HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Tuesday 30 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Captain's Blog
Helloooo Newman: Captain's Blog: I wonder why the various captain's of the Enterprise in Star Trek didn't have a blog. The technology was certainly there. They alw...
Captain's Blog
The technology was certainly there. They always found time to keep an old fashion log. And they had way more to write about than I do. For example…
…I've never saved an alien civilization. I once helped a hummingbird that flew into our window and got stunned. Obviously his shields weren't up. As he lay there gasping for air, I gave an impassioned speech about the progress of bird civilization and the bright future ahead, as Kirk would do. The hummingbird was wondering why I was talking to myself and not getting him some water. I went to the replicator and said, "water, cold" and gave it to the bird. At first it gave me Earl Grey tea and I said, "no, no, no" and swore at it. It worked. But there was no final scene with the hummingbird thanking me and waving goodbye as I whisked away at warp speed. It pooped and left.
…I've also never slept with a female alien, as Kirk and Picard so often did. One topic Star Trek avoided was STDs. That's just negligent. We have lonely men in the space station right now and they have no idea of the danger they face. Did it ever occur to anyone that back when the Vulcans were uncivilized and rampant with emotion, they developed the pointy ears from an STD? The ears used to get pointy only when the Vulcans got excited. But they fooled around so often that the ears stayed that way. That should scare every man.
It's curious that the only captain who didn't sleep with alien life forms was a female - Captain Janeway of the starship Voyager. She was good looking enough for sure. She was also quite smart and well read. That might have intimidated the male aliens. Plus she was very busy ensuring the male crew members didn't develop pointy ears like the Vulcan's (wink, wink).
What really prevented Janeway from getting it on in space was competition from Seven of Nine, the human-turned Borg-turned human crew member. When standing abreast with Seven of Nine, Janeway looked like a piece of drywall in a uniform. Put another way, one could easily confuse Seven of Nine's chest with a solar system the ship should be orbiting.
So, this is how I think Captain Kirk's blog might have sounded:
Captain's Blog, star date 3.1415…blah blah blah (rounded off to the nearest decimal point):
Woke up with a smashing headache and a strange jellyfish-like creature with flowing blonde hair clinging to my manly man chest. A cigarette hung out of its limp mouth. Apparently we had a great time last night and now it is dead. Died from pleasure, like so many others.
I guess that's why the crew keeps calling me Kirk Diggler. It's from some old movie but I don't get it.
Walked to my computer. Damn internet is down again. Nothing on cable, as usual. Thankfully, I could get movies on my iCommunicator. But the roaming charges, oh man. It gets so tedious during those times between saving civilizations. But it gives me time to work on my next civilization-saving speech. And my all important acting classes. I'm-tired-of-talking-like-this-all-the-time.
Checked my phaser. Out of phaser ammo again. Ammo is so hard to get these days. Last week someone sauntered into the cafeteria and vaporized 24 people with an automatic phaser. Apparently he was demoted to cleaning toilet sewage that was leaking into the warp engines. Now they want to have background checks before you buy a phaser. Especially for illegal aliens. Out of my cold, dead Captain's hand, I say. Phasers don't vaporize. Lowly sewage cleaners do.
Oh, and now the ship has elected a mayor to run the day-to-day stuff. His name is Rob Ford the 123rd. You can just see it written all over the alien's faces. Why hasn't the human race progressed further than this?
Apparently he wants to build a bunch of new turbo lifts to parts of the ship no one visits. And someone caught him snorting dilithium crystals in the cargo bay. After that, thankfully, he accidentally beamed himself into space and now, apparently because he's so large, his body has taken up orbit around the planet as a third moon. His brother is stepping in as mayor.
Anyway, things aren't so bad. Had an awesome breakfast at a new restaurant started by Apple Computer. Amazing this company is still around. I should take my next alien whore there. It's called iHop.
Real easy, too. Once you have the app, they download a pile of pancakes directly to your stomach. No annoying chewing.
The future rocks, doesn't it?
Wednesday 24 July 2013
Tuesday 23 July 2013
Royal Infantigue?
Helloooo Newman: Royal Infantigue?: Do you suffer from Royal Infantigue? Are you ready to induce a coma so you can miss all the press about an omnipotent and omniprese...
Royal Infantigue?
