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Every MP needs a beating



BOOM! What Muckraker prayed and fasted for has come to pass.
For eons Muckraker has railed against excitable souls who sabotage fights in parliament. Finally, the MPs had a real fist fight. It was thrilling that in a Black Friday week some MPs acquired black eyes.

Three MPs were injured and treated at the military hospital.
Phew! Talk about cry-babies and drama queens. Muckraker suspects there are some MPs privately nursing sprained necks, small cuts and sore faces but will never set foot in a clinic for fear of being labelled “the beaten ones”.

They are silently tending their wounds while waiting for a chance to revenge. And they might just get a replay because all evidence shows that there will be more bouts in parliament. May we have more brutal fights soon. While MPs were still smarting from the impact of blows and slaps some holier-than-thou people were outraged, calling the episode a disgrace. They were shrieking in bars, churches and stokvel meetings. Such moral headmasters miss the broader picture.

Only those who lack both humour and understanding of our politics are annoyed that our MPs kicked, scratched, slapped and beat each other.
Let’s deal with their lack of humour first. Anyone who doesn’t see anything hilarious about that brawl has the personality of a stone. Now, close your eyes and think of the funniest thing you saw or heard last week or in the past two months.

Don’t think about the social media videos because Muckraker is talking about something local and authentic. Some home-brewed comedy.
If you have heard or witnessed anything funnier than the scuffle in parliament then you are either blessed or cursed. Blessed because you are surrounded by the most humorous people.
Cursed because that silly uncle of yours has once again embarrassed the family at a wedding and funeral.

He probably got so drunk that he groped the mother-in-law and mistook the flower pot for a toilet chamber. Those of us who don’t have witty people or some deranged uncle to tickle us are grateful to the MPs for spanking each other.

It was a spectacle. A tall MP in a white shirt took off his belt and unleashed it on his opponents.
You could see that he is the biggest coward because he was not interested in engaging in real combat.
He doesn’t seem to have done much damage on anyone though.

Muckraker’s favourite boxer is the old and chubby MP who comes into the frame of the video at around eight seconds. Now that is what we call a boxer.
He was dishing it out to the young MPs who were randomly throwing punches and missing their targets. The old man was methodical with his punches. He wasn’t sweating but just gliding across the floor while peppering the Young Turks with blows. You could just marvel at his precision. No huffing and puffing, just neat blows delivered at the right time and in the right places.
The old man was going for the heads as if he wanted to beat the silliness out of them.

You could see that he understood the game because there was never a time when he was backpedalling.
Indeed, the best form of defence is attack.

One MP was floored before he could not land a single punch. Oh dear, what a loser.
He was jumping all over the place when someone hoofed him. He tumbled on his back and never came back up until the fight was over. Instead, he was blessed with a few kicks as he lay there. Another MP forgot that the point of a fight is to hit the opponent. The chap just flew into the melee, swinging punches that hit no one. While he was busy missing others were unleashing blows on him.

A punch caught him on the back of his head and he toppled. Pathetic! Wooden bins landed on one or two MPs’ heads.
Muckraker could hear the loud sound as the wooden bins landed on those heads. It wasn’t the impact that caused the noise. Remember what they say about empty vessels and noise.
It is criminal that not a single MP’s head was cracked open by those flying bins. Muckraker was praying that one of those big heads would burst open so we could see those pea-size brains that make MPs sound so dull.

The manure contaminating their brains would have splattered all over the House. It is possible that there would have been more dung than grey matter.
Equally frustrating is that there were no broken bones and trotters. There was no blood oozing from any MP’s veins. Some pints of blood would have been useful this festive season. Our blood bank is always empty during this season. Eish! Muckraker is upset that there were no swollen lips from the fight. Those lips that poop tosh and lies should have been bashed.

But in the end the fight achieved something bigger than small minds can comprehend. And that brings us to the political facet of that brawl.
For years we have been itching to discipline our MPs for their indolence. Muckraker has always fantasised about walking into parliament with a bag of phafa, locking the door and beating the MPs until they wet themselves or let out something thicker and stinky.

That dream will come true one day, but in the meantime, she must make do with their internal disciplinary mechanisms. Last week they had the sense to chastise each other. That was justice in action. Henceforth, there must be a Standing Order that allows MPs to spank each other.
Thirty minutes a week would not be a bad idea.  It’s Biblically endorsed too.

“When some fool starts an argument, he is asking for a beating,” says Proverbs 18 verse 6.
And Proverbs 19:29 adds: “Judgments are prepared for mockers, and beatings for the backs of fools”.
Do I hear an “Amen”? You are welcome.

