This is big news. I LOVE potato dumplings. They serve no purpose other than to suck up gravy and be delicious – and possibly glue up your insides as they’re pretty sticky. However, the immature child in me noticed something about the brand which caught me by surprise and had me giggling in the aisles.

Heh. Pfanni.

Now, after devouring these lovely balls of starchy goodness I decided to search the brand and see what I could find – specifically what other delectable treats they had awaiting me.

After trawling through a history of the company (none of which I could read) and various recipe ideas (again, can’t read German), I stumbled across an interesting fact: For cultural reason, the products are exported to North America as “Panni”.

You can’t fault them on this, it makes perfect sense since “fanny” in the US means “arse”. I know I don’t want to be thinking about arses and faeces while I’m chomping down on some gooey goodness. Looks like some quick local research has saved them some unfortunate embarrassment.

This of course begs the question: Why are they exporting a big pile of VAGINA to Australia? You can’t tell me their research didn’t turn up the fact that 60 million Poms, 20 million Aussies, 5 million Irish, 4 million Kiwis, and the English speaking portion of South Africa would all be thinking about female genitals, if they weren’t already, when they heard the word Pfanni. Bums are out, front bums are in!

I like to think they know exactly what it implies in the Commonwealth countries… and they’re okay with it. Arses are nothing but excrement-spewing stench-monsters, but vaginas; now that’s more in touch with the steamy, saucy goodness of kartoffelknodel. It’s what their German forefathers fought for.

That’s really all I wanted to share with you. A little bit of year-four humour to start the week. If over generalised stereotypes have taught me anything, and they have, it’s the German girls have massive boobs and German men keep poo where it belongs, in pornography.

The Australian Government has last week announced a new, third-option for gender on their passports. It’s aimed at ending the discrimination of some groups and will be fast tracked through parliment. The change will take place in the comming months.

Charities and Support Groups have welcomed the moved, and have voiced their approval for the new legislation.

“This is a revolutionary step forward for Australia. I don’t there’s another country out there that has made this decision. The government should be commended for being at the forefront of political correctness,” said Mrs John Smith of the Salvation Army.

Fred Frederickson, Minister for Customs, Border Security and other Reality Tv Shows, was pleased for the community reaction to the proposal.

“I’m really proud of what we’re doing here. I’m proud of Australia. Really it makes sense. These people are writing this on their forms any way. It’s something they’re passionate about, and I’m happy to be embracing that.”

In a world exclusive, olilolo has been able to obtain a copy of the new forms, presented here for our dear readers:

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- Putting a ‘reduced to clear’ sticker on your newborn’s head head may seem clever, but it will cause a rash for several days.

- Children learn to mimic you. It’s not long before they are laughing at their own farts. I’m told this is wrong.

- Your not allowed to teach your kid to splash your wife every time she passes the bathroom, not only is it irritating for her, but then the little shit’ll then slip on the wet floor at least once a week, cracking his head. The sound of crying is unpleasant on the ears.

- I’ve learned when your son has a grazed nose, you shouldn’t say “Where’s your nose?” no matter how funny the outcome is.

- It’s really difficult to pose a child into the various YMCA positions, and yelling at him when he resists isn’t as satisfying as it sounds.

- Telling your child the noise from an emptying bath is a dragon in the drain hole that will eat him will stop him putting his fingers down there, but it will also make him scream in terror and jump out of the bath if your hand even accidentally strays towards the plug hole.

- Making a big deal every time you have to change a filthy, filthy poo nappy is hilarious to those who are around to hear it; but will encourage your child to not tell you when he’s soiled himself, stay sitting in it all afternoon, and leave him covered with sores that will only get worse with time. You will also notice he will get embarassed when you have to change him, and will hide his face in shame, making you realise you’re actually a horrible dick.

- If your child looks scared from the sound of a chain saw starting up from the neighbour’s backyard, apparently you don’t scream “The Monsters! They’ve come to get you Breandan! Run!!” before reaching out for his hand and taking him running through the house on a panicked chase. Apparently children don’t ‘get it’.

- You’re not allowed to teach your kid to respond to the question “What does Mumma smell like?” with the answer “Poo!”. Especially if you follow this up with the question, “Is Dadda the best?” and you’ve taught him to reply “Yes!”. It exacerbates the issue.

- If your son is afraid of dogs, jumping out from behind the couch as he approaches and barking at the top of your lungs is so, so funny. They say it’s also not the right thing to do.

- You’re not allowed to have any fun with children. I really don’t know what the point of it all is then.