Do you suffer from Royal Infantigue? Are you ready to induce a coma so you can miss all the press about an omnipotent and omnipresent royal baby?
I made a list of things that I found much more useful to do.
• watch the International Hooters Swimsuit Pageant on t.v.
• cut your toenails, mix up the clippings in a bag, and then try and match them with the right nail, like a puzzle
• watch Dog the Bounty Hunter, whose face inspires everyone to never have another baby ever again
• break into someone's house and do their laundry, fold it nicely and leave a bill
• sit in a sensory deprivation chamber and pipe in Don Pardo's voice on a loop saying, "it's Saturday Night Live"
• cover the roof of your mouth with peanut butter and try and say "Irish wristwatch" really quickly ten times
• call a friend and tell them you have a grand prize winning lottery ticket, they accidentally grabbed it when they were visiting and could they please find it so you can split it with them
• look at Newman's baby pictures
Have fun.
Monday 22 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: National Enquirer Exclusive
Helloooo Newman: National Enquirer Exclusive: Ladies and gentlemen. We have obtained exclusive, never before seen photos of Newman, the celebrity dog from the Helloooo Newman bl...
National Enquirer Exclusive
Ladies and gentlemen. We have obtained exclusive, never before seen photos of Newman, the celebrity dog from the Helloooo Newman blog.
These behind-the-scenes photos show Newman preparing for another gruelling day of stardom. Isn't it just amazing the work that goes on to make Newman the professional he is?
Don't be shocked if you don't recognize him. He really needs his makeup and hair, just like Katy Perry does.
We hid a tiny camera on a millipede in this washroom and captured these exclusive photos of Newman at his celebrity spa. Having celebrity friends like Snoop Dogg and Dog the Bounty Hunter, Newman has to look his best at all times, except in the shower.
We approached Newman with these photos and asked him to comment.
Newman: "Ever since this blog has started my life has been hell. Bath after bath after bath so I can look all cute for the blah blah blog. But where are the royalties and the red carpets? The female poodles throwing themselves at my paws? The $1,000 rawhides?
Last week I caught a photographer hiding in a poodle's bum. He snapped just as I was going for the big sniff. I felt violated. I don't want to think how the poodle felt.
Stardom is tough. Dog eat dog. I think you people should know that. Next time you're out and about, hug a celebrity dog".
PS: Pictures provided by our roving reporter, Madeline.
Wednesday 17 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Is there a plan for you?
Helloooo Newman: Is there a plan for you?: I can't decide if the universe has a plan and if I'm included in that plan. Some events really convince me something deeper is goi...
Is there a plan for you?
I can't decide if the universe has a plan and if I'm included in that plan.
Certain events convince me something deeper is going on. Years ago I was travelling through Europe. I lost my plane ticket at a hostel. I can't remember the city - I think it was Saltzburg or Frieburg, pretty sure it wasn't Hamburg, although I wish it had been bacon cheddar cheeseburg, my favourite European city.Weeks went by, I replaced the ticket and forgot about it. Then one day I was in a lineup at the hostel in Luxembourg and began chatting with two guys behind me. Luxembourg is an absolutely beautiful city. The hostel is located in a gorge of lush greenery. This is where I bought my inter-rail pass so I could travel around Europe being treated like livestock for real cheap.
As I said, I began talking to these two guys. I had already tried talking to all the girls in the line with no luck. I definitely found it strange that every single girl in the line told me they were an undercover agent for Interpol and couldn't talk to me because it distracted them from apprehending a world renowned criminal by the name of Uri Loser. Strange name, indeed.
Back to the guys. I introduced myself and one of the guys says, "Paul Hardie? That name sounds so familiar…hmmm…did you lose a plane ticket a while back?" Turns out these two guys found my plane ticket. They tried to sell it for face value. Um, I'd like you to meet Uri Loser, guys.
It took me a few days to get over this "coincidence". Think of the population of Europe, people moving about every second, millions of small decisions being made, trains on time, early and late and a billion other things. How could this conceivably happen without a plan? The bigger question is where was this plan last week when I picked my lottery numbers? Or that day I was walking out of a bar and accidentally tripped this big greek guy. He looked so strong I was sure he was going to punch me in the soul. He settled on my eye.
