Stu nodded sincerely at Doyle’s pronouncement, apparently satisfied that the meeting had, indeed, been called to order. Bruce uncovered his ears, cautiously, perhaps fearing another hammer swing.

We were seated around a table for the first official olilolo meeting of the year. Empty pie trays littered the scene, four or five deep in some places. Doyle attempted to sweep the mess aside, but the piles of rubbish toppled and scattered even further in every direction.

“Doris will get that,” Doyle shrugged.

One of the trays still contained half a pie crust that landed directly on my lap. It sat there, covered in poppyseeds like a sorry pile of pastry, pathetic and defenceless, until I put it out of its misery. Did I taste a hint of rosemary on that crust? It must have been an amazing pie…

Doyle continued. “Now, who knows why I called this urgent meeting?”

“No idea,” grunted Stu. “But it’s about damn

time.”

“You told me this was strictly culinary,” I frowned, searching for another scrap of pastry amongst the rubble. I wanted another hit of that rosemary.

Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, well, that may have been a little ruse on my part, I’m afraid. This meeting is 50% business, 50% pie.”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Bruce, “but who is Doris?”

Doris was an employee of the olilolo “empire” (as Doyle termed it), officially Doyle’s assistant but effectively an overworked cleaner and housekeeper. It had once taken Doris eight days to clean the top floor of the olilolo headquarters – after the company Christmas party went slightly awry.

Several thousand fireworks had been exploded indoors; a stairwell had been coated in oil in a misguided attempt to create a “slippery slide” (three necks were broken in the process); and a troupe of circus animals had been acquired by Doyle through what he described as “quasi-legal” means.

The fiasco ended with a lion scrabbling down a fiery staircase and running onto the street where it, flaming, devoured seven children.

Doris had been fired for that incident.

“Doyle, she hasn’t been around for three months,” I replied. “We got rid of her.”

“What? Who fired her? They’re fired!” He smacked the table with his gavel and Bruce burst into tears.

“Look at this place,” he continued, gesturing around him. “You wouldn’t even believe this is a boardroom. In fact, I hardly recognise it. Wait. Where are we?”

We were at the local pie shop – on Doyle’s invitation. The shop was famed for its menu of exotic ingredients and cringeworthy puns. The absurd ingredients were often necessitated by the owner’s rigid insistence on always using the puns: his menu featured such items as “The Pienapple”, “Jaelpieno Pie” and “Porcupiene Happieness”.

“We’re in heaven,” replied Stu simply.

That, apparently, was enough for Doyle, as he pressed on with business once more.

“As you all know, I called this meeting together for a very important reason.”

Stu nodded, approvingly. Bruce continued to stare at Doyle in horror. I licked another piece of poppyseed poppieseed pastry.

“Now does anyone know what that reason is? Because I have long forgotten it. I think I wrote it down on a piece of paper, but that might have been a squirrel. I’m not sure.”

“Is it about the website?” prompted Bruce.

“Ah yes,” said Doyle. “As you all know, the olilolo website is currently under re-reconstruction as we attempt to locate a search engine that will enable us to find a website containing wordpress templates. And they have to be free templates. I can’t stress that enough.”

“How is it that you’re familiar with wordpress?” asked Bruce, the look of sheer terror on his face now unmistakable. “Yet you’ve never heard of Google?”

“Also I need a computer,” added Doyle. “So far I’ve just been writing my blog posts on a typewriter and faxing them to the internet.”

“What?” I said.

“Don’t,” muttered Stu beneath his breath, shaking his head slightly. “Just let him believe.”

Somewhere, someone was receiving very strange messages.

“In any event,” continued Doyle, “this will be our tenth new wordpress template in two years, and we’ve only written three articles during that time.”

“And one of those articles was just an affiliate link to a now-banned dong supplement,” I reminded him.

“Well we had to generate revenue somehow,” replied Doyle. “And I believe the term is quasi-legal.”

“No, it was definitely banned,” I said, rearranging my trousers uncomfortably. “It had some awful side effects. Apparently.”

“Pretending that we’re all oblivious to Dave’s dong issues,” said Stu, “what’s the plan of attack now?”

“Well they’ve got this pump-” I began.

“No, I mean about the website.”

“Oh. That makes more sense.”