“Huh?”, I opened my eyes.

“This is quite important; you should probably be awake.”

“Suit yourself.” I sat up a little straighter.

“Also you can’t have that drink in here.”

“What drink?” I sipped my drink and pondered the question.

“Um, that one.”

“What one?” I swirled my glass listening to the clinking of the ice cubes.

“In your hand”.

“Hand?” She was talking gibberish.

“Right now. Right there.” She pointed at my hand. Did she want some of my drink?

“… I’m confused, what?” This is hard work, I thought. Thank fuck I have a drink.

“Forget it. Just don’t worry.”

“Mmmmm scotch, I love you. Sorry, what was that?”

The doctor sighed. I wondered why. She must be making a mint if what she was charging me is any indication.

After 12 months of harmless fun, my wife had decided to ruin the good times and drag me to a fertility clinic. Now I had to deal with Doctor No-fun.

About the only interesting thing about the place was the picture of Stu next to the reception desk. Filthy bastard had his sticky fingers everywhere. He’d obviously conned the young girl somehow. I didn’t blame him. She was quite attractive.

“Anyway, like I was saying, there are any number of reasons why you’ve been unable to get pregnant with your second child. You need to try to maximise your health Mrs Doyle. Really give yourself and your eggs the best chance available.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling her,” I added like I knew what she was on about.

“Well the issue could easily lie with the father as well, Mr Doyle.” She swivelled her chair toward me.

“Pfft. Nice try. It takes more than that to cheer her up.”

“No, it’s well documented that both sexes should really assess their lives if they are trying to overcome an inability to conceive. For example, excessive alcohol consumption drastically reduces your production of sperm.”

“Well it’s lucky I’m not a heavy drinker then.”

She made an obvious look at me and then at my drink. If she wanted some she should have just asked. I had a whole flask.

“Okay,” she turned back to my wife. “Now there’s a number of things you can do to increase your chances of conception.”

The doctor droned on for what felt like minutes. Precious minutes. Blah blah fallopian tubes blah. Sperm yada yada hemorrhaging scar tissue. I was sure I was going to miss Inspector Rex.

“Now Mrs Doyle, if you get up on the table we’ll start with some examinations.”

“Look, I don’t want to be rude but I have things to do today can we get my part in all this over with?”

“I’m sorry Mr Doyle, but I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Oh you know what I mean right enough I think.” I slammed back the last of my drink and started unnbuckling my belt.

“Doyle!” my wife exclaimed horrified.

“Mr Doyle, what are you doing?”

“You said it could be the father, so let’s do this. Grab a cup. Test me. You might want to put a glove on, I havent showered for a few days.” I kicked off my shoes and got my pants past my ankles. I jumped on the examination bed bare arsed. “I’m gonna leave my socks on, okay?” I looked up to find two women staring at me, open mouthed.

My wife was white faced and looking a little ill. The doctor looked confused but furious.

“Mr Doyle, put your clothes back on. We have rooms set aside for this.”

“It’s okay, my wife’s seen me naked before. Come on, let’s get passed the BS. You’re not really my type, and you’re a little old, but you’re in good shape. I can work with it. Now grab my python let’s see if we can make it spit at ya. Hiss!”

The doctor’s mouth hung agape again. Maybe she was going to extract the sample another way. The day was looking up.

“I… I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she stammered. “You can lodge the sample yourself at the lab.”

“What do you mean? I want my damn happy ending.”

“Doyle, please stop.” It was my wife, crying again. I’d forgotten she was there to be honest.

The doctor started to yell. “This isn’t a brothel Mr Doyle. There are no fucking happy endings!”

“Hang on, this’ll be the most expensive handjob I’ve had in weeks and I’m the one who has to put in the hard yards with this?”

“What?” my wife asked through her sobs.

“Nothing honey. What kind of scam are you running here? This is bullshit!” I turned to face the doctor. She was sitting at her desk speaking quickly into her phone. Shit.

“Come on.” I gestured to my wife. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand before I call A Current Affair, or maybe the AMA and claim malpractice.”

I grabbed my wife by the arm and ran towards the car park. Just as we reached the front door I looked over my shoulder. Beyond the chubby, security guards ambling our way I could just make out that cute receptionist.

She seemed to be putting something on the wall.

It was then my wife, exhausted, piped up. “What is she doing with your picture?”

I’ve seen a lot of ‘magic’ tricks in my time, but this one is mind blowing.

How many birds will give their lives away, brutally thrown in to wood, ice and concrete before we say enough is enough?

