I would love to meet the people who feel for this one.

…for all your autoerotic needs.

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It’s not just the Scots which are brimming with terrible/awesome alcoholic ideas!

A few weeks ago we at olilolo brought you the story of a Scottish brewery which not only produced the world’s strongest beer, but decided to serve it in the hollowed out remains of dead animals.

So it got us thinking, and a little thirsty; surely it’s not just the Scots whom ruin their livers in weird and wonderful ways? If all people were created equal, then surely the rest of us are just as stupid?

So it is with my pleasure, I present to you “F**cked Up Grog from Across the Globe!”

Bakon – Bacon-flavoured vodka.

Above: Glorious Bakon, with a delicious Bacon-Mary.

This sounds like the logical end point of a party discussion on ridiculous uses for bacon. I’ve always found flavoured vodkas a bit unsual, however part of me thinks this sounds like the best invention, ever. It’s funny. It’s delicious. It has a heap of cocktail options – including the Bakon Chocolate Martini. It has everything!

That’s of course until you think about it for more then a few moments.

Imagine, if you will, the delicious taste of bacon. Crispy. Smokey. Slightly salty. A hint of sauce and egg. Mouth watering?

Now think of vodka.

Did anyone else throw up a bit? When they say that bacon makes everything better, I’m not sure if fermented and distilled potatoes was really what they had in mind.

I do like there slogan though: Pure. Refereshing. Bacon.

Three Olives – Sick vodka bastards!

Speaking of flavoured vodkas, English distillers Three Olives have decided to specialise in the poison, and have a whole range from your normal varieties, like vanilla, grape and cherry to just plain stupid varieties.

Well named drinks as “Bubble” and “Purple” are good examples, and while I’ll admit bottling a colour is quite impressive, according to their website it’s only frozen grapes… oh and “Bubble” is fruit.

Another, “root beer” (or sarsaparilla as we’d call it in Australia) is possibly one the worst crimes against humanity I’ve ever heard of; but I don’t like sars so I could be being a little melodramatic.

The big one though is ‘Triple Shot Expresso’. Enjoy the “the luxurious taste of the finest Italian expresso”.

I don’t know about this. I’m guessing the Italians had no idea what you were doing when you imported their coffee, did they Three Olives? They take their coffee pretty damn seriously in Italy. If they could they’d probably use it for blood transfusions.

Now if shitty Hollywood movies have taught me anything, it’s that Italians are all part of the Mafia, and they tend to take exception to a lot of stuff. So I hope you’re paying a bucketload of protection money, otherwise I can’t see your vodka’s wearing a lovely pair of cement shoes.

Kumis – All the deliciousness of milk!

Popular in such locales as Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, and Mongolia, this drink is made from fermented mare’s milk. Yep, that’s right: Horse milk. This delicious drink has a similar alcoholic content as say, a light-beer. So it takes a whole horse to get drunk, and a herd to throw an awesome party. The fact they’re having to milk horses in the first place is probably a good indication of the situation for the peoples of the Central Asian steppes, but they also happen to be largely lactose-intollerant. With mare’s milk being significantly higher in lactose then cow’s milk, the only way they can digest it is to break it down through fermentation, and get completely smashed! Make fun of cask wine all you want, Kumis is THE poor man’s drink.

Snake Wine – Another dead animal themed drink.

Not a company trying to get one up on the tequila worm, in fact snake wine originated in China during the Western Zhou dynasty in 771 BC. Followers of traditional Chinese medicine believe consuming snakes is not only tasty but also good for your health, and like all good people they found a way to combine it with strong liquor.

Some people, probably after having a few shots of the ol’ snake-juice, sometimes eat parts of the snake but primarily the creature is there to simply infuse it’s essence into the drink.

While I find the idea truly disgusting, I might point out now that I have actually had snake wine while on a Contiki tour in through France. A drunk vineyard owner made grappa in the same way and was handing out free shots. I’m not sure if it was the wine tasting before, or my inbuilt desire to get free stuff, but a shot of snake wine I had.

Grappa is evil stuff. Adding snake doesn’t help.

Mamma Mia Pizza Beer – When you hate yourself a little bit.

Above: Pizza Beer – Ale brewed with oregano, basil, tomato and garlic.