Events like this make me think there's a guy in the sky, my guy, who's watching out for me. He's the man with the plan.
Why not reveal some of the plan to me? Or at least we could go over it once and I could jot down some major points. Then I would have known that mixing coke and scotch would make me vomit like a dying hippo. I would not have studied psychology, only to figure out that I'd rather remove old septic tanks from cottages than listen to other people complain about their meaningless lives. I keep myself busy enough doing that.
I think everyone should get a peak at THEIR plan. Maybe just a short synopsis in a pdf would do. I know, that's some 6.5 billions pdfs, but He must have secretaries. Could that many terabites crash the whole universe? Maybe the universe could do with a restart anyway.
Even if there is a plan, or plans, I have a few concerns with the whole notion anyway. Lots of things in this world with a good plan turn out horribly. The leaning tower of Pisa, for instance. Charles and Di's marriage. How about everyone traveling on the Hindenburg?
Why do plans differ so radically? Compare Pee-wee Herman, who went from t.v. star for kids to masturbating in theatres, and John Holmes, the porn star who went from masturbating in theatres to international movie star.
The universe as it is just doesn't make sense to me. If God is the architect, did He spill coffee on the blueprints? Why did He start at such a large scale? Why not build a small scale version of the universe and see how it works? What kind of AutoCAD program did He use? It took 40 architects just to build the CN tower. I think Mike Holmes, not the porn star but the reno guy, should have had a once over before he started the big bang.
If God is a teacher, where is He now? Does He have that many sick days stored up that He doesn't have to show?
If God is a politician, when is He up for re-election? What are the choices? How can He possibly win without appearing on CNN?
If God is the World leader, what does that mean for the G8? Are there 7 other Gods He must negotiate with? Are they all as sexy, muscular and heroic as Vladimir Putin?
If God is a healer, what ailments are covered under His plan? Can He cancel it for pre-existing conditions? Didn't He create those conditions?
Maybe God is like that guy on the t.v. show Cake Boss. If the universe is a very large cake, I want more icing. Or at least give me a corner piece. Make it a money cake. At any rate, why invent us while the cake is still baking? Finish the cake, put it on a nice tray and then bring us in. I know, I was never promised a rose on my cake.
So I'm still looking for my plan? Maybe another trip to Europe is warranted. I hope it's not on the floor of some theatre.
Friday 12 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Stink Bomb
Helloooo Newman: Stink Bomb: When I was younger, and I would like to stress here that I was much younger, I got into a conversation with a friend about the Vietnam war. ...
Dogs of War
When I was younger, and I would like to stress here that I was much younger, I got into a conversation with a friend about the Vietnam war. I suggested to my friend that instead of dropping regular bombs that explode, we should drop bombs of dog poo or bombs that explode and disperse really bad dog fart smells.
He told me that it wouldn't be effective because humans quickly adapt to vile smells and then the smells are no longer offensive. I wasn't so sure.
Well, last night I had the unique opportunity to test this hypothesis. I couldn't believe my luck.
First, a few words in support of dropping poo/fart (PF) bombs instead of regular exploding bombs. The most obvious advantage of PF bombs is that no one gets blown to pieces. Another day where no one is exploded is probably a good day. Sure, one's olfactory factory would shut down and you would probably never be able to enjoy food again since it would be associated with these bombs. But you could just cook with a lot more herbs. Or just eat the herbs straight.
I think the war would end much more quickly with PF bombs. When people's limbs are detached by regular bombs, it tends to create fear and resentment among the population. I can see the reason for that. On the other hand, if people are subjected to a really horrible smell all day, I would imagine they would get really grumpy and demand fresher air. The politicians would have to end the war to improve the air quality. With regular bombs, people are scared or dead. With PF bombs people are angry and are alive to demand change.
Incidentally, in a war using PF bombs, I suggest you buy stock in Febreze.
My arguments are based on the premise that my friend was wrong and your olfactory factory will not eventually sit by and put up with horrible smells. Then came the test.
Last night I drove up to the cottage alone with Newman (no other humans). I am having a guys weekend and I came up early to enjoy a day to myself. It's not often I get the cottage to myself and I was looking forward to the three activities I really enjoy - meditating, napping and sleeping. In that order. And sometimes all at once.
