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.

Black privilege: South Africa’s dark secret

We’ve all heard about white privilege – but how many of us know about how black people unfairly benefit from their skin colour? Guest Writer Johan Van Eksteen shines a light of truth on this phenomenon that many will refuse to admit exists.

My fellow South Africans, there is a troubling part of our society that none of us ever acknowledge or talk about. Right at the middle of the centre of our country’s core, there is a phenomenon that many will try to tell you is “absurd” or “totally misinformed and misguided” to talk about.

Black Privilege.

Now, we’ve all heard about White Privilege. It’s boring. It’s old. It’s not even worth talking about any more. It doesn’t even exist – some people say that my skin colour gives me unearned benefits and privileges. But this just isn’t true. Every day when I came into work at my father’s company (this was just after I’d finally finished my degree after switching courses three times at UCT and I’d turned down several other job offers and taken up my dad’s offer) my pa would tell me “Johan, lots of people will think you’re going to become the General Manager here in three years’ time because you’re my son, or because you’re white, or even both.”

I knew then that I had to work extra hard to make sure my rightful place wasn’t given to some random. My whiteness disadvantaged me. Every day, I set the alarm on my iPhone 6 half an hour earlier. Every day, I ate low-fat organic yoghurt with a quick smoothie when everyone else was having their morning fry-up. Every day, I made sure I was out my four-bedroom apartment and in my Audi in N7 traffic before everyone else. Every day I had to make it look like I was working harder than everyone else, even when I wasn’t.

It was exhausting. It was difficult.

But I did it. I managed to excel despite my skin colour.

But Universities and so-called “academic thinkers” will never admit this simple truth to you: there are certain unspoken social and economic privileges that black people get and white people don’t just because the system favours black skin.

Ready to have your mind blown?

#1: Black people can make black people jokes

Let’s look at so-called “comedians” like Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock. If they make jokes about black people it’s “hilarious”. But if I tell a real knee-slapper about Phineas walking into a bar and asking for a job, it’s “racist” and “disgusting”.

I’ve spoken about this hypocrisy before.

It’s “racist as hell” when I apply half a tin of Kiwi shoe polish onto my cheeks and put on a pair of overalls, but when little boys paint their faces in disgusting ‘whiteface’, it’s “their culture” and a “Xhosa rite of passage to finally becoming a man”.

Hell, I can’t even use the word ‘n*****r’. I can’t even say it aloud, or even explain to you what word that is that I’m hiding behind stars. I have to say, like, “the N-word”. I can’t tell you how oppressive it is to have to go “uh” or “mmm” or make a strange bleeping noise during my favourite N****rs With Attitude song.

#2: Black people get jobs easily

This is the ugliest part of it. If I want to get a job, I have to work hard for years and years at a high-grade private school and with my private weekend tutors so that I can get a good chance to get into UCT or another tertiary institute. Then, I have to ask my parents for tens of thousands of Rands just to get my Master’s degree and then, even after all this, I still have to put in at least two years, bare minimum, at my father’s company just to make it onto the Board of Directors as a lowly Chief Manager of National Divisions' Procurement.

But look at our President or a lot of politicians. They didn’t get their Matric, and some of them even failed Woodwork, and they’re all employed.

“Oh, Johan,” I hear you rascal ‘intellectuals’ and ‘academics’ retort, “this is aimed at addressing the inequalities of the past. Black people used to suffer disadvantage because of their skin colour, so it’s an attempt at social justice.” And I reply: thank you for proving my point. You’re saying they get jobs because they are black. Checkmate.

#3: Black people get social benefits

Today, all across South Africa, thousands of black and coloured people have access to government RDP housing, government healthcare, and unemployment benefits. But just because most white people I know have homes and jobs and money and health insurance, does that mean that they should suffer this ugly system of reverse racism? Whatever happened to the vision of true equality that Nelson Mandela had for us all? If I want Comprehensive International Platinum membership Full Cover with Cashback guarantee after six years and no limits of hospital or doctor choice, I have to pay thousands of Rands for it. This is disgusting. I believe in equal opportunities for all, regardless of your skin colour or how many thousands of rand you earn per month.

