let’s say you go to a concert and forgot to record the entire thing from eighty-seven seats back in the cheap section on your 2.8 megapixel cameraphone. Well, with the app we’re developing, we’ll just take DVD-quality official footage and convert it to be smaller, blurrier, and filled with uncompressed, low-quality sound complete with barely audible songs being drowned out by the cheering and screaming. Imagine you’re bobbing for apples in a tub of Vaseline after corneal damage.”

Photos: Everest by Luca Galuzzi; Great Wall of China by Severin.stalder. Both Creative Commons.

Football “still definitely newsworthy” – BBC

It was a resounding victory for journalism today, after football, rugby, cricket, tennis – as well as many other sports codes including but not limited to curling, archery, bowling, darts, pool, rowing and professional tiddlywinks – were reaffirmed as “still definitely newsworthy and important journalism” by a BBC-funded study.

“For years now our screens have been filled with hundreds and thousands of hours of slow-motion replays, critical analysis and up-to-the-minute updates on everything sports-related, like match scores, financial transfers, or even who is fucking whose wife in the national team,” said a spokesperson for the BBC. “Today, we are pleased to announce that these events are still as important as ever, and deserve their hours-long slots just after international affairs and current events.”

The study has irrefutably proven that football – along with all sport – is still on par with disease, war, political scandals and the myriad other important current events that define our generation and necessitate ceaseless coverage and debate.

“Although football was first started as a social experiment in the 1960s to see how much a human being can be paid for doing as little and as inconsequential, meaningless-in-the-grand-scope-of-the-universe work as possible, it quickly blossomed into something as important as Ebola killing white people, or famine killing brown people, or war,” said the study. “Hence the dozens of channels dedicated to every goddamn fart Lionel Messi makes.”

The study has since been welcomed and applauded by leading institutes of journalism and media studies.

“People misunderstand sport,” said professor Rum Rogeny of the Rhodes School of Journalism and Media Studies. “It’s not an opium of the people designed to distract them with irrelevant and endless arguments about who has the better team or the most trophies and titles or who beat who in the umpteenth iteration of a packet-of-air-kicking-contest between two groups of millionaires. Soccer is relevant. It's the only time God ever does anything on Earth. It’s politics but with a ball. It’s war, but with better hair and fake injuries."

In spite of mounting criticism from dissenting critical voices who steadfastly claim (in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, of course) that sport is a form of ‘soft politics’ that allows you to pretend to take part in pseudo-political arguments without any of the reprisals or repercussions of holding a real political view – much like a child walking around in his father’s oversized shoes in imaginary games of ‘play-play’ – many thousands of normal people around the world have welcomed the study.

“Football is super important,” said a man counting an imaginary list with his fingers. “It has kicking. It has passing. It has tackles – some of these tackles are illegal. Some are in a grey area. These are important debates. Debates which the news tries to distract us from with news like which country is invading which country, or new about stupid so-called ‘mass protests’ in Mexico City.”

The study also definitely ruled out the possibility of think topics, debates, art exhibitions or any kind of cultural thing as ‘news’.

“Even things like massive scientific accomplishments – like a ten-year project to land a tiny satellite on a comet one hundred million miles away – are fucking definitely not news. The thing is, how many people really understand science enough to make an opinion on it? There just isn’t any controversy around these events. How are we supposed to get ceaseless heated debates, long, angry blogposts and opinion columns, pages and pages of incensed comments defiantly touting their entrenched viewpoint, and metres of print responding not just to the story, but also responding to responses - and therefore endless pageviews and unfathomable advertising revenue – out of that boring crap? That’s why we make it more about the little things. Like sexist shirts. Now THAT is news.”

Muse and Abuse would like to invite any reader who didn't understand this to form a very angry opinion about it and write their own blog on why we're a bunch of morons.

Concert are the worst. Seriously.

Do you like concerts? Well, you're either a blithering idiot in dire need of being committed to an asylum or a masochist.