Right now, across the globe, there are pigs being beaten, battered, crushed, and blown up. They’re being abused and killed for the entertainment of the masses.

Right now, in labs, there are birds going through excruciating medical experiments to be turned into modern day gladiators for these games. They’re being grossly enlarged, torn asunder, filled with explosives, and made to shit lethal eggs of death; they’re being crafted into soulless killing machines.

For just $1 a day you can help save these lives.

At “Peaceable Avians”, we help the victims of this war find hope in the face of suffering.

We air drop clothing, medicines and slops right into the heart of the warzone.

While for the thousands left orphaned, we run mixed-species children’s homes where they can find warmth, feel safe and most importantly learn tolerance of one another.

So please support Peaceable Avians today.

A few days ago he put the call out to his few remaining friends to provide some quotes for the back cover.

Since I’m too lazy to write anything creative myself, and this was free material, I’ve decided to repost it here without anyone’s consent.

Enjoy!

Doyle’s Quotes

“I used to be an innocent catholic schoolgirl, but thanks to ‘Violent Fridays’ I’m now wanted in 4 countries. Thanks Mr Yong!”

“Great. Entertaining. Light hearted fun. These are all adjectives!”

“I picked up this book and next thing I know I was waking up in an ice bath. 4 stars!”

“I loved the Da Vinci Code.”

“It went through me like a Bondi tram”

“First I was afraid, I was petrified.”

“I haven’t been able to keep my hands off myself in weeks.”

“This book is as welcome in Brisbane today as a yellow-bellied black snake at a barbecue.”

“The girl’s happy.”
- R Hunt.

“Great binding. High quality paper! Two thumbs up.”

“It’s like gunshot wound to the face. Then having that wound reopened and rubbing salt into it. Then punching a small kid in the guts.”

“I’m now blinded in one eye!”

“Like a full body abortion… to the eyes.”

“This book killed my children.”

“Like heroin injected into your retinas.”

“If this book was a food, it would be a sickening slurry.”

“Even the smallest weakling will be hardened by this violence fest. I now wear dynamite pants and barbed wire shirts.”

“Banned in 5 countries. On the curriculum in 6.”

“This book stole my wallet.”

“No I won’t give you a quote for your stupid book.”

“Enthralling. I loved every word. The pictures? Not really my thing.”

“It has the fibre and nutrients to give my kids the start they need.”

“Violence in a book? Australia says yes.”

David’s Quotes

“Oh, God yes. Finally a book that caters to my love of violence and fridays; and my distaste for the written word.”

“To behold its magnificence, its glory and its splendour is to initiate a chain of orgasms that may never stop.”

“It’s a book!”

Bruce’s Quotes

“It made me spit tea out of my nose.”

“Oh no, Peter! What have you done!? Just awful. Peter.”
- M. Yong

“I’d rather read the Microsoft Windows licence agreement. Over and over again.”

“What an enchanting tale of a boy wizard, and the mischief and hijinks he gets up to with his friends at school. Two stars.”

“Well that’s four minutes of my life I’m never getting back.”

“Better than Danielle Steel’s Kaleidoscope.”

“Better than that time I snorted powdered milk.”

“Proof that there is no God.”

“A disturbing insight into the mind of a psychopath.”

“If I were a book, I would want this book to have my children.”

“Has a fruity, musky taste with undertones of smoke and cinnamon.”

“This book gave me an irrational fear of cats.”

Enjoy the pointless ramblings, and savour the disjointed thoughts.

11.58am – Weddings. There’s something special about weddings. It drives women insane! Unfair, over simplified stereotype? Possibly, but it’s definitely true for my wife. I’ve never met anyone who gets so excited/frazzled over one day. Want an explanation reader? No. You give ME an explanation. Where are your pants? It’s irrelevant questions like this which ruin a nice day. I’m not wearing pants. What has that got to do with going to a wedding? Everything? Okay, Possibly.

12.04pm – Okay so now I’m in the toilet committing atrocities against mankind and his plumbing systems. It’s so hot. Quenching my thirst with beer is going badly. Maybe I should drink some water. No! A $4000 bar tab is there for a reason. It’s not for me to puss out on.

12.13pm – Still in the toilet. It’s cooler in here.

12.16pm – Okay I’ve met the people I’m sitting with. I know most of them, even if only vaguely. The plan: Smash back a heap of grog, make friends with everyone.

12.30pm – God dammit. Car talk. I got nothing. This was going so nicely. Why do guys have to talk about something so bloody boring? Sure I watch top gear, but that for the comedy aspects. Cars. They’re just bits of moving metal. Right. Change of subject, yes! What? Surfing? Shit I got nothing.