#4: Black people get automatic sympathy

We all know that our local media is a sick-lie-birthing nest of incestuous, revolting snakes writing in pools of their own corrupt, foetid shit, but what we never talk about is how much it prefers stories about black people. Every time there’s a shooting or tragedy or political scandal involving black people, you’ll guarantee that they’ll have front page coverage every single time without fail. But if a white guy commits a crime, for him to get attention he has to shoot his model girlfriend and be handicapped - and even then, all he gets his is own channel on DSTV.

Where is the extensive coverage of the billions of white lives lost just this year alone in farm murders in South Africa? Where was the six-page analysis of beloved artists like Steve Hofmeyr having their constitutionally-enshrined Freedom of Speech violated on Twitter?

This might sound like I’m repeating myself, but if a black person says a white oke called him a K-bomb (oh look! Another word white people arent’ allowed to use! Doesn’t this censorship make you feel sick?!) everyone will believe him, but if I say that a Muslim oke is going to blow up a plane, or a Romanian is going to steal my job, or that suspicious black guy in my gated community is doing reconnaissance to rob me blind, it’s “racial stereotyping” and “terribly racist”.

#5: Black people get justice

Every day we see scores of black families see justice. People who rob them or murder their family members are thrown straight in jail, often without any real trouble or controversy or even a lawyer to play lawyer tricks. That's true justice.

But where was the justice for Reeva Steenkamp’s family? You see how the system favours giving speedy, same-day justice to black families, but not to white families.

I’m going to stop now, but I think we can all agree that I’ve only revealed the head of the ugly three-kilometre snake. I look forward to the day that we all receive true equality – black or white. Previously Disadvantaged or Currently Disadvantaged.

If you want to read how to reach this futuristic utopia, perhaps you, too, should vote ANC, like me.

Dear Woolworths

I go to Woolworths. It doesn't end well.

Text reads:

Dear Woolworths,

I am an aspiring novelist. For years now, I have been obsessed by human emotions – particularly feelings like sadness, depression and disappointment. Whether it’s the unforgettable angst of Post-Modernist greats like Paul Auster, the protagonist-destroying genius of Thomas Hardy, or even the lost ideals and broken dreams of dystopian wastelands by seminal thinkers like George Orwell, I’ve been dreaming of writing the saddest, most depressing tragedy of our time.

Which is why I’m writing to you.

“But what does sadness have to do with Woolies?” I hear you ask yourself. “We’re just a food company that provides South African customers with high-quality food and other such luxury goods!”

Well, let me explain.

You see, when I was a silly university student, I thought that true depression and disappointment had to come from life-changing, moving experiences that would haunt you until the day you die: the death of a parent; being forcibly drafted to fight in an unjust war and slowly losing your mind through the trauma of the daily horrors of the battlefield; getting an iPhone for Christmas and seeing it’s only the 16gb white 4S instead of the 64gb Black 5C.

But recently I’ve realised that you can experience these soul-emptying horrors just by going down to your local Woolies.

But perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. This email starts as many emails to you, I’m sure, do: with a trip to my local Woolies.

You see, I had high hopes. Huge dreams. A childlike naïveté that we see only in Masterpieces of incomprehensible literary significance.

All I wanted was to buy a simple lunch for the weekend. My hopes weren’t complex or unrealistic: to start with, I’d have an organic, preservative- and chemical-free salad (maybe some rocket and iceberg lettuce with imported Italian tomatoes and extra-virgin Olive oil) and then move onto some fresh, imported Finnish Ocean Salmon on a bed of steamed locally-sourced new potatoes and authentic farm butter, and finally, to end, free-range farm-fresh Ayrshire double cream with organic, hand-picked, and ethically-sourced non-GMO strawberries.