Let’s put aside for a second that this is another drink the Italians might be interested in, flavoured beer is as strange to me as flavoured vodka. Probably more so as vodka at least has a fairly tasteless starting point.

Sure I’ve tried chilli beer (wasn’t much chop), and beer with lime (not my sort of thing) but pizza? What manner of insanity is this?

According to their website married couple Tom and Athena Seefurth had a brainwave one public holiday. They wanted a beer that went perfectly with their pizza, but why go through all the hassle of eating AND drinking? So in true American style they smashed it all together into one easy to consume package and pizza beer was formed!

Part of me wants to denigrate this drink like it’s herpes in a bottle, but bugger it! The target audience for this beer must be lazy, go no-where bums – in other words, the target audience is me.

So bugger it I say dear reader, I reckon pizza beer sounds great, and if anyone wants to split some importing fees I say we get some in and write off an afternoon.

Coming home from an interstate roadtrip I pulled into a servo to top up my fuel. The attendant was serving someone, so I lingered around the magazines and checked out the covers of the men’s mags. The other customer left so I turned to walk to the register when the attendant calls out, “You looking at the men’s mags?”

“Uh, yeah”, I say a little unsure of where this conversation about to go.

“You should grab a copy of Nuts! It’s this Pommy mag, which is kinda like a mix of Zoo and Picture.”

“Nuts?”

“Yeah, that’s it with the yellow cover”.

“Heh,” I snicker to myself. I’m nothing if not juvenile of mind, so a foreign magazine called ‘Nuts’? I’m sold for the name alone.

I grab a copy and head up to pay.

“Just this and the fuel thanks mate”.

The attendant’s eyes drift down to the magazine thrown lazily on the counter. I giggled to myself thinking I’d caught him having a sneaky glance, but his eyes didn’t leave the glossy cover during the whole transaction. If he’d been any more intent on it he’d have been drooling.

I’m not overly convinced he wasn’t.

It was then however, that I truly took a look at him. He had pervert written all over his face. Not in texta of course, it’s a figure of speech – I’m suggesting the man looked like the sort of person who owned a pair of large binoculars but had no interest in bird watching. Not the feathered variety anyway. This time I’m referring to him watching women.

Okay I’m getting off topic. There was just something about his learing eyes, greasy brow, and sickly smile that screamed deviant… again, not literally. Not while I was there anyway, it tends to scare customers when you yell things at them.

Sorry, I’ll stop.

Any way he looked like a pervert, and here he was, unable to wrench his gaze away from the front cover of a magazine sporting a scantily-clad blonde in a bikini, long enough to even check my credit card signature.

As he finished the transaction quickly, so he could go out the back, throw his hand on the floor and make love to it like he knows it’s always wanted; I started to wonder – Did he look like a perve because he was perverse? Or was he a perverse because he looked like a perve?

Either his body has physically warped itself around his personaility, or the poor bastard has become a potential sex-criminal because of the unfortunate fact his unknowing parent’s genes combined to give him a bug eyed paedophile-stare.

No one would have suspected when he was a child of course. So innocent and sweet, but as puberty set in and his face took on that leer of a degenerate. He probably fought it at first, but there’s only so many times he could have seen that face in the mirror, looked into those cold dead eyes before it ate into his soul and gave him calloused hands.

How often do you see people convicted of hidden-camera type offenses on the news and think yep he looks like a perve? It can’t be a coincidence. This guy will probably die a virgin, in a sea of pornography, just because his parent’s DNA strands produced that face. That unfortunate face.

So if we accept the fact for a second that a face can change a person outside their control, what about a name? Take Conrad Black as a prime example.

He was arrested for stealing money, or being a bastard, or evil wizardry or something. The details aren’t important, the point is if you name your kid Conrad Black you’re basically saying “I want my son to grow up and try to take over the world via some dark scheme”. Not in some heroic ‘become Prime Minister of the UN’ sort’ve way, no we’re taken black magiks here.

So, are his parents actually the ones to blame in all this? Unlike our poor service station attendant, this situation was avoidable. They actively chose to name him Conrad Black. Sure they tried to soften the blow slightly by granting him the middle name Moffat, but no pansy addition to his birth certificate could fight off the combined power of the other two: Conrad – meaning awesome con, or criminal; and Black – meaning black.

