olilolo blog

This interview took place during November, and will appear in the February issue of “Stallions: The Magazine for the Australian Corporate Go-Getter, and Horse Enthusiast.”

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Simple Genius: A Casual Conversation with Doyle.

When five of the worlds wittiest and most amusing writers banded together to create the Greatest Blog on Earth, that blog wasn’t olilolo.

olilolo is known to the masses as a blogging website aimed to distract the public from their otherwise sad and meaningless lives. We’re regaled with tales of drunken strippers sleeping with pythons in their bed chamber, conspiracy theories concerning Big Brother harbouring Schapelle Corby and even the taboo of intra-family marriage.

The site, established in 2005 to much fanfare, is owned and run by five unique writers; The men known only as Doyle, Disco Stu, Ben, Bruce and Yongas. While Doyle and Disco Stu are the most frequent bloggers, the three other members of olilolo have been known to post a cheeky blog from time to time. Ben usually opts to post rants about his most recent brush with the authorities, Bruce reminisces about his love for cream and Yongas has beautiful thighs.

As Stu was in the middle of his November Challenge, I caught up with Mr Doyle at the olilolo Tower to uncover the success secrets of the olilolo family.

I arrived at the tower early; after passing a burnt out and still smouldering BMW convertible in the parking lot on the way to the tower. I was feeling a little disturbed, but still eager to finally see where the olilolo comedic magic took place. I was greeted half-heartedly at reception by a dishevelled looking assistant. Her clothes were slightly crumpled and singed. On her chest there was a lopsided badge that read ‘Alendra’. She wore the worn, slightly crazed expression of someone who has had too much coffee and not enough sleep.

“I’m here for an 11am appointment with Mr Doyle” I said. She sighed wearily, and gestured for me to sit down before she grabbed a towel hanging from her office chair and entered a nearby open office. The unhinged door rested against the door frame. From within the room I heard muffled voices and splashing water. When she reappeared she gave me an apologetic smile, shrugged and said “He’s ready to see you now.”

When I entered the office I was confronted with a scene for which I was not ready. The room smelt strongly of alcohol and feet. Mr Doyle was wearing nothing but a towel, as he lounged lazily in a blow-up pool in the middle of his office. In one hand he was holding an olilolo coffee mug that had been duct taped together; it was then taped securely to his hand. The other hand gestured me forward.

I moved toward a vacant seat in a corner but Mr Doyle shook his head and hiccoughed “No, no, please.” He patted his lap disturbingly. “There’s room in the pool!” I ignored his kind offer and took the spare seat anyway; I looked into Mr Doyle’s blood shot eyes, swallowed the lunch which was threatening to make a reappearance, and began the interview:

Thank you for your time today Mr Doyle. You’re a notoriously hard man to get an interview with, and we appreciate the chance to give our readers an insight into your genius. My pleasure. So, what’s your secret to writing a really great blog? Well that’s a tough question. I guess the best way is to know what your reader wants. Who is your audience? What do they like? Don’t like? Give them a little piece of themselves every day – a little snippet of happiness in an otherwise bad day.

That’s a lovely way to think about your work.

What? My work? No, I just fart out whatever shit pops into my head; usually after my deadlines, and with little recollection of it later. I don’t really care about my readers. The blog solely serves as my outlet for my various rants and disjointed thoughts. The doctors said without it they’d probably have to increase the medication.

Oh, well where do you get your inspiration?

Probably the medication, but also just things I see in everyday life. People that annoy me. TV ads that annoy me. Children that annoy me. Products that annoy me. Weather patterns that annoy me.

Okay, well let’s shift focus a little. How did olilolo begin?

Well it’s not a well known fact but the five of us; Stu, Yongas, Ben, Bruce and I; all went to high school together. We’d spend our lunch times talking crap about the impending zombie apocalypse, Ben’s crazy conspiracy theories and Yongas’ gorgeous thighs. They were good times. So as adults we decided to try to recapture those moments, and sure make a little cash out of it. Which advertisers wouldn’t want to pay to be associated with all this?

He gestured to his surroundings, and then towards his crotch. The look on his face showed he wasn’t being funny.