There is something inherently unpleasant about going to concerts that I’ve never quite understood. Whether you’re a braces-equipped red-faced screaming fourteen-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber “concert” or a sad black-shirted, jean-wearing old man dealing with his mid-life crisis by using out-of-fashion slang and going to see bands that were huge when the afore-mentioned “Beliebers” were mere protein in a nutsack, the one thing that we all have in common is how shitty the pilgrimage to see our favourite musicians in action truly is.

The journey

All concerts start, of course, with the journey. One of the problems with any sufficiently large or popular band is that it's pretty much a predetermined fact that you aren’t the only one who likes them, and no matter how advanced we fool ourselves into thinking our society is, there will always be four-hour traffic jams between our point of departure and the venue parking. Naturally, no matter how much parking the venue boasts, there will never actually be enough parking. Besides, even if you do manage to conjure up the Sainthood-worthy miracle of finding an available spot you’ll never be that fucking guy who found a Lucky Place Right By The Entrance. That doesn’t happen to people like you. Ever. And so, on top of your sanity-testing car trip or first-hand experience of what a sardine feels in a tin (read: bus trip), you’ll be forced to enjoy a ten-minute walk to the entrance.

The queue

“Well,” I hear you say, “at least the awful car trip is over. We’re at the venue – it’s all plain sailing from here, right?” Wrong. Thanks to detestable society-ruining arseholes who have nothing better to do with their lives than come eighteen hours early to the venue and set up camp in the queue like refugees escaping a dictatorial regime, you’ll have to wait. And of course, you’ll spend that waiting time standing, because who the fuck brings a chair to a concert?

Security

Having spent a considerable portion of your life sandwiched between drunk foreigners and that irritating group of girls who play the songs you’re about to hear out loud on their goddamn phones while screeching along to the lyrics, it’s now time to face the security door. Obviously, there’s a problem with your ticket. It doesn’t matter how many fucking holograms there are on it or whether you have the receipt, invariably it will become the long-lost twin of that single pocket of oranges you made the mistake of trying to buy at Pick ‘n Pay, as the booth attendant attempts again and again to scan the barcode. Having given the person your life story and repeated claims that the ticket is, in fact, legitimate, they reluctantly nod you on to the security checkpoint – or as I like to call it, the “destroy your human dignity and invade your personal space” checkpoint. If you’re a woman (I’m not), you’ll have your handbag disemboweled and upturned, the black-shirted angry huge guy in the SECURITY shirt rummaging through its contents like a druid trying to divine the future from the entrails of a chicken. If you’re a man (I am), you’ll no doubt get your nuts fondled by a security guard like he’s an enthusiastic child trying to guess the contents of a particularly large Christmas present the night before he can open it, jiggling and juggling it to and fro as he wonders “what could it be, what could it be? A gun? A knife? A penis? What could it be?!"

I can’t be totally ungrateful, however. Thanks to concerts, I now know that unopened bottled water poses a severe risk to massive crowds. Who knows what clear liquid explosive those AquaVie bottles could be holding? And cameras, god forbid, let’s not let those in. After all, we wouldn’t want you to take non-cameraphone photos that do the concert any justice, no!

Finally, you’re in – time for a drink!

Having had your basic human rights violated, you make it into the venue intact save your dignity and perhaps the overwhelming feeling of self-disgust at being publically violated. To assuage your great shame at having been felt up like a try-before-you-buy prostitute, you’ll want a drink. Well, I hope you’ve taken two jobs, because concert beer is expensive. Hell, even concert water is expensive. And I hope that second job pays cash, because there will never be a card machine. Okay, you have your beer? Down it. Have another. And another. And maybe one more. You’ll need it, trust me. Drink it all right there by the bar (it took fucking long enough to get your spot, you might as well use it to the fullest). There’s no point taking it with you to your spot in the crowd because either (A) it’ll take so long to get there that it’ll be finished by the time you arrive or (B) as you try to push your way through the unmoving crowd of sneering assholes who take your “Sorry, coming through” as a personal insult against their mother, entire family, culture and religion, you’ll spill it all anyway.

