olilolo blog

Suddenly there was light. I swam to it and emerged into the brightness.

I opened my eyes and found my sight filled with green. I struggled with myself and slowly it came into focus: one mouldy avocado.

Huh.

I was disappointed but I stared at it anyway. It sat there, mocking me on it’s little glass shelf. I was hungry enough that I willed it’s little rotten self into my mouth.

It didn’t budge.

My stomach grumbled and I tried to sit up….*BANG* I hit my head on something above me. What the fuck? I realised I was leaning forward and my face seemed to be wedged in something. That’s not a good sign, I thought. It hurt to think.

The avocado did nothing to help me of course. It just sat there in front of me. Staring at me accusingly… as if it had eyes. Or thoughts. Or something… Let me eat you dammit!

I tried to sit up again… *BANG* - “Oh you motherfu”… but it ended with the same result. There was something just above my head. Something solid. Something cold, and so very bright.

Mustering my strength I heaved, and pulled myself backwards, falling to floor. “I’m free,” I yelled. It hurt to yell.

Looking around I realised was the kitchen. I’d fallen asleep with my head in the fridge again.

Huh.

That’d been happening a lot lately.
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Rather than writing anything myself, I thought I’d just dump a youtube clip here. Not even a youtube clip I found myself, but one Pete showed me…. Enjoy!

Why is it when people find out your wife is pregnant they make it their mission to try and freak you out. Why is it they throw useless, and disturbing facts at you about how your kid will be some deformed little demon child from hell. They of course then conclude with a rather hollow statement like; “Don’t worry, you’ll be right,” in what can only be described as a less than sincere manner.

I’ll be right?

I’ll be right will I? Will you be right when I’ve shoved my fist down that hideously fake smile, fuckface?

But I digress.

Unfortunately these ever-so-fun conversations have led me to the conclusion that procreation is simply a game of genetic Russian Roulette and, between you and me dear reader, my genes are not exactly at the forefront of evolutionary advancement.

So, as my friend Ben would probably put it, chances are I’m going to breed myself a mong. Something will be wrong with it, and I want to be prepared. Consequently I present here a list of afflictions which will result in my child being sent off for adoption.

Feel free to replace ‘adoption’ with ‘retrospective abortion’, it’s really up to you how fucked up you want to make this.

1) Hair.

Babies born with thick hair is fucked up as it is, but did you know they can come out with hair up to 10cm long? Well I do now! TEN centirmetres. What kind of screwed up wolf creature did my wife bed to birth something with that shit going on? Why not just come out with a beard and an adam’s apple, buddy? I’m not having that sort of thing going on in my house.

Long hair = adoption. Life’s cruel mate, better to learn now.

2) The cut of his/her gib.

Everyone loves to mention the terrible-twos, but I refuse to let some snotty-nosed midget ruin my weekend so you got to strike early. I’m not sure how you determine a child’s personality before it’s able to think, talk or even control it’s own bowel movements; but if I get even a whiff of attitude from the little demon-spawn, someone is going to wake up to a screaming box on their doorstep. In fact I’ll invest in a sass-meter, and if the needle reaches the red even once…

Sass = adoption. Don’t do the crime, if you can’t do the time.

3) Cross eyed.

We’re not Tasmanians. I don’t care if it can be fixed. Adoption.

4) Intelligence.

It can take up to 2 years for a baby to start talking… 2 years of having to interpret garbled rubbish and nonsensical sounds… I don’t think so champ. If you want to be a part of this family you’ll get your shit together faster than that. Employees get a 3 month probationary period at work, so it’s only fair you get the same. If they can teach dogs how to say hello, I should be able to expect at least a simple “Yes father, sir”.

No speech after 3 months = adoption. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, mutey.

5) Race.

If ‘my’ child comes out anything but the purest of white: gone. I’m not being racist but as both myself and my wife are the kind of white Hitler dreamt of, if there’s even the slightest hint of something funky there’ll be trouble. A slight tan, a minute slant to the eye. If a lion suspects a cub is not his, he kills it. It’s just nature’s way… better to be safe then sorry.

Racial impurities = adoption… and if I find your father, he’s dead.

6) Red haired male.

Chicks with red hair are hot. Guys with red hair are abominations. I won’t be responsible that.

Ginger balls = adoption. I feel better already.

———

Well I’m exhausted. Just the thought of this kid is killing me, but typing adoption over and over, ecstasy…

Adoption. Ahh yes.

Okay, okay. One last time.

Adoption….. god it feels good.

I think I need to lie down. I’ll keep you updated on anymore rules that come to me. let me know if you have any yourself.

If your boss decides to suddenly be generous, and start giving away free stuff don’t suggest this behaviour is out of the ordinary… and certainly don’t suggest he might be suffering from a parasite burrowed deep within his skull, no matter how funny it seems at the time.

