olilolo blog

How to start this little ditty. Thinking-cap on, writers-block pants strewn on the floor.

This is a story about a man. A real man. A man like no other….

I flick my cigarette…

The cabbie is not pleased, he does not stop screaming. The butt collided with his left ear. He has ear lobes like Ghandi’s thong. He doesn’t appreciate when I point this out between his painful wails.

For some reason the man makes me get out, refusing to go any further. I’d flogged the donkey dry, his services rendered useless. Miles from my ‘dwelling’, I continue to stumble.

After completing my studies at the “Derek Zoolander Center For Kids Who Can’t Read Good And Wanna Learn To Do Other Stuff Good Too”; with an open mind and knowing that there’s more to life than just being really, really, really ridiculously good looking; I went travelling.

I saw all kinds of fashion traits, freaks and style gurus from all round. The world was my oyster and I was keen to establish my own sense of style and direction as I wondered through the streets of other worlds.

I look at my watch. Half-past Five in the afternoon?

Is that right… Have I lost a day? I’m so confused now, but I truck on. I would murder every last Panda Bear into extinction for an Aussie meat pie at this stage. God am I hungry.

I pause to take in my surroundings. I don’t even know if I’m going the right way. Where am I? Half-past Five? Is that right? What the fuck have I been doing? I look from left to right. I’m a coiled spring ready to explode at any second, nothing makes sense.

Suddenly something catches my eye; there’s a big glass window up ahead. There’s a skull in it. Completely lost, gathering my nerve I move forward to explore.

Its a Tattoo Parlour. I giggle like a schoolgirl. Pure evil thoughts course through my veins.

Before I’ve even realised it, I’ve walked in. Inside there is your usual kinda tattooists covered from head to toe in the form of human art. The place is new and it has a certain class: polished wooden floors, a large black leather sofa couch and statues of all sorts. “Is that a real baby in that jar?” I wonder aloud as I hover towards the ‘desk’. Buzzing with excitement I ask if they have any appointment. “When?” they ask dryly. My response was prompt with a short “NOW”. Their instant reaction was a simple and conceded ‘no… but you’re more than welcome to make a booking. Sir‘. Sir my arse, I’m going elsewhere.

This always works, turns out all of a sudden some guy called ‘Diamond Jack’ has cancelled. What a convenience.

They politely ask for my piece and what I’d like done. Crap, I haven’t thought this far ahead. Then it hits me!

A nest! Two swallows flying in perfect unison just above my ‘Hoo-Hoo Grub’, protecting my eggs. The equation is right and it all fits. Something that can now identify me in a naked line up.

‘Yeah that’s him officer. That’s the guy that flashed me. The one with the birds. Oh god I cant take this! What a monster…’ (sobs) ‘He was 5 foot 7, dark short hair and had Two swallows above his penis. I saw it clear as day’

Two birds?

A nest?

Is it a symbolic piece about protecting the balance of the family? Two parents watching over their children? Or is it just a sick joke from some weird guy… this weird guy trying to start a weird craze? You decide my friend…. I propose we start a new trend! The early bird catches the worm after all.

Next time someone asks whether you spit or swallow, you think about my birds in all there glory, flying high and proud. As Dave Chapelle once put it, “should I save up to get Botox on my balls so they can be smooth as eggs?” Now that would complete the nest nicely.

Hmm, hello to everyone out there, its been a while and before you ask, no the rash has not yet gone.

Indeed It’s been a while since I last wasted “some” of your “precious”, “precious life”.

So here I go again (great song by the way!) Recently as my ‘friends’ know, I’ve left for the UK once again. My quest for the unthinkable, the unimaginable. Something a man like myself would never encounter in his worthless and pathetic life.

LOVE!

Yep! That’s it my friends: Love. Such an amazing thing and I am very blessed to have finally found its true meaning / feeling.

Over a year ago I met a woman like no other, just like me. Minus the Penis. She farts in my face while my mouth is open, the occasional ‘Hitler.’ (Oxford Concise Dictionary: ‘Hitler’ - To smear faeces in an unfashionable way on to one others top lip).