The salient point here is that there was nothing scandalous about that fight because it confirmed what we have always known: our MPs are overrated rascals in suits, outfits and on high salaries.
You have to be a dimwit to be pissed at pigs wallowing in mud. Nature and nurture are powerful forces that cannot be wished away. Just because you thought your MP was a decent person doesn’t make them decent. Rascals in a Chinese-built parliament remain rascals.

Villagers don’t change their manners because they have received half a million maloti interest-free loans. A frog in lipstick and make-up remains a frog.
Your MPs are not responsible for your perceptions about them. It’s your problem if you thought your MP is a sophisticated chap. The political value of that fracas should not be missed.
Instantly, we now know that some of our MPs cannot fight. For years they have insulted and invited each other to a fist fight. Last week they had a chance to show what they are made of and they were a huge disappointment. It turns out that they are just blabbermouths who lack the skill and energy to deliver in a real fight.

Incidentally, that brawl has been a blessing of sorts to Muckraker.
A couple of weeks ago Muckraker’s nephew came home with a swollen lip. He had been pummelled by an MP’s son. For good measure, the little bully had told Muckraker’s nephew that he should not bother reporting the assault because his father is a well-built MP who could beat our entire clan.

You know how sons think highly of their fathers’ boxing skills.
On Monday Muckraker broke her own rules and allowed her nephew to take a phone to school.
The video of MPs throwing lousy punches and horribly missing their targets is now the talk of the school.

The MP’s son has been exposed for being an apprentice liar. He has been hiding under desks since then. Muckraker’s nephew is having the last laugh. Now every kid at the school knows that MPs are just hopeless in a fight. The evidence is overflowing from that video.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuu!

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Mokherane’s nonsonso



MUCKRAKER has been waiting for our MPs to explain why they want a M75 000 salary.

She hoped somewhere in the sewage the MPs were spraying as justification for their attempt to rob us blind was some reasonable argument.

Just something to show that there was some sort of method to their rank madness and shameless greed.

Sadly, Muckraker has been waiting for Godot because none had emitted anything showing that they carry a brain bigger than the punctuation mark that ends this sentence.

Instead, we have been treated to some of the most inane arguments proving beyond all reasonable doubt that our parliament is full to the brim with imbeciles masquerading as MPs.

Thanks to Mokherane Tsatsanyane, that one who came into parliament through the window while dressed in DC colours, we now know we are being led by slow minds.

After reminding us that MPs “run this country” and are a special breed, Tsatsanyane went to the meat of his bizarre argument.

“He! He! Mokherane is crazy, he wants M75 000! That’s what people will be saying. But I have just spent almost M5 million in my area. I bought 40 wheelchairs at Moshoeshoe II, one wheelchair costs M3 000, that means I have spent something like M300 000,” he emitted while frothing at the mouth as if someone stole his goat.

It is tempting to follow his argument to its finality just to be sure his mouth has pulled the middle finger on his brain but that is obvious.

His problem is that he just can’t do simple arithmetic.

It is impossible to spend M300 000 after buying 40 wheelchairs at M3 000 each. It can’t!

He was inflating his numbers and ego just like he wants us to pay him an inflated salary. The other possibility is that he was just entangled in the web of his lies. They say liars must have good memories. Muckraker would add that they should learn to count as well.

At that moment, someone should have told Tsatsanyane to stop telling tall tales but the man was now on fire. After all, he thought he had just gotten away with the lie that 40 multiplied by 3 000 is 300 000.

So he pushed on.

“They are happy and celebrating, He! He! Mokherane is donating wheelchairs and food parcels. In a day you can spend around M400 000 when you are an MP helping people. But tomorrow when you want an increment, they complain.”

Muckraker wanted to call Tsatsanyane to deliver some crude words but remembered that his kind is beyond redemption.

The critical question is what kind of grade he smokes. The one from Mapoteng is not that potent. It takes a special kind of high for someone who claims to be spending M400 000 a day on charity to shed a Maqalika of tears over M75 000 per month.

But his lies and hallucinations are not the crux of the matter.

The question is who invited him to be in parliament.

More precisely, who voted for him?

Expect a blank face instead of an answer because he was neither invited nor elected.

The people of Qoaling rejected him in the last election and he only sneaked into parliament via the proportional representation list.

Now this unwanted, unelected, and unelectable nonentity is telling us that M75 000 is “nothing to write home about”.

So why cry for it like a hired mourner?

Even if it’s a small amount, you still don’t deserve it here and in heaven.