I’m a simple man, of simple tastes, as you can see.

Little did I know that Woolworths are the authors of devastating reality. Like a wide-eyed child straying uncomprehendingly into the Valley of the Shadow of death, so was I totally unaware of the three-tonne metaphorical hammer of cold, jarring truth that would soon come smashing into my hopeless dreams. My face was a Christmas tree of joy and smiles. Optimism and hope traced every word and thought I had. And it was not to last.

And then I went to the salad aisle.

There was no rocket. None at all. Worse still, the lettuce wasn’t Iceberg lettuce, but the far less crispy and delectably sweet Mountain Blue. Then, to add insult to injury, the only olive oil you had was “Imported Virgin olive oil”. No ‘extra-virgin’. None at all. I had walked on the precipice of the void, and the abys had noticed me: its dark, ugly eye cracked open a peep, that glaring, festering red and orange iris of pure evil turned its devilish gaze on my childlike innocence.

Thinking that perhaps this was just a once off, I went to the next aisle. ‘Oh well,’ I thought, completely unaware of the yawning chasm of disappointment that awaits all men, ‘as long as my lunch isn’t spoilt.’

All writers are periodically struck with writer’s block, and this is one of those times. How do I convey even half the… the… *horror* I felt when I saw that all you had was Norwegian fresh-river trout? How do I put across to you the magnitude of soul-wrenching tragedy of seeing only Jacket Potatoes? How do I find the words that accurately sum up the disgust and disillusionment that moved me to thoughts of suicide when I saw that instead of real butter all you had was butter-identical spread?

It was at that moment I realised there is no god. Life is a journey of suffering and loneliness and disappointment. As children, we are wrongfully raised by our parents to believe there is some justice and fairness in the world. I now see that both my parents are liars and deceivers of the worst kind and deserve the eternal nothingness that will greet us all when we are lying on our death beds, cold, lonely and utterly terrified of the coming darkness.

I mean, your strawberries weren't even organic, and neither was the cream. Worse yet, when I thought that perhaps I could salvage some of my childish dying hopes and wonderment by having perhaps organic blueberries instead, you were all out. That was when I realised that the Bible is a meaningless tome replete with falsehoods designed to make us think the world is some kind of a wonderful, lovely place instead of the desolate hellhole it really is. “I looked into the abyss, and the abyss looked back.”

And so, after all this, I just want to ask you how you did it. Was it planned? Did you meticulously plan each incredible, Post-Modern step of this shopping experience, or was it just sheer luck? Did a team of writers collaborate on this amazing feat of Golden-Era-Pastoralist-Value-smashing stream of consciousness? How did you know that my keen, intense desire to feast on luxury goods - when coupled with the overwhelming disappointment of having to, eugh, *settle for less* - would produce such deadly melancholy?

Would your team of genii artists perhaps be interested in writing a joint-authored novel that makes Sartre’s Nauseum look like a colourful, light-hearted children’s book filled with smiles, bunnies and rainbows?

I wept when I watched your new Asimbonanga advert on Youtube – perhaps even as hard as I wept when I held the bottle of cream and saw it hadn’t been locally sourced.

How can I make my readers feel even a tenth of the despair you’ve inflicted on me?

Yours in faith and mad hope,

Matthew de Klerk

Author, poet, chasm-gazer, Smartshopper

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UPDATE: 28/01/14 - Woolworths tweets and emails me back.

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UPDATE: My "primary psychological caregiver" replies

Text reads:

Dear Ms Jaftha,

My name is Dr Johan Van Eksteen and I am Mr de Klerk’s primary psychological caregiver.

I am sorry to have to be the one to inform you of this, but yesterday at approximately 4pm, Mr de Klerk fell into a deep bout of insanity. Yesterday he was found in his home curled into the foetal position holding a jar of non-imported Italian tomatoes muttering the words “contains preservatives” over and over again. We here at the South African Therapeutic Intervention and Restitution Emergency Psychological Care Ward are giving him all the best care and treatment.