Found my spot!

Once you’ve given up on getting to the front and decide to settle for a lesser space roughly as far from the stage as your car is from the front entrance, it’s time for the concert to begin, right? Well, not quite. You see, if a concert is advertised to start at eight, it’ll start at 9.30. After all, the cynical millionaires who are profiting from your concert-going experience need time to sell crappy merchandise and overpriced alcohol, and what better way to do that than to make you wait another hour or so while the stagehands pretend to still be setting up sound and lights and all that stuff that was obviously prepared hours ago?

As you stand there, you’ll slowly become keenly aware of the kinds of people who share your taste in music. Take, for example, the man standing so close behind you that it makes you feel like you’re in your own Miley Cyrus music video. His uneven, too-loud breath will waft down your neck in a warm, fetid wave of air you can’t ignore. The smell of it, however, is what really gets you. It’s a stench that can only be described as “fascinatingly awful”, a kind of olfactory car crash you can’t tear your nose from. Imagine old, musky honey, mix it with the bile-raising smell of wet leaves that have been lying in a mouldy drain too long, and blend this with the unforgettable tang of the unwashed, sweaty skin between the thighs of a fat person wearing tight nylon pants. It’s like staring into the sun, but with your nose. The first few sniffs are of awe –‘Can I really be smelling that?’ you wonder, ‘Could a smell so horrific exist, and from what Nazi biological weapons laboratory did it escape?’ As you waver between vomiting and laughing and going insane, all the time sniffing more and more deeply in sheer incredulity (maybe I’m not smelling it right?) you’ll wonder what kind of determined, ceaseless commitment it took to get breath that bad. What kind of insane devotion did this man put into his obvious lack of dental hygiene to muster up what can arguably be called a valid reason to commit suicide in a public place? Pity you don’t have that bottled water. You could have blown yourself up.

It gets worse, though. There’s always some tall prick standing in front of you. It doesn’t matter how tall you yourself are (I’m over six foot, a fact that earns me worse death-stares than a war criminal on trial for genocide when it comes to being in a crowd), there is always that one fucking guy who is that much taller. And if you’re that guy, then the guy in front of you will put his girlfriend on his shoulders. Added to this delight, you’ll be rubbing shoulders left and right with two couples who are obviously addicted to the taste of each other tongues. I get it, people. This is a date. I just wasn’t aware I was invited to play such a personal role in it.

Finally, it begins

After the unknown tiny opening act ceases their warbling slew of unknown, inaudible lyrics, the real concert begins. And this would be a veritable pleasure if it weren’t for the rest of the fucking hellhole collective of Twitter-obsessed imbeciles we are dictionary-bound to call “society”. As you look over the sea of heads toward the act you’ve paid a generous portion of your monthly wage to come watch, you’ll slowly realise the extent to which social media has ruined this short, painful journey we call life. The concert will framed by a box of glowing iPhone screens as the masses simultaneously convert this cherished, special moment into low-resolution, crappy film complete with uncompressed sound, uncontrollable hand-shaking and ruinous digital zoom to be shared and never watched on Youtube. Basically, imagine bobbing for apples but instead of apples you’re trying to watch a screen, and instead of a tub of water you’re dunking your head into a tub of lard and Vaseline.

As Mr Tall’s head weaves left and right, intermittently blocking your restricted, smart-phone filled view of the stage, he starts to dance. Well, I say “dance”, but that’s generous. The problem is, he’s old. And he’s white. And he has a ponytail. To make matters worse, there’s a faint scent of weed in the air. As he jerks and spasms in time with every 13th beat in the music, and as the Breath Guy pokes you in the back and comments on how tall you are, could you move aside a bit please, you bite down on the urge to commit hideous crimes against humanity.