1.13pm – My son is slowly destroying his piece of wedding cake. He’s cushing it into the high chair table. I would have eaten the guys left overs. Selfish little bugger. Oh wait now he’s throwing it. Bits are going everywhere. He’s getting a laugh from everyone so he’s really going for it now. He’s enjoying the cake more than anyone else here.

1.18pm – One of the waitresses has come over quite cranky about the mess. She’s says she’s going to bring back a dust pan a broom for us to clean it up. There is fury in her eyes and infanticide in her heart. If looks could kill I’d be staked out in the Simpson Desert.

1.19pm – Heh. I think I’m one of those parents they talk about on A Current Affair.

1.21pm – Some guy has come to clean up the mess. He’s apologetic, and I think he talked her down. I suppose I should thank him for retaining my testicles.

1.58pm – I love drunk aunts. Stumbling. Cracking on to groomsmen half their age. Leaning forward, grabbing their chest and saying ‘show us your tits’ while in professional photos. That’s what dreams are made of.

2.06pm – Just found out the aunt is also the hairdresser for the bride and bridesmaids. She had a bottle and a half of wine before she started grabbing sharpened metal (scissors) and hacking at their heads. Fantastic.

2.10pm – I’ve just realised; I don’t seem to be drunk enough for this. I haven’t had my hand off a beer but still I feel fine. My stomach is so full of liquid, but it can’t seem to handle what I require of it. Everyone else seems plastered. What’s wrong with me? I’m fighting a losing battle.

2.24pm – What’s the opposite of mutton dressed as lamb, because I’m seeing it.

2.44pm – It’s so damn hot. I’m not moving from my table. Mission over. I don’t want to meet anyone new. This daytime wedding reception thing is weird. I’m not as drunk as I should be considering the amount I’ve had. I can’t explain it.

2.53pm – Jailbait! That’s the word.

3.12pm – Every time I see that waitress she looks like she’s going to stab me. I think she’d appreciate it if I asked her to take off her pants… Her grumpy pants! That’ll win her back.

3.32pm – I haven’t seen my son in hours. I suppose I should be worried. Two year olds can look after themselves right? I might start looking for him. I can see a fair from my chair. *drinks his beer*.

3.34pm – Wait. There he is with his cousin. I’ll call off the search party. *continues to drink his beer*.

3.42pm – The aunt has foisted herself onto the groom’s brother. He looks scared. He’s shaking his head. Okay now she’s putting lipstick on his mouth. I’m not sure what’s going on but it dripping with sexuality and potential man rape. You idiot! The lippy is drugged. You’re going to wake up tomorrow morning in her clutches.

3.43pm – Ding, ding. One ticket to crone-sex please. Grab a jar of Vaseline, because you’ll be up to your groin in sinew and bone.

4.00pm – And that’s it. We’re being kicked out. It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon. I’m tired, I’m hot, I’m only half cut and I have a waitress who I think is about to follow me into the carpark and knife me. What a bizarre way to spend the afternoon.

4.01pm – Casino anyone?

…but how freaking small is he? He’s smaller than that thumbnail.

I want one right now.

/cute

A day which started like any other, but by the end of the day it would be remembered by many for the rest of their lives.

The Eating Club proudly presents the first ever Eating Club Event: “Piefesta!”

Background – A love of pie

One lazy Sunday afternoon, a bet was made. Details are sketchy, time had obscured the exact circumstances of its creation, but when finally the words were spoken they hung in the air and all around them went people went quiet with anticipation.

It was simple. Would a Piefection pie, without any additional assistance of lubricants, blend into something resembling a beverage? (Sorry for those of you who threw up reading that).

On one side of the fence was Dave. He sat firmly in the yes camp. He was sure a delicious smoothie or perhaps frappe would result, albeit a greasy one. The gravy and fat would assist in that goal. There was no doubt.

Bruce, though, was in opposition. His extensive knowledge of blended Big Macs suggested that the carbohydrate filled pastry would absorb too much liquid and would just be a pile of crumbs by the time it was finished. You would have to add a lubricating substance.

Neither side could agree. The crowd lay divided. There was only one sane option left to mankind.

The dare – A challenge set

A challenge was set. If the pie blended like Dave thought, Bruce would drink the pie. If the pie wouldn’t blend, Dave would have to add gravy till it did and then he’d drink the pie. However, the worst was yet to come.

