Moolakii Club Newsround

Alright, strap in for the weekly news roundup from the pre-utopian shitshow we call home, where everything’s a bit fucked, names are a cruel joke, and mischief runs thicker than the sludge in the River Muck. This is the world of Dystopville, where the sun barely bothers to rise, and every headline’s a punch to the gut wrapped in a bad pun. Let’s dive into the chaos of the past seven days, served with a side of libel and a middle finger to decorum.

Monday: Mayor Grope Fondlebottom’s Latest Scandal Rocks Dystopville

The week kicked off with Mayor Grope Fondlebottom, that slimy bastard, caught in yet another scandal at the Grand Gilded Shitheap (our so-called city hall). Sources claim he was found arse-deep in a pile of counterfeit gold coins, allegedly funneled from the Orphanage of Eternal Gloom to fund his private orgy den. “It’s all lies!” Fondlebottom bellowed, wiping glitter and shame off his face. “I’m just a humble servant of the people!” Meanwhile, whistleblower Penny Pinchgut swears she saw him bribing officials with cursed amulets that make you fart sonnets. The Dystopville Daily Rag, never one to miss a chance to stir the pot, printed a front-page caricature of Fondlebottom shagging a statue of Justice, which they claim is “artistic license.” The mayor’s suing for libel, but good luck proving that in a town where truth’s as rare as a clean piss in the River Muck.

Tuesday: The Great Smogfuck Riots

Over in Smogfuck, the industrial hellhole where the air tastes like regret, workers at the Misery Ironworks went apeshit after owner Baron Grimble Scumsucker cut wages to “invest in sentient coal monsters.” The rioters, led by rabble-rouser Sally Shiteflinger, torched half the factory, chanting, “No pay, we slay!” Scumsucker, hiding in his ivory tower (literally, it’s made of poached unicorn horns), called the protesters “lazy turds” and unleashed his private militia, the Bollockbashers. By nightfall, Smogfuck was a haze of tear gas and flying chamber pots. Rumour has it Shiteflinger’s planning a coup, but she’s probably just pissed enough to burn the whole town down for shits and giggles. The Daily Rag claims she’s secretly a demon in disguise, which is rich coming from a paper that once said the moon was Fondlebottom’s bald head.

Wednesday: Witchfinder General Dickie Dangleberries Unleashes Hell.

Midweek, the fanatical Witchfinder General Dickie Dangleberries ramped up his crusade against “spectral deviants” in Pisswhittle Village. Armed with a cursed pitchfork and a vendetta, Dangleberries burned three grannies at the stake, claiming they were hexing the village’s turnips to sing opera. “The devil’s in the root vegetables!” he screamed, frothing like a rabid badger. Locals, too scared to fart in his presence, handed over their savings to fund his “holy” purge. One brave soul, Widow Fanny Fartwhistle, threw a cursed pie in his face, only to be arrested for “culinary witchcraft.” The Rag, in a rare moment of restraint, didn’t outright call Dangleberries a cockwomble but implied he’s shagging the ghost of a guillotine. No proof, of course, but who needs it when the libel’s this juicy?.

Thursday: The River Muck Monster Hoax

By Thursday, Dystopville was abuzz with tales of a “River Muck Monster” terrorizing the docks. Fisherman Wally Wankelrot swore he saw a tentacled beast with “the face of a tax collector” steal his boat and hump it into splinters. The Rag ran with it, claiming the monster was Mayor Fondlebottom’s lovechild with a sewer kraken. Chaos ensued as dockworkers refused to work, demanding exorcisms and free grog. Turns out, it was just local prankster Timmy Tittletattle dumping glow-in-the-dark sludge into the river for a laugh. Tittletattle’s now in the stocks, where he’s been pelted with rotten eels. Fondlebottom, seizing the moment, declared a “Monster Tax” to fund a nonexistent defense force, which everyone knows is just his new yacht fund. The Rag’s already accusing him of being the monster in disguise, because why the fuck not?

Friday: The Great Poxfest Debacle

Friday saw the annual Poxfest, Dystopville’s shambolic attempt at a music festival, descend into glorious anarchy. Headliner Screechy McFoulthroat, the bard of bad decisions, performed his hit “Ode to a Diseased Foot” while drunk off black-market plague wine. The crowd, half-mad on tainted mead, started a brawl when organizer Cornelius Crapweasel raised ticket prices mid-show. By midnight, Poxfest was a flaming mess of broken lutes and shat-upon dreams. The Rag claims Crapweasel’s secretly funneling profits to a cult worshiping a sentient boil, but they’ve got no evidence beyond “it sounds like something he’d do.” Meanwhile, McFoulthroat’s been banned from Dystopville for “excessive lewd balladry,” which is honestly a badge of honour.

Saturday: The Cursed Clocktower Caper

On Saturday, the ancient Clocktower of Doom, which hasn’t ticked since the Great Shite Storm of ’07, suddenly started spewing green smoke and cackling like a banshee. Local nutter Professor Prickly Punsford declared it a sign of the “pre-utopian apocalypse,” blaming Mayor Fondlebottom’s “sinful governance.” Townsfolk, already twitchy from the week’s bullshit, stormed the tower, only to find it rigged with stink bombs by none other than Timmy Tittletattle, fresh out of the stocks and twice as mischievous. The Rag spun it as a conspiracy between Punsford and Fondlebottom to distract from the coin scandal, which is bollocks but makes for a cracking headline. Punsford’s now selling “apocalypse-proof” tin hats, and half the town’s wearing them like idiots.

Sunday: The Libel Lawsuit Clusterfuck

Capping off the week, the Dystopville Court of Crooked Scales was swamped with libel lawsuits. Mayor Fondlebottom’s suing the Rag for the kraken lovechild story, Sally Shiteflinger’s suing Scumsucker for calling her a “demon turd,” and Dickie Dangleberries is suing Widow Fartwhistle for the pie incident, claiming it gave him “spiritual indigestion.” The court, presided over by Judge Jerkoff Janglepockets, is a circus of perjury and thrown shoes. Janglepockets, who’s rumored to be Fondlebottom’s cousin (or lover, depending on who you ask), dismissed half the cases by flipping a cursed coin. The Rag’s having a field day, printing a 12-page special titled “Everyone’s a Twat,” which is probably the most honest thing they’ve ever published.

The Takeaway

This week in Dystopville was a masterclass in fuckery, from Fondlebottom’s coin-hoarding to Tittletattle’s river pranks. The Rag keeps slinging libel like it’s going out of style, and the town’s one bad pun away from imploding. Tune in next week, when we’ll probably report on the sky turning purple or some other batshit nonsense. In this pre-utopian hellhole, the only certainty is that everyone’s an arsehole, and the news is always a glorious, swearing mess.