Details at this point are sketchy, but we’re in the process of piecing together the chain of events that led to my patient’s total and utter loss of connection with the real world. At this moment, all we know is that he went into his local Woolworth’s with the desire to buy Imported Norwegian Salmon, a delightful salad, and a delectable desert.

Now, again, details are not clear, but what we have gathered from eye witness reports is that he – and several other shoppers, who we were lucky enough catch and give early treatment – had to instead buy Finnish River Trout. We’re not sure what sort of depraved animals you have running the store (I mean, what kind of sicko makes us stoop to buying something else when stock runs out?) but rest assured we will get to the bottom of this.

If these allegations are correct – if it’s true that you did not have farm fresh Ayrshire double cream and forced your customers to buy the canned Clover stuff, that you inflicted upon our clients the grievous trauma of having to, *eugh*, settle for a generic brand of spaghetti instead of the Nice Stuff That Comes In The Pretty Black Packet – then we will take this injustice to the highest court possible. We cannot idly stand by when fascist food outlets like you are denying innocent South Africans their basic Human Right to Imported, non-GMO, non-gluten, ethically-sourced, Organic lettuce.

I’m sorry, I have to go. Mr de Klerk has just found out we serve generic brand fruit juice and not Woolworths ™ 100% Pressed Organic Cherries and Berries and he’s trashing the canteen.

Dr Johan Van Eksteen

Clinical Psychologist and Chief Caregiver.
S.A.T.I.R.E. Psychological Care Ward, Pretoria, Gauteng

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UPDATE 30/01/14 - Woolworths replies to Dr Van Eksteen

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UPDATE - Dr Van Eksteen succumbs to the disease; Detective Paul E. Snyman of the Police Force has to step in.

Text reads:

Dear Ms Jaftha,

Things have gotten quite serious this side. Unfortunately, Dr Johan Van Eksteen is unavailable to reply your email - but more on that in a moment.

My name is Detective Paul E. Snyman and I am the chief investigative officer who heads the South African Local Crimes Divisions' Crimes Against Humanity Bureau. You may be unfamiliar with the work we do, but basically we deal with serious allegations of human rights infringements. When a man has been wrongfully arrested, we are there. When a mad dictator enacts war crimes against a rival tribal group, we're on the case. And sadly - as I'm sure you know by now - when an innocent, decent, law-abiding South African man is forced to use Woolworth's Free Range 1% Milk on his muesli instead of being free to exercise his god-given, constitutionally upheld basic right to Fat Free non-organic anti-GMO certified cream, we have to step in.

Now, details are sketchy, but we're sorry to say that Dr Van Eksteen, too, has gone mad. According to the medical records our team has pulled from the S.A.T.I.R Emergency Psych Care Ward in Pretoria, Mr De Klerk (the original complainant in this fiasco) slipped into a deep state of trauma sometime on Wednesday afternoon after a shopping trip to the Wolworths store in the Seapoint St Johns shopping centre. First respondents and medical tests have since confirmed he is suffering a reasonably common psychological phenomena in cases like these: a debilitating depression and sadness, often characterised by unnecessary vocal outrage and anger, which usually comes in the form of asking to see your manager and saying "ag" and "unbelievable" a lot while you tap your foot and scowl over your handbag at cashiers.

This syndrome - which usually affects white women in their mid-forties - is known only as Furst-Wuurld Syndrome.

Mr De Klerk did not respond to any treatment. Doctors tried everything - Woolies Original deep-fried tempura rock shrimp on a bed of steamed rice; a fresh summer salad with lentils and spring onion served with a side of avocado mash and balsamic reduction - but nothing could coax him out of his mad stupor or lessen the effects of Furst-Wuurld Syndrome. Finally, exasperated and on the brink of giving up all hope, Dr Van Eksteen decided to try a radical treatment that had only been recently tested in clinical trials.