“It’s not fair,” you lament, and slowly you realise that there is no god, there never has been. It was all a lie made to make you think this chaotic, unjust world of darkness and cruelty had some kind of order and fairness to it. You slowly begin to understand that you used to think you knew what hate felt like – but only now do you grasp that that was a mere heart-warming fable of hatred. True spite, the festering worm of rage that chews down all the way into the core of your being, is something you are only now beginning to appreciate. This feeling grows and grows, and just when you think the burning wrath of a thousand supernovae exploding with incomparable loathing in your soul cannot get any worse, you spot the Golden Circle fans dancing and cheering and having a good time. All a mere arm’s distance from the musicians you’ve obsessed over for years and years, they cheer and sing, untroubled by the worries and qualms of those too poor (lol!) to afford a good spot. As one of these rich fucks gets pulled on stage (probably some fucking girl who had the ticket bought for her by her stacked boyfriend, and she’d never even heard of the band until today) you remember that one day you’ll die, we’ll all die, and all our accomplishments will die with us, forgotten and meaningless in the void that awaits all of mankind.

And it doesn’t even matter

But that’s the ironic thing about concerts. Like with any terrible metaphor that doesn't quite describe what I'm trying to say, it's always darkest before the dawn, and after (perhaps because of?) all the suffering, all the hardships and irritation, you actually enjoy yourself.

Who doesn’t have a concert moment like when Bruce Springsteen played an acoustic version of “Down to the River” and I stood with my arms around my family, remembering how that song and its profound lyrics defined a time filled with uncertainly and hardships, and you all cry and sing along in unison because that moment represented the beginning of a better tomorrow? Who doesn’t have a story like when I went alone to a Rodrigo y Gabriela concert after six years of obsessing over their every move, buying every album on the day they came out, even going so far as taking painstaking months of slow, ham-handed practice to learn how to play the guitar like them - and after all that waiting, you finally get to see your heroes in action? Concerts – be they your of favourite band or where you are dragged along to watch your knows-no-better daughter shriek as a hormone-overloaded teen scrapes the barrel of talent for the very dregs left in the primordial scum of originality and excellence – are moments in our lives where, for a short while, we are able to escape the mundane routine of our everyday lives. And as we look up to our heroes rocking the shit out of that guitar, we realise that it’s special moments like these which are worth all the difficulties that precede them.

Except maybe the nut fondling. Let’s skip that next time, please.

Fire causes millions of Rands' worth in improvements to local art gallery

Residents of Cape Town's bustling and bohemian suburb of Observatory were overjoyed today after a massive fire that broke out in early hours of this morning caused untold improvement at local art dealership and gallery Blue Iris.

"We're overjoyed," repeated resident Jake Holder, who is too uncreative to think of his own bloody word to describe his reaction. "Before, it was just all this pseudo-critical, politically-aimed abstract art - like bunches of red and black paint lines smeared across a torn South African flag. Junk, basically."

Meanwhile, even scientists agree that the new, improved artwork is chemically and agriculturally a thousand times more useful and valuable than it was before.

"Ash - or as we're calling, 'Post-improvement art' - has many purposes," said Ashologist Bernie Cinders. "For example, you could make homemade make-up out of it, or plough it into an arid piece of land to make it more fertile. You could even use the charred remnants of the artist's creativity as graphite stick to make other, less crap, art. The possibilities are endless," he said, before adding that, no, literally they are not endless, that's just an expression, you shouldn't take everything I say so seriously, why are you writing this down, I thought the interview was over, stop writing, I mean it, stop writing in that little notepad, stop right now, stop, just stop, okay, get out of my office, security, security, please remove this man.

The art installation, which is now actually worth something, has an estimated value of about R1.6 million in rough alternative fertiliser or charcoal art supplies - that's at least three tanks of petrol in today's economic climate.

However, some residents believe that the place should be turned into a new art exhibition.

"The tableau depicted in that tragic scene - a man who has lost it all, all his time and effort and passionate creativity, in one stroke of terrible luck, lying amidst the ruins of everything he ever owned, his hands stained by the dark ashes of his past and potential future - is actually a lot more comprehensible and emotive that that previous 'quasi-Imperialist socioeconomic critique of South African cultural-political zeitgeist' garbage," said John Xolile.

According to expert art critics, such a venue could pull in some much-needed revenue for the area.