“We need to generate content!” announced Bruce boldly. For a brief moment, a glimmer of confidence swept across the young man’s face. We all turned to look at him, eagerly hoping for an answer to all our problems.

“Oh, did you want me to… continue?” he stuttered. “I didn’t really have much more than that.”

He burst into tears.

“I think we should write a wacky story,” I suggested. “One with a series of implausible events featuring us as characters. Set in a ludicrous locale with larger than life characters.”

“The usual, then?” said Doyle. “Those stories always run out of steam. And they end so bluntly.”

At this moment we were interrupted by the owner of the establishment, an eccentric and outlandish man by the name of Mr Pierre Impie Espienosa – although he preferred that we called him by his initials.

“Buonasera! Gentlemen! How are you?!” he cried, the mixture of Italian and English difficult to understand beneath his thick African accent.

“Everything’s great, Pie!” exclaimed Stu.

“It’s been too long!” said Bruce.

“So it has!” the old man replied, checking his watch. “Why, it’s been four hours since breakfast! Mi sei mancato molto! Where have you been?”

As Doyle began to apologise, I took in my surroundings. The pie shop was packed with young customers, as it so often was. The scent of herbs and spices wafted freely on the breeze. Colours swam before my eyes… and merged together. Something was wrong.

I turned back to Pierre Impie Espienosa and attempted to refocus my vision. ‘Pie’ was an Asian man, of Kiwi descent; he was currently wearing a Boston Red Sox shirt and pointing jovially at the new sign above the restaurant:

“Welcome to Dirty Hippies! Buy nine pies, get one 25% off!”

The sign was emblazoned with the flag of North Korea.

“Dirty Hippies” had always attracted a more adventurous crowd, a younger demographic who tend to wear multi-coloured clothing and smelled distinctly of herbs… was that a whiff of coriander I detected in the air?

It seemed this younger demographic was drawn specifically to the obscure and exotic ingredients used in the pies at Dirty Hippies. They were particularly drawn to something on the menu called “Lucy in the Pie”, obviously a young-person reference to something I didn’t fully understand.

But I’d ordered this pie for the first time today – with extremely satisfying results. Indeed, the pie had begun to “cuddle my belly from within” (the only way I can describe it) and it filled me with a sense of warmth and free-spiritedness.

At that moment, my ears began to smell the number yellow.

“Dave, are you okay mate?” asked Doyle, who had now been replaced by a hairy potato. “You don’t look so well… and that’s saying something, considering how you usually–”

The universe sneezed. I can’t describe it any other way than that. Seventeen different colours burst into existence and they all tasted like driving.

“I… I think I’m hallucinating,” I said.

“You didn’t eat the Opieum, did you?” replied the potato. “The one with poppyseeds – it’s laced with heroins. All the kinds.”

Pierre nodded.

“My brain is vomiting colours,” I said. “There’s a tiger behind you on a red jet ski… you look like a root vegetable, but not the kind that I would want to eat… and Bruce and Stuey are making out. Furiously.”

“Well, at least you’re still seeing some things straight.”

“That’s not the word I would use.”

Pierre reached into his pocket and extracted a small baggie of tablets. “This will calm you down,” he winked, sliding it across the table surreptitiously.

I looked at the label blearily, making out a single word:

Diazepiem.

“You have a problem, Pierre.” I said bluntly. “Seek therapie.”

The post The Return of olilolo appeared first on olilolo.com.

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 reasons, 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 post Scheiße! appeared first on olilolo.com.

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 think 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:

.

The post News of the Day: Third Gender Announced appeared first on olilolo.com.

the best things I have ever seen on youtube.

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Analysts have speculated that this would be another season of disappointment for the fan-favourites with one commentator going so far as to question their skill level at the sport they’ve been playing for so long.

“They’re fucking incompetent.”

Round 1 vs Alchemists – Injury Crisis

The pre-game preparations were thrown into disarray by the debilitating, but invisible, injuries to their latest signing Camille as well as her sister and perennial Sassy, Danielle. With the two of them training day and night practising new, special manoeuvres it was seen as a real blow to the line-up.