Hear, hear, hear, a man who claims to have just spent “almost M5 million” in his “area” is complaining about being underpaid.

You cannot make this up.

Even if his salary is increased to M75 000, Tsatsanyane will not earn M5 million over his five years in parliament. At the current salary of M40 000, he will earn M2.4 million over five years.

There are five logical explanations for his alleged spending habits.

He could be filthy rich, extremely generous, reckless, bad with mathematics or just a pathological liar.
What is clear is that no amount of lying, screaming or flawed reasoning will help the MPs get the M75 000. This time it won’t happen.

Gone are the days when these lazybones would make threats to get away with evil deeds. There will be no increase for those freeloading impostors.

Those who feel underpaid should surrender their seats and leave us in peace. Muckraker can bet her last kobo that their absence will not be missed. Most of them can even be replaced with donkeys and there will still be no real effect on the quality of parliament’s work.

MPs who mourn about being paid less than their counterparts in South Africa are free to cross Mohokare River and contest.

As for those who believe they can jerk up their salaries to recover what they used to campaign, Muckraker says: Go hang! The ropes are on Muckraker.

Muckraker warns anyone who is even thinking of entertaining the MPs’ demands that there will be chaos in this country.

Some furniture will fly, bones broken and someone will run.
This is not a threat but a promise.

Bring it on! We are sick and tired of a few people defecating on us.

Muckraker will not be having a wet weekend because she is going to the gym. You know why. It’s about time we get fit to deal with nonsonso.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuuu

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Maretlane’s dish rubbish



Muckraker is still recovering from the Moshoeshoe Walk but her fatigue has nothing to do with the 116km she endured. The walk in the mountains – far from the rascals, perverts, thieves and pretenders of Maseru – was fun.

The pain in her muscles was inflicted by the epic incompetence she witnessed over the three-day walk. Someone should tell Thabo Maretlane to either shape up or ship out.

They say it takes at least 10 000 hours to master a skill. Maretlane has been managing the walk for 17 years but has been consistently doing a shoddy job of it. He is dependable like that.

He has one year to organise the three-day event but for some reason, only known to him, he still botches it every time.

This year he bungled spectacularly. It was as if he had spent the past 16 years mastering the art of mismanagement. By the time this year’s walk started, he was ready to deliver some top-notch shit show.

Oh shame! He brought his ‘A’ game to the mountains and stole the show while the world watched. It was a fantastic display of incompetence. 

The kind that leaves you dazed. He pushed the frontiers of mediocrity. 

Even he could not believe he was capable of sinking to such levels. 

Maretlane started dishing it out from day one. Breakfast was a croissant, a small yoghurt and a piece of dry cheese. And that was it. Off you go into the mountains, he said. 

After a few kilometres hikers were stopped for some speeches from dignitaries. 

And so they waited, waited and waited. There is nothing wrong with some delays. 

But it’s bad manners to park people in the scorching sun for hours without any explanation or apology.

Maretlane and his people were behaving as if the tortuous wait was part of the schedule. 

Yet it wasn’t the lack of communication or the roasting that got Muckraker’s goat. 

Ladies who wanted to relieve themselves had to find some hiding spot in the veld because Maretlane didn’t find it reasonable to provide mobile toilets. When nature called they had to visit a gulley or squat behind a rock. There were not many rocks big enough to cover both the face and the big bums. 

If too scared to use the gully or rock you had to ask friends to shield you from the crowd. 

And that was the source of Muckraker’s irritation. Maretlane forced Muckraker and her friends to be toilet walls. That humiliation of having to invite a congregation to a peeing session would persist for the next three days Maretlane unashamedly basked in the glory of having done something as part of our 200th Anniversary. Water was brought in lituntoana so Maretlane could be amused as we behaved like cattle at a watering hole.

Maretlane didn’t seem bothered because he was on a mission to make the most from the least effort. He had promised water and had delivered. 

 If you didn’t like how it was delivered you could tell it to the mountains or go hang. 

March on, this is not your mother’s house. Drink up and move it, lunch awaits across the mountains. After they finally dragged themselves to the lunch venue, they came face to face with the stinker Maretlane had been cooking while they dragged through mountains and valleys. 

Lunch was something that tasted like chicken but could have been easily mistaken for some newly invented type of rubber. It came with five chips, a piece of bread as hard as Weetbix and a salad that looked like it was about to pinch your nose. It was vulgar. 

Next was some fish smaller than the lemon that was supposed to season it. 

It was served with a sandwich that looked like some leftovers from last year’s walk.

The five chips and the threatening salad were there again, warning you against eating them. 