You see, he had read somewhere that the delicious taste of Woolworth's 600g Prime-smoked Pork Side Rib, perhaps basted in a rich honey-mustard glaze and served alongside a bed of roast organic peppers and imported Mediterranean vegetables, accompanied (of course) with a bottle of 2008 Vergeleugen Old Cellar Merlot, might just snap him out of it. It was a crazy shot, but it's was their last chance to restore fairness and balance to a sick and unjust society.

Little did he know the dark, unspeakable horrors that awaited him.

He went to the the Woolies in the Sandton Centre, and all you had was the 400g Shoulder Rib. Worse yet, it wasn't certified antibiotic free, and instead of a tasty glaze your insidious, hateful staff could only offer a generic meat marinade.

marinade! For shame. Does your insane depravity know no bounds?

By the time Dr Van Eksteen had reached the wines aisle and saw that you only had the 2009 Chardonnay in stock, and that he'd have to wait up to 5 minutes while the clerk checked the storeroom, it was too late. The early symptoms of FWS had sunk in - immediately evident in him updating his Twitter feed to say "OMG @Woolworths just ran out of the Merlot I wanted #ag #unbelieveable #injustice" and loudly exclaiming that this bloody happens all the bloody time why can't you people just do your jobs all I wanted was to have a nice meal and now what must I do now flippen starve.

Although he was quick to take early counter-measures - such as Googling images of starving children in Darfur to remind himself of the plane of reality he was slowly losing his grasp one - it was in vain. Dr Van Eksteen quickly succumbed to the same illness that claimed Mr De Klerk.

We have of course, quarantined the two men, but we strongly recommend handing out free samples of your Tapas and finger snacks as an immediate precautionary inoculation measure to prevent a possible epidemic. Who knows how many customers have had to buy a Mega instead of a Magnum ice cream because of your blatant and perfidious misjudgement?

Currently, no one is pressing any charges but we expect prompt and full action on your part. This tragedy must never be forgotten, and never, ever again be repeated.

#FWS #NeverForget #BlackWednesday

Yours in all faith,

P.E Snyman,
S.A.L.C.D, Crimes against Humanity Bureau
Pretoria

Why this white South African is voting ANC

Guest writer Johan Van Eksteen explains his controversial political decision – and argues why everyone should vote the green, gold and black.

The ANC is evil and filled with money-hungry pricks who don’t give even the most basic shit about the poor or disenfranchised people of our country – a country they have slowly but surely betrayed on a fundamental level.

Or at least that’s what the corrupt “news” media wants you to think.

So, South Africa, I think it’s about time we had a serious discussion about politics and why these lies are standing in the way of turning our country into a developed, prosperous nation.

But Johan, you’re white? How can you vote ANC?

Confession time: I’ve voted DA all my life. Ever since I was just a kid standing in front of the ballot box trying to decide whether to tick ANC to piss off my parents or tick DA because I’m white and it’s expected of me, I’ve never chosen the wagon-wheel and spear-flag.

Until now.

Now, you might call me a uncritical, blind fucktard who is actively supporting the death and destruction of our nation and lending my support to a system of widespread corruption and nepotistic cronyism, and so on and so forth, but give me a moment to explain why this is important.

You know, I used to be just like you. I used to comment on News24 articles about how disgraceful the state of our country is. I used to tell all the okes at my braai on Sunday exactly what was wrong with this blerrie country. I used to make clever puns about “cANCer”.

But then I did my research – and what I found truly shocked me.

Firstly, the ANC is a party that truly cares about the economy. Since Zuma took power, he alone spent half a billion rand on infrastructure development to the country. And that was on just one house - imagine a South Africa where every man and woman in positions of power is flooding the economy with employment and raising the GDP through similar construction projects?