At a press conference on Monday, team financer Mr Fukuoke Yamada was still optimistic. “Sure, you don’t want to start your first game down a few players but the core of the team is still available. It’ll give the

girls further time to hone their secret weapons. Watch out in the weeks to come.”

However, come game day disaster struck. Vice-captain, and heart & soul, Stu was ruled out after he was brought down by dreaded man-flu – a condition which has been much talked about by tabloids, day time TV and bitter, middle-aged wives.

It is assumed Jodie, upon hearing of Stu’s withdrawal, threw herself from her ground floor window and seriously grazed her knee. A team of medical experts whisked her away to parts unknown were presumably she spent the rest of the night being monitored by dozens of doctors and was unable to play.

Just as it looked like it couldn’t get any worse, team sausage-maker and second rower Matty suffered a last minute bout of ‘bloaty belly’ from eating a high-protein snack in the form of a dodgy kebab. It’s a condition that lately experts have been calling “Sassy-syndrome” and coincidentally cases have risen sharply since the foundation of the club.

By the time kick off had come, it was but 4 men and 3 not-men who took the field.

Game time

The decimated Sassies lined up against their intimidating opposition – three guys and a girl. Never had the Sasquatches been so outnumbered.

Within the first minute the Alchemists had scored, but the Sassies fought back and fought back hard.

Between the poor ball skills by Aaron, the distracting sideburns of Kristen and a desperate Bruce running off the field to have a quick spew before charging back on for more, the Sassies scored thrice – 2 to Sian and 1 to David.

With the final whistle blown the scores were checked, double checked and triple checked.

A confused but impressed referee announced the score.

Jubilation was evident from the Sasquatch supporters, and the crowd whipped itself into a frenzy. Cars were extinguished and buildings beautifully painted and restored by the excited spectators.

The four alchemist players had scored 15 tries to the Mansfield Sasquatches 3.

“15-3!! I knew this was our year!” exclaimed one proud fan. “We’re going all the way!”

Another said, “There were seven Sassies playing four opposition and we scored 12 less tries than them. That’s a win in every sense of the word. Except the actual sense… but 15 to 3!!”

“Bruce, sign my spew!” shouted a gleeful young girl.

Season forecast – Rain or clearing with rainbows of glory?

The Touch Football world was thrown into a spin that night. Was this a one off? An anomaly in what will be another disappointing season?

There’s one thing this reporter knows for sure, the mighty Sassies will be the team to beat in Spring 2011.

Next Game: vs The Inbetweeners. 7:20 PM, Wednesday 31st August 2011.

Competition: BMTA – Mixed 4
Date: 9.20pm. Wednesday 24th August 2011
Venue: Whites Hill Reserve – Field 3
Crowd Size: 1000s
Mansfield Sasquatch Players: Doyle, Pete, Bruce, David, Kristen, Sian, Sarah.
Tries: Sian x 2, David x 1.
Man of the Match: Bruce. For putting his dinner on the line, and the grass.

The post 11th Season – The Year of the Sasquatch? appeared first on olilolo.com.

I would like to consider myself a reasonably housetrained man. I have lived out of home for going on five years now. I have done my own washing and ironing practically since I was old enough to reach the dials on the washing machine (well, perhaps late high school). Yet sometimes I am reminded that, despite all my efforts at sophistication, there are many basic domestic survival skills that I lack.

I don’t mind ironing, although I don’t claim to be very good at it. There’s a certain homely charm in the smell of the fabric as it passes under the heat. However to be honest, when the alarm goes off and I have to make the decision to get up in viagra canada the sub-10 degree weather and iron my shirt, or to sneak another 10 minutes beneath my toasty warm doona, I will invariably put the ironing off. Unfortunately this means that I am normally horribly late to work.

Tonight I decided to do my week’s ironing in one hit, so I never have to face this dilemma and can glide blissfully into each day without needing to complete any unpleasant activities before my first coffee, and also hopefully not get fired.

Well, that was the theory anyway. Somehow tonight I have managed to ineptly ruin every single implement involved in the ironing process in a Rube-Goldberg-machine-like chain of destruction. I will recount to you how I found myself in this predicament.

Firstly I thought I should fill the water reservoir up. In this house, although I do the most ironing, it is always my housemate who seems to be stuck with this small chore. Although it’s a little thing, I decided guiltily that it should be me this time, as I think it’s been around four months and probably five tanks full since I last did it.