You know how it is. Love and all.

Anyway. I’ve not yet decided which way I’m going to head or which emotions I’m going to convey in this blog. My first initial though was pure and utter bitterness. As when you read on you will find out.

Arse head.

But it seems not even I, a 3 foot Black Midget with no legs in a wheel chair can escape the clause of being a funny man. Me, myself am not funny. Oh no, don’t misunderstand what I’m trying to say. The insatiable events that occur in my life are hilarious and by any means you will not be laughing with me but at me.

Disembarking from Australia this time I had two great friends accompany me to the airport. I can tell you right now it was fucken nice to have them there. I never used to be a man of many emotions, but it seems as I grow and since I’ve met my one and only. Smurfette (not actual name). I’ve also grown some Smurfin feelings. But yes I admit it was nice to see these criminals before I left (conjugal visits I believe they’re called).

The plane journey was one from hell.

On the plus side, I didn’t die and or shit myself from the 27 excruciating hours of not being able to masturbate. Alright, I kid. I pumped out 3 knuckle children… into other passengers open mouths while they slept.

Once again not true. But could you imagine the mayhem that would ensue if I had! Like a Dingo in a kindergarten. Ha ha.

The following events are true and may lead you to bleed out from all orifices or orifi.

I get off the plane (after watching the sunset in Australia, New Zealand, Sunrise in Los Angeles and UK). Bearing in mind I’ve already had a 2 year working Visa for the UK and returning after 3 months. Which is very, very naughty!

Only to be greeted by the crankiest looking bearded woman they had at customs that morning. As I stood in the cue I assessed the customs staff. As one does. Watching, analysing seeing which one as to avoid… Hopefully. I pick two of the crankiest and ugliest motherfuckers out and hope as not to get sent to either. Out of six, my chances are looking ok. Everyone is full. The furthest cranky pants receives a new passenger, I’m set. The curly haired bitch to my right is nearly done, she doesn’t look cranky. She actually looks quite pleasant. Hurry the fuck up, I think to myself as the bearded lady on my left is toe to toe with Curly. “HURRY THE FUCK UP!”… Shit I actually said that one. I get some strange looks. “NEXT” screams the cranky bearded woman. I cant believe my luck.

Play it cool.

“How are ya mate?” I say in my bestest, cheeriest Aussie accent I can muster after 27 hours in hell. She just looks at me… With her good eye mind you. The silence is killing me. She flips another page of my passport and gives me the old cock-eye again.

I’m starting to freak. The most precious thing in my life is upstairs waiting for me. Smurfette (not actual name), I love you.

Finally the beast stirs. “What are you doing back so soon?” I don’t understand the creature’s wails.

I ask it to repeat: “WHAT are YOU doing back so soon?” She / he spat that time… a lot. I was mesmerized by it and missed the harsh yelping like noises it was making. I daren’t ask again. Do I?

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a long flight and I’m tired can you please say that again a bit slower?”

“You don’t think I’m tired Mr. Brown?” She mutters back.

My wits don’t elude me though. Its only half 9 in the morning. Fucken lazy cold blooded bitch.

To be honest I cant really indulge the rest of the story just in case. But it followed with the words “I should be in my right mind Mr Brown to put you on the next return flight…” yada yada freakin yada! One and a half hours later after, the Bearded Lizard has spoken to the High Commissioner twice. Not once but twice. Demanded bank statements, called my girlfriend who was upstairs waiting for me. Then finally decide to let me through.

Hallelujah! Seriously one of the scariest moments in my life. There were defiantly loggerneck Turtles in my pants.

‘A Sasquatch Mystery’ begins here. Continue reading Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.

* * *

Disco Stu yawned. It was just another day on the job.

He turned and looked at me. I frowned.

“What?” he asked, from the back seat of my car.

“You’re a slob,” I said, from the front. “And there’s a bucket of hot wings on your stomach!”

Disco Stu had climbed into my car for a nap, and had been sleeping there without my knowledge for an hour. In his defense, the bucket of hot wings was mine, along with the other rubbish on the back seat.