Not happy with simply devouring a pie in a way god did not intend, the ante was upped. The contest would take place that Wednesday night, just before a Mansfield Sasquatches Touch Football game. Whoever drank the pie would have to play the game with the greasy ball of pre-digested meat slurry sloshing around inside them.

There would be no winners in this contest, only losers. Would they vomit, desperately trying to cover their mouths while chunder spurted from between their fingers as they ran toward the sideline? Only time would tell.

Above: This came up when I typed ‘time’ into google images.

The Day – It was a good day to die

6.00pm – Most of the spectators arrive. All but two of the Mansfield Sasquatches are in attendance. Nervous giggles and murmurs are exchanged. Excitement fills the air like electricity but there are more than a few grim looking faces. No matter what the result everyone was here to witness one of their team mates put their circulatory system in mortal danger.

6.05pm – A poll was taken among the crowd on who thought the pie wouldn’t blend and Dave would be horribly maimed. It’s heavily in Bruce’s favour. He looks jubilant (unpictured).

6.07pm – The rules were agreed upon by both competitors. Dave would be permitted to use his blender, and would use any implement he wanted to try and break up the pie as long as he didn’t add any liquids.

6.09pm – Defibrillator paddles charged.

6.10pm – The time for blending has arrived. The time limit is set at ten minutes. The pie goes in with a plop. The blender is readied.

6.11pm – The blender charges into action. The pie sits atop the blades unmoving, mocking Dave.

6.13pm – After some hard blending the pie is finally breaking up and turning in to what appears to be a sodden pile of crumbs. Dave’s face has gone noticeably pale with fear.

6.15pm – It’s Five minutes in and resultant mixture is dry and crumbly. Dave refuses to give up and pounds at the mixture with a wooden spoon.

6.18pm – It’s not looking good. On an completely related note, I feel a little ill.

6.20pm – And that’s time. The blended pie looks nothing like the ‘beverage’ described but a few days before. It does, however, look like man vomit.

Dave is not a happy boy, while Bruce swings from ecstatic to downright smug.

Piefesta results! Winner: No one attending such an event. Loser: David.

6.22pm – A disappointed Dave brings out the gravy and looks regretfully at the blender. He adds about a third of the gravy and turns on the blender. Horrifyingly almost no change is realised.

6.23pm – More gravy is added. It darkens noticeably, resembling the black pit of hell from whence it was devised. There’s a slight increase in the fluidity of the mixture as well.

6.24pm – In desperation the last of the gravy is added. The blender works hard but it’s no good. The mixture is dense and thick, still unlike the promised drink. Questions of whether Dave would be required to add sauce arise, but it’s decided it’s up to Dave whether he wanted to add to the mix or not. He’d fulfilled his end of the bargain so as long as he consumed it all would be fine.

6.25pm – The mix is scooped out. It has the consistency of chocolate mousse, and a taste somewhere between delicious and downright filthy. Someone quips that it’s like the ultimate in protein energy drinks. The crowd try to encourage him by promising if he scores four or more tries tonight they’d all eat pie-slurry next week.

6.27pm – An unhappy Dave smashes down the pie-slurry while his mind is off in his happy place.

6.30pm – Our brave loser finishes the concoction and still has not spewed. He may have lost the challenge but he has won our hearts.

The aftermath – Post-pie wash up

While the cheers soon died down there was still work to be done. At 6.50pm the heroic Mansfield Sasquatches took the field. The anticipation was palpable, everyone eyes were plastered on Dave.

While I would love to report that David disgraced himself, spraying himself and the opposition with pie, it was not to be.

Despite the sloshing in his stomach, and the look of dread on his face he was a try scoring machine, getting three over the line (two disgracefully disallowed) before full time denied him the chance to make the rest of us repeat his experience the next week.

And now as you ponder your life, as we all do when we see a man try to drink a pie, I leave you with a few words from David, unashamedly stolen from a certain social network:

“Honestly, that was one of the stupidest things I’ve done in a while. I didn’t spew, but I tasted it more than once.

It was just such a disgusting paste. Like a thick, mushy yogurt-like substance that happened to taste of pie. It wasn’t even like eating mince, because the pastry was mashed into it and gave it a soggy, sad texture which diluted the flavour from “meaty and hearty” to “somewhat meat-like; and doughy”.

Driving to touch footy, I won’t lie: I had serious doubts about my ability to play a game. And then I busted out a try (and two more which were disallowed), so I guess pie-meal is the next gatorade.

The taste is now long-gone from my mouth, and the only wounds I nurse are psychological. They may never heal.”