So I fetch the funnel and a cup of water and start pouring it into the iron. Unfortunately my powers of observation have failed me and housemate Josh has already filled the iron. The water starts to pool on the ironing board. I am a boots-and-all kinda guy – I didn’t think to check with a little bit of water first, so the pool of water is of not inconsiderable size.

“Easy!” I think to myself. The steam iron works by evaporating water, right? All I need to do is to run over the steadily increasing pool of water with the iron and all my problems will disappear! Regrettably not, it would appear. The water has soaked through the ironing board and is leaking onto the floor. Not to worry – I can grab a towel for that disaster after I’ve finished dealing with this one.

My problems hadn’t even begun.

Having soaked the small buffer of foam, I am now effectively ironing directly through the thin cover onto the metal. No problems – I’ll just remove the cover and fix up the foam. Big mistake.

First of all, I can see that the foam has a problem. It is soaked, and taking off the cover has finished ruining whatever integrity the cushiony foam still had. That’s OK – I’ll just iron over it to dry it off. This works somewhat.

That is, it worked until I noticed that, completely soaked and now having been run over with a hot iron, the foam has disintegrated itself through the holes in the bottom of the board. Right. I’ll just have to buy some more foam when I’m at the shops next. In the interim I fix it up with tea towels and attempt to replace the cover. After several attempts I manage to get the cover back on over the tea towels. The remnants of the foam are now completely ruined.

OK, back to ironing my work shirts. Everything is now back to OK again – my ghetto ironing foam seems to do the trick. The cover is still a bit wet. Ironing over the cover again to finish drying it off, I notice the iron feels a bit strange. I check the bottom of the iron, which is now totally brown. The plastic foam has melted to the iron.

I briefly consider giving up here, calling it quits and going to bed, however I wonder to myself what Bear Grylls would do in this circumstance. Probably eat some bush insects and make a tent out of sticks and grass. Not helpful. However, I know that he definitely wouldn’t be bested by domestic misfortune.

I look up on Google how to clean the iron. One guide tells me to put down some aluminium foil, sprinkle some salt on it, and run it over with the hot iron. I have no alfoil so I use baking paper. This doesn’t work at all but doesn’t prove disastrous. The ironed baking paper rolls up into a tube and spills the salt everywhere.

The next guide recommends wiping a bicarb soda mixture over the base of the iron. I mix up some bicarb soda and water, dip a cloth in it and rub it over the base of the iron. Now the formerly metal-coloured iron is still covered with the melted plastic foam, but also with a white film of bicarb soda. I double-check the guide, which helpfully informs me down the bottom in small print that the iron should have been cold before I attacked it with the soda solution.

At this point, I have decided to cut my losses. The ironing board cover is covered in salt. The foam is ruined. I suspect the iron is ruined. I am going to have a scotch and go to bed. There will be no shirt-ironing tonight.

Iron... ruined

The post Domestic Misfortune appeared first on olilolo.com.

- 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. cialis online pharmacy 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.

The post Things I've Learned -or- Why Being a Dad is No Fun appeared first on olilolo.com.

“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?”

The post Misconception appeared first on olilolo.com.

For some guys and most girls however, he came to their attention because this-

I swear, when I saw the movie and this scene came on I actually felt the air rush out of the theatre as half the audience gasped.

Anyway, regardless of how aroused or confused a shirtless Hemsworth makes you, you have to admit the dude got in some serious shape. And, at least some of you out there have seen that and are inspired. And those of you who aren’t inspired to make a shrine are inspired to get in the same sort of shape as Hemsworth did.

Now, if you google “Thor Workout” you’ll already see hundreds of links with people claiming to have the actual workout routine used by Hemsworth to bulk up for the movie. They are, of course, lying. But here at olilolo, we’ve used our best industrial espionage techniques to bring you the ACTUAL, GENUINE THOR WORKOUT. This isn’t like all those other workouts out there that make you do difficult and painful exercises, this one is totally easy! It only has, like, four steps! Follow them EXACTLY, and you too can attain a godly physique!