On the way up, Newman had to relieve himself. He couldn't sense my eagerness to get to the cottage quickly (I guess he couldn't read the 145 kph I was doing) and I reluctantly stopped. He pooed by a beautiful and fresh smelling farmer's field. There was a pleasant breeze and the faint aroma of cream of wheat.
But time was a ticking and I wanted to get back to the 145 kph. I threw Newman in the back seat and the bag of poo in the very back luggage compartment thingy. No, I didn't leave the poo on the grass in the middle of nowhere. I wanted someone else to be able to enjoy that cream of wheat.
As I drove closer and closer to the speed of light, I noticed a rather pungent smell. My good ol-factory was under assault. The poo bag, the PF, was working brilliantly. As vomit began to gather in my stomach and respond to this attack, I remembered I neglected to tie the bag completely shut. I was right about PF bombs. There was no way I was going to ignore this smell.
But I couldn't stop driving. I wanted to get to the cottage like a gamete to an egg, like salmon up a stream, like the Brat Pack to a bar.
So I focussed on the driving. Good thing because at one point a doe a deer leapt across the highway and if I hit her at my high speed I would be permanently sheathed in deer skin.
Then suddenly I noticed that I didn't notice something. The PF bomb. It had dissipated considerably. I wouldn't say it was pleasant, but I also thought, ya, I could put up with this if it meant winning a war. My good ol-factory was running smoothly despite the smell. My vomit had retreated.
The PF bomb didn't work after all. My friend was right all along. Back to war as usual.
He told me that it wouldn't be effective because humans quickly adapt to vile smells and then the smells are no longer offensive. I wasn't so sure.
Well, last night I had the unique opportunity to test this hypothesis. I couldn't believe my luck.
First, a few words in support of dropping poo/fart (PF) bombs instead of regular exploding bombs. The most obvious advantage of PF bombs is that no one gets blown to pieces. Another day where no one is exploded is probably a good day. Sure, one's olfactory factory would shut down and you would probably never be able to enjoy food again since it would be associated with these bombs. But you could just cook with a lot more herbs. Or just eat the herbs straight.
I think the war would end much more quickly with PF bombs. When people's limbs are detached by regular bombs, it tends to create fear and resentment among the population. I can see the reason for that. On the other hand, if people are subjected to a really horrible smell all day, I would imagine they would get really grumpy and demand fresher air. The politicians would have to end the war to improve the air quality. With regular bombs, people are scared or dead. With PF bombs people are angry and are alive to demand change.
Incidentally, in a war using PF bombs, I suggest you buy stock in Febreze.
My arguments are based on the premise that my friend was wrong and your olfactory factory will not eventually sit by and put up with horrible smells. Then came the test.
Last night I drove up to the cottage alone with Newman (no other humans). I am having a guys weekend and I came up early to enjoy a day to myself. It's not often I get the cottage to myself and I was looking forward to the three activities I really enjoy - meditating, napping and sleeping. In that order. And sometimes all at once.
On the way up, Newman had to relieve himself. He couldn't sense my eagerness to get to the cottage quickly (I guess he couldn't read the 145 kph I was doing) and I reluctantly stopped. He pooed by a beautiful and fresh smelling farmer's field. There was a pleasant breeze and the faint aroma of cream of wheat.
But time was a ticking and I wanted to get back to the 145 kph. I threw Newman in the back seat and the bag of poo in the very back luggage compartment thingy. No, I didn't leave the poo on the grass in the middle of nowhere. I wanted someone else to be able to enjoy that cream of wheat.
As I drove closer and closer to the speed of light, I noticed a rather pungent smell. My good ol-factory was under assault. The poo bag, the PF, was working brilliantly. As vomit began to gather in my stomach and respond to this attack, I remembered I neglected to tie the bag completely shut. I was right about PF bombs. There was no way I was going to ignore this smell.
But I couldn't stop driving. I wanted to get to the cottage like a gamete to an egg, like salmon up a stream, like the Brat Pack to a bar.
So I focussed on the driving. Good thing because at one point a doe a deer leapt across the highway and if I hit her at my high speed I would be permanently sheathed in deer skin.
Then suddenly I noticed that I didn't notice something. The PF bomb. It had dissipated considerably. I wouldn't say it was pleasant, but I also thought, ya, I could put up with this if it meant winning a war. My good ol-factory was running smoothly despite the smell. My vomit had retreated.