“Sorry about that, Mauso,” said Stu, brushing aside the trash. “I just needed to hide from Doyle for a while.”

“Why?” I asked.

“There’s a secret entrance to the basement of olilolo headquarters,” he explained. “Doyle uses it to smuggle in alcohol, and I use it to smuggle out…”

He stopped.

“Well, I use it too.” he finished simply. “Anyway, we happened to be using it at the same time this morning, and we ran into each other…”

“Say no more,” I replied. “Each man, caught red-handed by his oppressor.”

My cell phone rang.

Read more…

Disco Stu’s house was as innocent as any other. Originally a McDonald’s drive thru, now decorated with bronze robotic statues of Scarlett Johansson - it was awesome.

Except for one tiny flaw: Disco Stu was a traitor.

You see, my name is Mauso elMaco. And I am a member of the olilolo Sasquatches, a casual touch football team who plays on Wednesday evenings.

The competition is fierce. And I suspected Disco Stu of selling secrets to our arch-enemies, a ferocious team called The Monsters.

From Stu’s computer, I learned that the man was a burden on his company. The only profitable department of olilolo was the blossoming ’stationary supplies’ department, headed up by Aaron Doyle.

In Stu’s cupboard, I found shocking evidence of his sordid life: a paper mache dong, three comically oversized pimp hats, and a solid golden crown. It was awesome.

Read more…

I roared along the streets of Oliloloville at twice the legal limit, speakers blaring with “The Final Countdown”. The noose was tightening around Disco Stu’s neck as I approached his neighbourhood.

The man had been leaking our team’s secrets to The Monsters, and he would pay for his treachery. The olilolo Sasquatches were not a forgiving team.

At the gates to Disco Stu’s Estate, two gigantic bronze statues stood either side of the entrance. The statues depicted a naked Scarlett Johansson, which would have been sexy if they weren’t three times my own size.

Before me, a solid metal gate blocked my path.

“Password?” asked the security system, through a dilapidated little speaker box. (I should add that Disco Stu’s Estate was previously a McDonalds drive thru, which he had decided to “pimp out”.)

Read more…

Speeding down the highway in my sports car, I fished into the depths of my coat pocket. I suspected Doyle to be a traitor, which meant I had to interrogate him face to face. I was going to give the Olilolo Headquarters a visit.

I extracted Aaron’s business card from my pocket and inspected it. The old cardboard was smudged with chocolate finger prints, which I suspected were Aaron’s. He had forced this business card upon me months earlier, despite my repeated attempts to inform him that I would “never, ever use it”.

It was obvious that he had designed the business card using a free template program, and that he’d sent it to the printer without proofreading.

I sped off the exit ramp to the suburb of Oliloloville. The enormous building known as the Olilolo Headquarters stood tall, eight blocks away. With the sun directly behind it, shining around the edges, it was a truly inspiring sight.

Read more…

I sat at my desk happily. It was just another day on the job.

I turned to my coworker, Sara. She frowned.

“What?” I asked. She always frowned at me.

“You’re a slob,” she said, pointing at my feet. It is true that I was leaning back in my chair, and that my feet were resting on the desk. Sure. But sometimes, we all need to take a break.

“Look at you,” she continued, still gesturing at me. “There’s a bucket of hot wings on your stomach!”

Okay, yes, I was also eating at this time. But in my defense, the television in the lunch room was broken, and a hilarious Youtube video required my immediate attention. I wasn’t moving anywhere, and I was hungry.

“I’m fuelling up,” I replied. “For the big game.”

“You’re fuelling up with hot wings?”

“A bucket thereof, yes.”

She sighed, and turned back to her computer. My phone rang.
Read more…

A SHORT DISCLAIMER

Today we welcome the delightful Jeff into the growing list of olilolo guest writers. I’ve known Jeff for several years, and in that time he has only tried to drunkenly make love to me once. Or was that the other way around? It’s so hard to keep straight these days. The point is, he’s a fine, upstanding fellow; a paragon of the community.

So to compensate, he’s going to drop the C-bomb approximately 50 times in the next several paragraphs.