"This could really benefit everyone in that region, as the art is considerably more valuable than it was before," said art connisseur Rip Toff, "and it's certainly more valuable that shoddy free-to-read satire written by humourless ex-students who don't even use their Journalism degree for anything meaningful or worthwhile."

Prices at the new gallery start at R2600 for the elaborate and haunting 'Burnt Memories' (Charcoal, ash, family photographs) all the way to R12 450 for the stunning and intricate 'End of a Generation' (Ash, soot, charred furniture, beloved family pet).

Valentiners bracing for “their lonely friend’s bullshit”

Valentiners are bracing themselves earlier than expected this year, after reports have shown their “whining, self-righteous moaning idiot friend” Jake Henderson will start his annual anti-Valentines diatribe much sooner than usual.

According to preliminary reports, the yearly slew of unwarranted, unnecessary attacks on their decision to not be miserable on this day have started much sooner than the normal week-before-Valentines kick-off. Experts in the study of projecting your cynical self-loathing onto others to make yourself feel better by making everyone else feel shitty now say this unusual early start might be down to a Woolworth’s advert aired sometime last night on television.

“We’re not sure exactly what caused this early outbreak of masturbatory self-righteous indignation against a day that many use to express and show their feelings towards their significant other,” said expert psychologist Erik Smalls, “but at this stage we’re pretty sure it was the advert last night showing that you could buy scented soaps and candles for R49.99, heart-shaped assorted chocolates for R29.99 and quality red roses at 5 for R19.99.”

It was around this time that the first of the many expected annual cynical jabs at day of romance and affection appeared much earlier than it normally does every bloody year.

“About five minutes after this advert he posted a tweet saying ‘jesus valentines ads already OMG its just a cash-garb fkcn capitalism it makes me sick #vomit #singleAndHappy’,” said Smalls. “Now, we’re still not 100% sure this was what started it all – for all we know it could be the soul-crushing realisation that it’s another Valentine’s he has to spend utterly alone and unloved, and how, despite his best chances, his utterly unlikeable demeanour makes him unappealing to the people he meets; or it could even be the unspeakable guilt, shame and jealousy that everyone around him is loved and cherished by another human being, and he’ll probably just spend the day muttering in self-hate and being angry on the internet before fapping to hardcore porn and crying himself to sleep in his one-bedroom apartment – but at this stage it’s the best evidence we have.”

This is not the first time Valentine’s Day has been smeared by controversy, after global shortages of crap gifts last year threatened to cancel the day entirely.

Friends of Henderson have since started this year’s anti-Henderson preparations, most notably be turning off notifications from his various social media accounts and making other plans that will avoid them being guilted into coming over to his house for too much beer.

“I mean, we’re pretty used to it by now,” said a source close to Henderson, adding the ‘fuckin negative douche’ to a temporary block list. “He talks about how it’s commercialised, as if all the fucking prices tags didn’t tell us that. You know, I wish he’d just either get a girlfriend or shut up and let us do our thing. I have literally dozens of lonely, single, sad loser friends, but at least they don’t pester me with eight-paragraph, well-worded critiques of ‘the degradation of and insult to human relationships and affection that seeks to put a price tag on the heart.’ You know, he’s the Valentine’s Day equivalent of that female friend we all have who fucking can’t shut about how much she loves Crossfit and always hints at how superior she, as a Vegetarian, is. Like, shut the fuck up, no one cares.”

Friends expect him to repeat last year’s claim about “how we shouldn’t just have one day to show people that we love them” sometime in the next day or two, before moving into arguments outlining the hijacking of a day of Romantic celebration that no one, at all, will even bother reading, and finally finishing off by posting a blog about how happy he really is and reiterating dozens of times how he doesn’t need a girlfriend and no of course he’s not lonely why would he be lonely that’s absurd I’m not lonely really I’m not why would you think I’m lonely I’m loved by lots of people.

Muse and Abuse would like to remind Mr Henderson that he isn’t just lonely today. He’s lonely every day of the year.