It tends to lose its humour in its retelling…

So it seems my posts have been less forth coming than usual. Normally I would sit here late at night, cradling whatever evil brew I had stooped to buying, spitting my bitterness and contempt for my fellow co-worker and the world onto the web…

…but instead I have been cruising through the last few weeks. My days are spent watching the Olympics, reading, and generally participating in the world as little as possible.

Maybe it has something to do with the factI’m reading Harry Potter, and despite how poorly written it is as times, I find it hard to put it down. Or maybe it’s because I knocked up my wife.

Yes that’s right, you heard it here first. Mind blowing as it is, I’m reading Harry Potter… and I feel slightly dirty for it.

I’ve thought about reading the books for many years. ‘I’d get to them eventually’ I thought, but everytime I considered putting aside my reservations another movie would come out and everyone would start to rant on about how they are ‘the best books ever’ and how I ‘just had to read them’.

I hate that. I hate things that are just so bloody hyped up that people seem to swallow it’s ‘greatness’ like a slapper swallows cock. Back off dickhead! I’ll decide what I read, and if I do find a copy you haven’t covered in your jism, I’ll judge it for myself.

The Da Vinci Code is a perfect example of where the hype got out of control. A book about the Mona Lisa, the Catholic Church, and Jesus having it off with Mary Magdelene and planting his seed in her fertile field. Wow. Mind blowing. Now how about we go on about it like Dan Brown is some sort of messiah of literature. In fact why don’t we find Mr Brown and each take turns servicing his every sexual need, because he is obviously a man above all others. He’s a man to be worshipped. Maybe he is Jesus.

It wasn’t that good… The Da Vinci Code. It was okay, but not great.

And that is how I felt about Harry Potter. I refused to touch them lest I looked like I was caving in to the demands of the media-driven consumer-whores I share this world with.

It’s now time though. Time to confront this demon of mine and plunge myself head first into the great unknown world of J. K. Rowling.

I will keep you posted. If I don’t survive, tell me wife I love her… and to take out the compost.

At the risk of degrading this website into some sort of link dump to interesting news stories, have I got a news story for you!

It seems UK scientists have hooked up 300,000 cells from the brains of feotal rats, to a robot.

“Ha!”, you scoff. “What the hell will that achieve? Rat brains can’t interface with robots.”

“Really?” I sneer. Well it seems the cells are not only able to control the robot… they’re learning. They’ve learned how to control the speed of the robot, the direction, and use it’s sonar system to avoid collisions.

Not only that but they have a few of these little frankenrats, and they’re each developing their own personalities…

Seriously. Now think for a second about this. Effectively they have made cyborgs.

Now I’m no expert, but I’ve watched TV and mankind has two natural enemies: Intelligent robots, and zombies.

In fact I’ll go as far as to say that it won’t be long before we’re all running for our lives, desperately fighting off rat controlled super-machines armed with lasers and nuclear war heads. Fighting a guerilla style battle in the streets of our once grand cities. Hiding out in the sewers in a highly ironic turn of fate. All mankind’s achievements will be crushed under the mighty paw of rat kind.

We can only hope and pray the scientists developing cat-controlled zombies make a break through in time.

In any case, I think I’m going to start digging my shelter… just in case.

BBC story with video: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/technology/7559150.stm

(If this picture looks weird/doesn’t load properly, click on it to view it at full size)

My eyes shot open.

Where am I? I looked around the room fervidly. This wasn’t the office! There was a nagging recognition in the back of my head but I couldn’t quite work it out. I lay back down trying to ease the rising panic but it didn’t work. I looked over and saw I was not alone. I nearly lept from the bed.

As my eyes focussed it finally hit me. She was my wife, and it was my bedroom.

Huh.

No wonder it wasn’t familiar. I got up and stretched. My body ached. It had been a while since I had slept in a bed. I quietly made my way out of the room, trying not to wake her. It was easier this way.

I made myself some breakfast, a gin and tonic, and got in the car. The sun was excruciating but my sunnies eased the pain.
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I awoke in a daze. The memories of my dreams flashing past my eyes.

There was a super hero. Colonoscopy Man. He had the power to control his digestive system in ways no other man can.

Misunderstanding the term ’shelving’, Colonoscopy Man inserts excessives numbers of books up his arse for safe storage and transportation. This soon becomes Colonoscopy Man’s Library service. His fellow super heros can go to Colonoscopy Man with a request and he is able to regurgitate, on queue, the selected title.

This of course would have great advantages in those stereotypical comic book situations where suddenly during a fight you need to know the weak points of a deamon dog/giant squid/bewitched fridge, and naturally there is always extensive ancient research on it. Rather than having to find a library or return to the hideout, Colonoscopy Man can ‘bring up’ the info as needed.

However, unfortunately all doesn’t go to plan. While in testing it works perfectly, if the books remain in him for more than a few hours they are digested.

This results in Colonoscopy Man ruining large collections of rare books ‘just trying to help’.

Work that one out Freud!

I would like to wish the pope a safe journey from our shores, and a warm farewell from all of us at olilolo.