Tell me a little bit about your fellow olilolo’lians and their roles. Well first there’s Stu, current Managing-Director, who most people know quite well from the press. Less well known though is Yongas, Online Artistic Director.

What does olilolo use an artist for?

Not entirely sure, but he always seems flat-out like a lizard drinking, so we’re getting our money’s worth. Bruce, well he’s IT-Support Manager. While Ben is semi-retired and is performing motorbike tricks in a travelling circus.

So, in your opinion, who is the best blogger from olilolo?

He took a long drink from his hand-cup.

I hate to say it, but probably Stu. He actually seems to want people to like his articles. He spends time on them. He researches. He spell-checks and proof reads his work before submitting it. The guy’s a fool. I just don’t understand him.

What is this underlying competitiveness between you and Stu about? Is there any bad blood between the two of you?

Ha! No, there’s no bad blood between Stu and I. We’re just two naturally competitive people; like two brothers competing for mother’s attention. He’s a little jealous that I’m a better person than him in every way, and he tried to compensate for that by driving BMWs and harassing everything with a set of tits.

A BMW? Is it a convertible? There’s a burnt out BMW in your car park and…

Ha-ha!

He slapped his leg in genuine glee.

Yeah, that’s the third one this week. It’s a joke we have. He understands really; it’s been going on for a few weeks. It all started as just putting a potato in his exhaust pipe…

His voice trailed off, and he looked into the middle distance.

Wow, it really escalated to arson quite quickly. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Our work insurance covers it and he’ll have another one here by the end of the day.

Um, but… Okay, well if you and Disco Stu were to have a ‘blog war’ who would win?

Stu. I don’t have time for blog-wars. I have scotch to sample, and pubs to attend.

Let’s change tack completely for awhile. Have you ever seen Yongas’s thighs? Are they as beautiful as he described? Drool seems to trickle down Doyle’s chin at this question. Seen them? Ha! I’ve tasted them. Finest flesh known to man they are. I’m not gay but I’d turn in a second for one of those pale bags of love-meat. They’re 100% heterosexual of course. There was an unfortunate incident with one of Yongas’ ex-lovers once. Can’t blame the girl. They ooze masculine’ness, like beer and porn and indecent assault.

You’ve mentioned you’re not gay but we at Stallions have heard the rumours circulating in the press that you believe Health Ledger is sexy and often fantasize about rubbing honey all over him. Do you have anything to say to this allegation? Did you ever date Health Ledger?

Look the man has passed on and I don’t think it’s considerate to his family to be spreading, or fuelling such rumours.

Of course. On the topic of relationships, did Stu really end up marrying his sister in a desperate bid for publicity and readers?

No, of course not. That’s illegal… in this country anyway. There may have been an unfortunate incident involving too much alcohol, and a case of mistaken identity… or was that the movie Eurotrip? I dunno but at the end of the day the courts didn’t prove a thing.

This question comes from one of our readers, Mr R. Murdoch. It’s a hypothetical: It’s your birthday, and olilolo has made you a nice cake…

Wouldn’t happen.

It’s hypothetical, Mr Doyle. Now you’re delighted that your colleagues have been so kind as to give you a cake.

I wouldn’t be.

You blow out your candles and cut a big slice, but in the excitement you touch the bottom. You’re shocked, but you know you’re going to have to kiss one of them.

What? Piss off!

Who do you choose?

Kiss them? These people are lucky I don’t kiss them repeatedly… with my foot.

Just choose one!

Never!

I sighed with the sort of weariness one rarely gets working for an exclusive, blue-blooded magazine such as Stallions.

Fine. Well if you could kick one member of the olilolo team in the face who would it be?

Myself. With that sort of flexibility there’d be all sorts of kinky stuff you could do.

Again he gestured towards his crotch.

I think that’s all I have time for. Thanks again for providing the time for the interview, and allowing us an insight into your… unique abilities. Is there anything else you would like to say to our readers?

Just this.

I left the room as Mr Doyle started to dance; gesticulating in an erotic way. While I was glad to leave, I would never forget my visit.

J. Drenikow. 2010
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olilolo is a world renowned, online web-corporation with its head office based in Brisbane, Australia. They have established themselves as the largest purveyors of satire and humour of the finest quality. You can find them online at http://www.olilolo.com.

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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…