Also, the import of once “luxury items” into South Africa is becoming commonplace. Once upon a time, BMWs were reserved for the elitest of the elite – no longer. Expensive goods like Chivas, gold watches, Blue Label and Mercedes Benz S Classes are almost mundane now. Lots of people talk about debt and unemployment – but in a future where everyone and their brother has an expensive car, how can debt exist?

I’m a true natural-born Afrikaaner. I love the bush. I love Mother Nature and the wild. Under the ANC and thanks to Eskom, long-forgotten and obsolete sciences like astronomy will return to the forefront. South Africa will be a shining beacon in the star-gazing community. Or rather, it won’t be a shining beacon, which is even better. And just like with Zimbabwe and the tireless, ceaseless efforts of the ZANU-PF, South Africa, too, is seeing a slow return to a Golden Era of Pastoral Values.

Growing up in the Transvaal, I hated school. Today, my kids are carrying on that fine family tradition. And who is supporting my family values and personal beliefs and culture? The ANC. Who else could make school less boring by taking away boring things like teachers’ salaries and textbooks, and yet still suffer no negative effects in our National Matric Pass Rate? If anything, we’re passing more and more students – and this is despite the ‘media’ saying schools have gone to the dogs.

And we’re seeing the benefits of this even now. For example, I think we can all agree that’s we’re sick of okes who blame apartheid for everything. Now, this might make my political choice seem paradoxical (Zuma blamed Eskom on apartheid)– but ask yourself: who is helping us to get over and finally forget apartheid? The DA, who always talk about the role they played in it, or the ANC, who is making sure that our children don’t have the schools, paid teachers or history books to learn that apartheid ever happened and constantly obsess over it?

We as South Africans have a history of foreign meddling and imperialist forces trying to force their way of life on us. One of the many ugly examples of this is in alternative medicine. Parties like the DA (and sadly, even early ANC leaders – thankfully a distant memory!) blindly support western “scientific” medical charlatanry, which so arrogantly sneers at traditional and alternative treatments.

A western-centric hegemony on vital medicines and alternative treatments is stopping people getting access to proven cures like that super cure-all beetroot or the world-famous panacea, garlic. It’s a shame that Thabo Mbeki’s legacy didn’t do more to discourage people’s trust in imperialist quackery. How many thousands of now-dead AIDS patients would still be alive today if they hadn’t been misguided into taking expensive pills that the state was wasting our hard-earned tax rands on? The thought of this makes me feel so sick that I have to take an extra -strength, 1-part-per-100-million homeopathic tincture just to keep writing this article.

Another fitting nail in the coffin of the idea that the ANC is a bad party is the simple fact that they want true racial equality in South Africa. The ANC – unlike the liars and thieves in other parties – want us to all be equal.

Once upon a time, shoddy public services, water and electricity cuts and bad social services were solely reserved for an oppressed black minority. By making sure that these things no longer just affect a disenfranchised minority in smaller areas in the outskirts of urban zones, the ANC is introducing true egalitarian society filled with empathy and equality.

Once upon a time it used to be white racist police killing black people who were merely standing up for their basic human rights. Those days are over. Now we have people of all colour in the police killing black people who stand up for their basic rights.

Hell, it used to be only white leaders who introduced oppressive laws trying to curtail freedom of speech and give free reign and no accountability to police. But now we have politicians of all colours doing that. Even I think that the ANC is singling itself out as a bastion of progressivity – and hell, I’ve been called racist for some of my controversial opinions.

And on this point, just ask yourself: what has the DA ever done? Nothing. Nothing at all – and I don’t care what ‘facts’ or ‘statistics’ or ‘internationally-recognised socially progressive programs’ you quote to try and make your sick lies sound sweet as honey. Worse yet, let us not forget that the leader of the party has the same name as a giant radioactive Japanese monster. Is that not reason enough to err on the side of caution?

As a wise man once said, but better the devil you know than the DA-Zille you don’t.

VIVA ANC VIVA.