In fact, I think our poor Baron Black of Crossharbour – a real title, which unfortunately didn’t help with his inherant levels of dark-dweomer – has been hard done by. If innocence by mental-defect exists, so should innocence by parental-naming-abuse.

I’m starting a letter writing campaign, and I urge you all to join me. We will fight this trial, and get our Conrad home from Azkaban!

Parachuting donkey terrifies children!

With a headline like that this story needs little else to justify being mentioned, but it also takes top prize for one of the best examples of a brilliant idea gone wrong. With bumper crowds at the Sea of Azol, what’s the best way to attract holidaymakers to your private beach? Strap a donkey into a parachute and pull it behind a speedboat of course!

That’s genius idea a group of Russian entrepreneurs came up with, and launched it into action.

No one thought of how the donkey would react though.

Attached to a parachute, the animal screamed in fear as it circled over holidaymakers who were sunbathing on a beach in the Cossack village of Golubitskaya.

“The donkey screamed and children cried,” regional police spokeswoman Larisa Tuchkova said.

World’s strongest beer served in dead animals

Just when you thought the Scots couldn’t think up a better way to destroy they precious livers then scotch, a local brewery has created the world’s strongest beer. Tipping the scales at a massive 55% alcohol to volume, it is ten times stronger than your average Aussie beer. So how to serve such a unique, and glorious thing? Inside a dead stuffed animal of course – seven stoats, four squirrels and one hare to be precise.

At $855 a bottle, one would have to assume that only the eccentric aristocracy and truly perverse would cough up the cash for one of twelve bottles that have been produced. The macabre dispaly of drinking from a dead stoat’s mouth should be a great conversation starter though.

Geeks lead anti anti-gay protest.

In a “fuck you!” to the freaks from the Westboro Baptist Church who were rallying outside Comic-Con, convention goers have held a counter-protest. Wielding clever signs, and amusing placards they were able to drown out the hate filled diatribe with their own calls for love:

“What do we want? Gay sex! When do we want it? Now!” cheered the nerds.

Part of me wants to make a joke here about the conventioneers being virgins and therefore it was just them begging for someone, anyone to sleep with them… but I’m part-nerd myself, and I don’t want to perpetuate the discrimination!

Human Interest Piece: Black parents give birth to white baby

Isn’t she cute?

“I’m turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese, I really think so… do-do-do-do-do-dah.”

“That’s about masturbation you know.” My heart nearly tore itself in two as a co-worker jumped out, or possible just passed by. I was in my own little world.

“Gah! What? What is?” I said grasping at my chest.

“That song,” they said smugly.

It took me a few seconds to realise what they were talking about. Most of that time was spent picturing me wiping that damn smile off their face. “Oh, is it?” I’d heard the theory before. So many times. Why do people always think they’re being so damn smart bringing up something everyone else seems to talking about.

I don’t know why he was drinking wine and eating croissants in the halls, or somehow transported himself outside. That’s just how he rolls…. smug bastard.

“Yeah, it’s right there in the lyrics,” they said.

“Oh, fair enough.” I turned and headed for my desk.

“Yeah,” they said following me as I walked faster and faster away from them. “Think about it. ‘I want a doctor to take your picture, so I can look at you from inside as well’. It’s obvious when you think about it.”

I sighed, a world weary sigh…. and there is was. The same damn argument I’ve been hearing for nearly a decade.

I’ve heard it more times then I like to think about. It’s that one lyric that everyone quotes to me as being the “proof” the song is about someone indulging in the act of self-love. Personally, I don’t really see the connection.

“I’m sorry to say Mrs Dalloway. It’s confirmed, your arm is broken. You can see if right here on this xray… right here… ooooh…. I… yes. Wow what a lovely ulna you have… and the way it joins to your carpals… is just… devine. Oh to hell with it! I don’t care what your husband says Mrs Dalloway! Rip off that cardigan and let me take you right here on my desk!”

Whenever I’ve asked anyone to explain to me how that one line proves the singer has experienced carnal knowledge with himself, I’ve mostly received blank stares.

I’m not saying the song isn’t about masturbation, or orgasm, or racism, or alien-inter-species-hibernation-plants or such-like. I’ve never really looked in to it. To be honest, I don’t really care either way. In fact even spending the five seconds now to look it up on google, just for the sake of this article is beyond my level of interest.