STEP ONE-

Be born happy, healthy, in a first world country with good muscle and bone structure. Avoid being weak, weedy, hunchbacked, or anything other than strapping and well-formed. As you grow, make sure to eat plenty of vegetables, eggs, and supermarket chicken, chock-full of those valuable growth hormones.

STEP TWO-

Become a movie star. This may involve work as a child actor, or possibly a little later, but don’t wait to long. You want to work your way through soaps or TV dramas in your teens before moving on to Hollywood by your mid-to-late 20s.

STEP THREE-

Get cast in a movie that requires you to become massive. If you’re good-looking this will probably be for a superhero or action movie. If you’re not so good looking this will probably

be for the same type of film, but as the bad guy.

STEP FOUR-

Take full advantage of the studio appointed fitness trainers, weapons masters, nutritionists and small man who yells at you if you even LOOK at a cupcake. Spend all day, every day in the gym, because this is literally your job and you have nothing else to take up your time.

And there you have it. After around six months of constant workouts with professional trainers, you’ll be in the best shape of your life, and ready to take on a whole horde of frost giants!

Protip- to maintain your physique, try to get re-cast in the role, hopefully as part of a franchise, or if that isn’t possible, then in a series of similar roles. Then, simply repeat steps two to four as necessary.

The post The REAL Thor Workout! appeared first on olilolo.com.

even the rudimentary human contact required to go to a store and buy a physical copy). I’ve been following the production blog, and have been greatly amused by the little promo vids they’ve put out (the Turret one was my favourite). Admittedly, I haven’t been so eagerly awaiting it that I played that weird Potato Sack RPG, but I was looking forward to the game. I was a fan of the first one, and everything I had seen led me to believe that Valve had really upped the ante with this sequel. Far from a cash-in, it seemed to be a labour of love from a company which makes excellent games.

And after buying it nearly two full days ago, I’ve yet to play a single second of it.

The reason for this is my nearly sociopathic ability to procrastinate. It is a constant source of surprise to me the lengths I will go to to avoid doing something I have to do. And I’m not talking about the usual zany stories such as  “Oh, when I have assignments to do I clean my whole house”. We’ve all been there. It’s a fairly natural tendency to want to put off something you don’t want to do. However most functional adults manage to get past that and rip the proverbial band-aid off.

With me, I think it borders on categorical mental illness. I once did a bunch of work-related stuff remotely from home, because I didn’t want to iron my clothes. There was one time when I rearranged all the books on my bookshelf into genres, because I didn’t want to brush my teeth. I recently moved house, and I have resigned myself to the fact that there are some items that I own that I will never see again, simply because I will never, ever take them out of their box.

Where I find this whole thing weird is that the procrastination doesn’t just extend to things I DON’T want to do. I actually avoid doing things I WANT to do, simply because I had planned to do them. Which brings me back to Portal 2.

I had set aside this afternoon as the time I would play Portal 2. Probably just for a while, depending on how into it I got, but  that was the time I had free. It’s the Easter weekend, I’ve got family stuff over the next few days, but today I was going to play Portal. Instead I read about a novel’s worth of words on various websites, caught up on some shows, and then wrote this blog.

And it’s far from the only example of such behavior. I have a towering stack of books by my bed, all of them due to be read. Some of those books have been sitting in that pile for over two years. Almost all of them are books I genuinely want to read, and have in fact bought, with cash money. I started one the other day. Got about a chapter in and put it down again.

I mean, this is the work of a deeply disturbed mind, right? I am actively denying myself things I know I will enjoy, in some bizarre game of keep-away I’m playing with myself. It’s fascinating. Someone should do a study.

Lately I’ve been able to sort of work-around the problem, by using it for positive ends. Namely, I’ve been using procrastination to get things done. I start by planning on doing something. Ah, but it is all a cunning ruse, designed to trick my brain. In actuality, I will have another thing that I want to do, and I will procrastinate on the first thing by doing the second thing. Things get confusing though when my brain figures out I’m doing this, and I have to find a third thing to add to the procrastination pile. I haven’t yet had to add a fourth-tier into my own little Inception-style motivational ouroboros, and I’m afraid if it ever gets to that point I’ll start bleeding from the nose.

The upshot of all this is, I’m now going to play Portal 2, having finished this blog post. And if you’re procrastinating by reading this, well, there’s no hope for you.

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