olilolo blog

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.

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.
Read more…

I was very relived the other day to read that scientists from Brisbane were working on a way to stop a massive asteroid that’s headed straight for the planet. “We’re totally on this,” the scientists say. “We’ll wrap it in tin foil and the solar radiation will push it off the collision course it’s currently on. With Earth.”

And then I reread the article to see if there was some mistake, but no, there it was, printed in black and white pixels. AN ENORMOUS FUCKING ASTEROID IS HEADED STRAIGHT FOR EARTH.  It’s due to hit in 2036. Well, maybe. There is the possibility that it might just pass us by. Scientists have to wait till 2011 to find out for sure.

If I do my sums right, I’ll be about 56. Which is much, much earlier than I planned on checking out. I mean, you can live a full life in that period of time, but I always wanted to reach 112. I don’t know why. It just seemed like a good, round, and especially faraway number.

2036 seems very very soon in comparison. Fatally soon. I mean, there’s a massive rock that is very likely to hit earth and we’re planning on wrapping it in tinfoil? BUST OUT THE NUKES, GENTLEMEN. Get some salt of the earth types to fly a rocket at this thing and give it the old one-two welcome to earth combo. This is not a fucking baked potato.

What makes it even worse is that we know about this one, and are planning for it. What about the ones we don’t know about? Space is infinite, and it’s not all on a level plane like most diagrams or science fiction shows would have you believe. There’s a full spherical 360 degrees of space out there and rocks are hurtling through it at speeds which would make you shit a goat.

So you can understand why one of my many ulcers is caused by news reports like this recent one which gleefully informs an increasingly damp-panted populace that a medium sized asteroid hit Earth and broke up, and that scientists didn’t know anything about it until it was streaking through out upper atmosphere.

That was a small one. We’re very, very lucky. What if it had been a hundred times that size? Like the one which nearly hit the Earth back in 2002? Oh sure, you say, that one was six hundred thousand kilometres away. A near-miss in cosmic terms but still a fairly comfortable margin. So what about this one back in 2004 which passed so close it was closer to the earth than some communications satellites?

If your pants aren’t filled to bursting at this point, you’ve got serious mental problems (or you can’t read English). The sheer fact of the matter is, if one of these bastards hits us, we’re done for. Gone. Life as we know it ceases right then, and one of them could be headed for us right now. And there wouldn’t be a damn thing any of us could do to stop it.

And the buggerance of it all is that this has never, ever worked for me as a pick up line.

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!

Scarlett Johansson married Ryan Reynolds over the weekend.

I’m sure that when they said “I do”, the clouds parted and a single beam of sunlight lanced down to illuminate them as they shared their first, perfect wedded kiss. Then twin doves descended from the sky to carry Scarlett’s train as they walked arm in arm down the aisle, and everyone in the place was bawling, even old Uncle Herbert who always seemed to disapprove of the couple but secretly was a romantic at heart. It would have been the best wedding ever, and they are possible the best couple in existence.

And I fucking HATE IT.

I mean, I had about as much chance of actually meeting Scarlett Johannson, let alone having her fall for me, as a snail has of suddenly sprouting wings. But I, and probably many, many other guys across the globe, was holding onto that infinitely small possibility, that statistical miracle, which would allow me to somehow end up with her.

The fact that I live on the other side of the world and have a head like a smashed crab did not really factor into my planning. I was vaguely banking on a universal sense of romantic narrative to carry me through.

(My lawyers instruct me to also state that at no point did I have a shrine dedicated to Ms Johansson, and that it did not contain hair fibres, nail clippings and stool samples from the actress purchased via the internet.)

The news is made doubly unbearable by the fact that she’s marrying Ryan Reynolds. RYAN FUCKING REYNOLDS. I LOVE that guy. He’s great. There’s like three male Hollywood stars that I don’t want to beat to death with a blunt instrument and he’s one of them. He’s fantastic. He’s the kind of guy you’d want going out with your sister. He good looking and funny and seems to be pretty down to earth. Hell, if we lived in a slightly more liberal society, I might be writing a post about how terrible it was that HE was off the market.

They’re going to be a GREAT couple. And that BURNS at me like ACID.

Like ACID.

She packed my bags last night pre-flight

Zero hour nine a.m.

And I’m gonna be hiiiiiiigh… as a kite by then

And I think it’s gonna be a long long time

Till touch down brings me round again to find

I’m not the man they think I am at home

Oh no no no … I’m a ROCKET MAN

ROCKET MAAAAAN, da da dee doo da da dee doo daaaaaa.

We all wish we could be this awesome.

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.

Actually that’s a lie, I desperately want a third Batman film from Nolan and Co. I want it more than anything. That creative team took a series which had become a punchline and turned it into a legitimate franchise again, an event I thought I was going to have to sacrifice something large to an Elder God just to see happen in my lifetime.

Batman Begins was hailed by many as one of the best superhero movies ever, and a justified return to form for a character which had become more associated in the broader community with bat-nipples than kicking ass. It legitimised Batman outside of comic books, made him again a figure of awe and respect and downright face-kicking awesomness.

The Dark Knight managed to go one better, surpassing even the wildest hope of fanboys everywhere after we’d been shown that you could have a Batman film that actually took its subject matter seriously, and didn’t filter it through a lens of high camp or even twisted gothic noir. It’s being hailed in some quarters as a potential outside chance for Best Freaking Picture, for god’s sake. Regardless of how overblown those claims are, the fact they’re even being uttered without being instantly laughed down and the person who made them given a wedgie and dumped head-first into a bin is a sign of the incredible acheivement of these two films.

But I’m starting to get uneasy. I’ve come to the conclusion that I genuinely would rather not see a third Batman film, at least not for a while, and definitely not from Nolan and Co. And here’s why.

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As one of the best years for superhero movies draws to a close, some are bemoaning the fact that while there have been some truly great films, none of them feature a woman. They’re absolutely right, of course. Female superheroes generally don’t even get particularly good treatment on the comics page, so why the hell should Hollywood follow suit?

The argument is often made that female superheroes don’t sell movie tickets. As evidence of this, executives point to films like the 80s Supergirl, or even more recent, infinitely worse films like Elektra or Catwoman. Oh dear lord, Catwoman. The point that seems to be lost, though, is that those are terrible films. Of course they sold terribly, they were awful. Just absolute excrement. It doesn’t matter who the lead was, they would have sold terribly if Christian Bale’s Batman was the star.

No, what we need is a well-rounded, well-written female superhero movie, that girls can indentify with while guys are ogling her boobs. It would break box office records. And that’s why I’m starting a push*, even though I’ve definitively said it will never be made, for an Empowered movie.

Box office gold, people.

*It should be noted that I have little-to-no influence in Hollywood whatsoever. But that hasn’t stopped far louder, far stupider people trying in the past.

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…