That’s just me of course, I realise I’m possibly in the minority. I just don’t care about the meaning behind songs and it’s not going to raise or lower my opinion of an unsually catchy piece of 80s pop. My point is however, if you are going to use examples as to why a song (movie/book et al.) has some sort of double meaning, at least understand your own argument. There are other lines in the song that sound seedier. Why this line? You have to be able to explain it me otherwise don’t mention it.

To be fair, I did have one friend who told me that the line meant the singer wanted a picture from inside the girl’s ‘lady-parts’. Okay, well, at least there is some form of connection to a bit of self ‘man-handling’, but I still don’t think it’s been thought about too well.

I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, including what can only be described as an obscene amount of porn. While that is long in the past now, during my various wanderings across the net I’ve seen what can only be called dildo-cam… and it cannot be described as arousing. It’s grainy, it’s fleshy, it’s unrecognisable, and when it’s not dark, it’s simply pink.

Warning: Above picture may drive you to a fit of masturbation. All hands on dick!

After logically explaining all this to my colleague however, and having my other work mates slowly pull me away as I continued to rant at his weeping, broken body on the floor, I decided I’d act like an adult and remove myself from the problem. I’ve resolved to avoid any possible songs, books, movies, theatre shows, paintings and shadow puppets, that in any way could have any possible double meaninings.

As the police bundled me in to the back of a divvy van, I sighed with my new found relief and sung quietly to myself. “Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea…”

“You know what that song’s about right”.

Years ago, long before the founding of the olilolo empire, I was working at the head office for a group of retail shops. It was while I was there that I realised something which is so obvious to some people, but so alien to others: Life is all about perspective.

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My boss walked up to the door and kicked it’s arse in. The sound of shattering wood brought people running from all over the office. As he wandered off nonchalantly, I realised this wasn’t the first time I had seem him kick in a door. The thought worried me.

Even more years into the past said boss; boss of the whole, bloody organisation; had accidentally locked himself out of his office. As people scrambled to find a locksmith, he walked up to it calmly, kicked in the door, then sat behind his desk and started working as if nothing had happened. I was new to the company at that stage, and as I tried to make sense of what I had just witnessed my brain started screaming at me, ‘What have you gotten youself in to? Run you idiot, run!’. Despite the shock on everyone’s face, and the totally unsurprised boredom of the older staff members, the event was never mentioned again and it soon faded from my memory.

Five years later I was witnessing the same situation again: A locked door and a ‘kicky’ boss who couldn’t seem to keep his legs under control.

I stood there dazed, momentarily reliving the past as buried memories came flooding back. I forced myself to snap out of it. I was surprised it had happened again, shocked in fact, but after a time I realised this one fact; “Shit, I’d like to kick in a door”.

We’ve all seen it on TV, but how often do we get the chance, and I bet that’s what he was thinking too. “Fuck it! I’m the boss, it’s my door, and it’s going down.”

As I looked around at my fellow employees, their mouths agape and eyes full of fear, it was then I realised everything in life was about perspective. They thought their boss had just lost his frigging mind and had decided to start lashing out violently at things around him.

They were wrong.

He wasn’t a crazed lunatic bent on property destruction, a violent man ready to explode at a moments notice or even a stressed soul who just couldn’t take the 21st century any longer and was would later that night be trying to desperately obtain a weapons licence to ’show them all’.

No, he was a wacky guy, fulfilling a childhood dream to be an action star and show everyone who’s boss. I bet he even thought he’d earnt a little respect that day too.

I guess he was wrong too.

So really the moral of this go-nowhere story is, next time you see someone talking to themselves and lashing out at people and random objects, think: Is this a crazed-loon ready to stab me for my go-card? Or another business leader living the dream.

After a particularly passionate kiss from her boyfriend a young, unnamed, Chinese woman was taken to hospital with hearing loss in one ear. “The kiss reduced the pressure in the mouth, pulled the eardrum out and caused the breakdown of the ear,” the treating doctor stated.

It has prompted a series of articles in the Chinese media warning of excessive kissing.

Pro-conservative propagande peice by the totalitarian, communist government or some sort of new painful anti-libido virus, transmitted by sexually-charged saliva? You decide.