I seriously cannot stress this enough- if you are offended by that word, DON’T READ THIS ARTICLE. It’s sprinkled liberally. If your tastes run towards blander fare, then this dish might prove too spicy. You were warned.

-Stu

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“What’s cunt got to do, got to do with it?” ~ Socrates

A lot.

I was reminiscing the other day about the good times had at Springwood State High School. Ah, how we laughed back then. We would frolic in the meadows, play hand-ball in the mornings, and then adjourn to the classroom at a time of our choosing, quite often 15 minutes late, to talk to our friends and pay no attention to the teacher. What a beautiful, innocent time it was. Every morning seemed to hold the promise of an enchanting day ahead, and we were rarely disappointed. But time passes and pleasant memories fade into obscurity as the soul-crushing-weight that is life beats you down. You have to adapt to survive. To stay alive.

How do we do this? Well, back in those wonderful days, I was a well-mannered and polite young man. Fast forward to today and I’m a foul mouthed cunt. See what I mean?! That is how I adapted. That is how I was able to stay alive. I was trying to figure out what caused this change in my modus operandi, when I realized what it was.

Bunnings Warehouse.

I’m almost certain that working at that place gave me my sailor’s mouth. When I began working there, my mind was still impressionable and as fluid as the changing tides. Fluids naturally assume the shape of their containers, and assume I did. Bunnings is a place where poor management, gay slogans and outrageously hot temperatures combine to strip all hope of happiness and love away from you. You have to fight to survive.

Yeah, fuck yeah.

Some of my swearing transcends the constraints of conventional curse words. Chief among my expletive phrases is ‘cunt up’. What does that mean, you may ask? ‘Cunt up’ has many and varied uses. Its versatility is unparalleled. Below is a Macquarie Pocket Dictionary definition which I hope to see in print in the near future.

cunt up
/kunt up/ n., v., adj., adv., 1. disbelief, shock: “I can’t believe that happened to you. Cunt up!” 2. quiet resignation: “Cunt up.” 3. congratulations, praise (often accompanied by a smile and a handshake): “Cunt up, mate!” 4. replacing a phrase (such as “Let’s get this show on the road”): “Cunt up, everyone!” 5. colloquial, to stop (someone) from talking: “Cunt up!”

I could go on, but I think you get the gist of it.

Though using such foul language may be viewed by the public at large as a disgusting and inappropriate form of expression, it does serve a vital purpose. It allows me to vent my latent fury in a safe way, as opposed to raping women and aborting pregnancies with a swift roundhouse kick.

Imagine Tina Turner singing about that.

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If you enjoyed that filth, Jeff posts other dirty little ramblings on a blog of his very own, Man Date.

Here I am in this mythical blog world! Joy.

I’ve recently signed up for this thing that, you so called ‘people’ post so called ‘humour and witticism’ on (or it depends on which way you swing).

Anyway, as you may or may have noticed my ‘log in name’ is ‘Strangely Brown’. Yes you read right. Strangely Brown I hear you ask? It means whatever the hell you want it to mean. The slightly ‘off’ green coloured thing thing you leave in the toilet each morning. Jarvish. The colour of my undies or that thing on your inner thigh i see every night while i watch you shower (what the hell is that anyway). You decide my feathered friend.

Anyway, back to the ever so painful point. I stumbled accross this site During a drunkin masterbating frenzy. Fending off monkeys as I came to an anger fueled climax. The Emus had fled and the Llhamas stopped spitting, there it was. The postings of Disco Stu! This guy, girl, shaved yak for all we know. Pure genious. Inspired, it occured to me. I must follow the preachings of this Dictator Like Disco Stu!

So here I am drunk, covered in piss. I sit swimmingly admiring the beauty. This is my attempt whether frequently or infrequently I shall add a post.

A post. A hairy post reveiling daily, weekly, monthly, yearly idiosyncrasies that occur as I slide down this razor blade I call life. Join me as I take off my pants and delve deep into my hairy life as i spray it accross this sexy site. So listen up bitches keep your eyes open and your cocks out, cause StrangelyBrown’s about.