They were back again when Maretlane unveiled the foul-tasting hot dog.  

It was khemere all the way. By the way, there is nothing traditional, organic or healthy about that drink. The salt on the wound is that hikers paid M1 000 for those meals. The message was clear: we make you pay through the nose for kaka and then make you kaka in the bushes. Come again next year for Maretlane will do you dirty again!

Don’t expect Maretlane to have learned anything from that episode. 

He hasn’t learned in 17 years. 

Don’t try telling him anything. He is now too busy preparing to deliver another scandalously shoddy show next year. Muckraker will not be paying to be abused again. Never! 

Maretlane has eaten enough from her. It will take her months to relearn how to use a toilet again.

Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuuu


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The market of rascals



THE Market’s management is either high on something illegal or just reckless.
They could also be either proudly incompetent or simply daft.
Muckraker suspects they are high, reckless, incompetent and daft.
That is a heavy burden to carry but self-inflicted and deserved.

Their job is to feed tummies and quench thirsts but they believe they are capable of many jobs. In addition to cooking chickin, they fancy themselves to be detectives, expert witnesses, rape experts, psychologists, communication gurus, criminologists, prosecutors, CCTV analysts and many other things they conjure up in their small minds.
That much is lavishly clear from their crude statement reacting to a woman who alleges she was raped in their toilet last week.
Instead of just acknowledging the alleged incident, The Market was sweating to testify, analyse evidence, scrutinise footage and play judge.
They tell us the alleged victim arrived at the restaurant “heavily intoxicated” as if they had measured the alcohol content in her blood.
They say she had left an “unpaid bill” at another restaurant as if they were the Small Claims Court.
They claim CCTV footage shows the victim coming out of the toilets holding hands with her alleged attacker as if they are certain that the handholding was consensual and not one dragging the other. Make no mistake about the sinister motive behind those salacious details sprinkled all over the statement.
They were gathering wood for a pyre to burn the woman and her allegations.
Their demented reasoning is something like this: she could not have been raped because she was intoxicated, absconded her bill down the street and was holding hands with the alleged attacker. None of those things have been proven and they might be just shameless lies told by uncouth characters.
The point, accepted by everyone else except some nincompoops, is that The Market should not have mentioned anything about a bill or intoxication. They are not just trivialising her serious allegations but also calling her a drunk who dodges bills and lies about being raped.
They do this by telling what they believe to be a cogent tale to illustrate that her story is incredible.
Muckraker read that clumsy statement several times and each time she was further disgusted by both the writer and The Market as a business.
They say the gentleman from another restaurant who is “well known to The Market staff” claimed that the woman had left an unpaid bill. That is not some random anecdote but an attempt to justify why they allowed him into the bar after they had closed.
It could also be a flimsy attempt at saying the man could not have violated the woman because he is “well known” to them.
As soon as the narration started Muckraker knew The Market was on an evil path.
And boy, did they march with vigour.
They say while the two were discussing the unpaid bill, the victim “indicated that she needed the bathroom”. Then comes the killer line in the statement: “Moments later, the said gentleman also walked to the bathroom, where after a while they both emerged holding hands”.
The public is invited to conclude that the discussion about the unpaid bill was resolved in the toilet and the two “emerged holding hands”.
In other words, whatever was said or happened in the toilet was so mutual that a debt was settled and hands were held.
The victim blaming and bashing could have ended there but The Market was just getting started.
After social media clobbered them for their callous and inept statement, The Market came back with a second one pretending to be correcting the first one.
This time they tried to sanitise the first statement by weeding out the offensive parts but avoided withdrawing the first statement and sincerely apologising to the woman.
They forget that people will never unlearn what they learned from the first statement and are most likely to read the second statement as an update rather than a correction.
But just like that, The Market thinks they have dodged the bullet so they can go back to their cooking and notorious upselling.
Their message to women is stinging: “It’s your funeral if you run away from a bill and get raped in our toilets. We will protect ourselves and the suspects at all costs. For good measure, we will tell the public you enjoyed free drinks and got so drunk that you made allegations of rape against our friend who was only trying to get you to pay”.
Muckraker will not speculate on what happened but can say, without fear or favour, that The Market’s management are unmitigated and unrepentant rascals. Only a business managed by accredited scoundrels reacts with such brazen thuggery to allegations of rape on its premises. Muckraker didn’t say CHE accredits scoundrels but that the mischief exhibited by The Market is of such high quality that it deserves a certification of sorts and at a higher level. It’s Level 8 stuff.
Nka! Ichuuuuuuuuuuuu


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