The PF bomb didn't work after all. My friend was right all along. Back to war as usual.
Wednesday 10 July 2013
Is God Dyslexic?
Is He? The more and more I think about it, this would explain a lot about our lot in life.
Right from the get go, He got things backwards. It started with the big bang. This means everything is spreading apart. Today it will take you slightly longer than it did yesterday to get to work.
Does this make sense? Why not start with everything huge and spread apart and have it slowly come together? It makes commuting far easier over time. By the time we decide to build a new subway we won't need one.
It also brings everyone in the universe closer together. Right now things are so far apart we can only talk with our galactic neighbours every once in a while through the odd ufo sighting and abduction. These aliens could end abductions tomorrow if they were closer and the trip was easier and cheaper.
Suddenly all our problems would seem smaller because everything really is getting smaller. The size of the U.S. debt would shrink from 10 septajagillywillion dollars to something a little larger than Sarah Palin's brain. That's very small and quite manageable.
Things are just getting too large in this world. In Vegas the term "city block" means a block the size of New York or Chicago. That's pretty hard to walk when you've been drinking cheap beer 24/7. Imagine Sarah Palin with a normal sized ego. That would happen in this universe. You could read a shrinking A Tale of Two Cities in a few minutes and explain the themes at parties. Because the universe is getting smaller, there won't be room for the famous opening line, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". This would contract to, "Things sucked, but not totally".
I suppose women would be disappointed in this universe. Certain important objects would be getting smaller and smaller. But they could do what I did when I was single. Put a mirror on their ceiling with the words "objects are larger than they appear" printed on it.
My wife has created this kind of a universe for herself. In our universe right now we all know that cause precedes effect. Swing hammer (cause) and the nail goes in the wood (effect). My wife has reversed cause and effect so now she gets mad at me before I do something wrong. This saves her time and allows her to get mad when it easily fits her schedule as opposed to waiting for me to actually do something wrong. Smart lady!
With cause and effect reversed, you could sit down for a meal and already be full. Then you could go through the menu and select the things you ate that made you full. Um, I had the watercress salad with the boiled chicken and parsnip puree. I did not have the deep fried, bacon wrapped meatloaf with a side of poutine smothered in rendered animal fat. Instant weight loss.
Yes, lots of things are backwards in the universe. Like the word Dog. More later on what the universe would look like if a Dog were in charge.
Right from the get go, He got things backwards. It started with the big bang. This means everything is spreading apart. Today it will take you slightly longer than it did yesterday to get to work.
Does this make sense? Why not start with everything huge and spread apart and have it slowly come together? It makes commuting far easier over time. By the time we decide to build a new subway we won't need one.
It also brings everyone in the universe closer together. Right now things are so far apart we can only talk with our galactic neighbours every once in a while through the odd ufo sighting and abduction. These aliens could end abductions tomorrow if they were closer and the trip was easier and cheaper.
Suddenly all our problems would seem smaller because everything really is getting smaller. The size of the U.S. debt would shrink from 10 septajagillywillion dollars to something a little larger than Sarah Palin's brain. That's very small and quite manageable.
Things are just getting too large in this world. In Vegas the term "city block" means a block the size of New York or Chicago. That's pretty hard to walk when you've been drinking cheap beer 24/7. Imagine Sarah Palin with a normal sized ego. That would happen in this universe. You could read a shrinking A Tale of Two Cities in a few minutes and explain the themes at parties. Because the universe is getting smaller, there won't be room for the famous opening line, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". This would contract to, "Things sucked, but not totally".
I suppose women would be disappointed in this universe. Certain important objects would be getting smaller and smaller. But they could do what I did when I was single. Put a mirror on their ceiling with the words "objects are larger than they appear" printed on it.
My wife has created this kind of a universe for herself. In our universe right now we all know that cause precedes effect. Swing hammer (cause) and the nail goes in the wood (effect). My wife has reversed cause and effect so now she gets mad at me before I do something wrong. This saves her time and allows her to get mad when it easily fits her schedule as opposed to waiting for me to actually do something wrong. Smart lady!
With cause and effect reversed, you could sit down for a meal and already be full. Then you could go through the menu and select the things you ate that made you full. Um, I had the watercress salad with the boiled chicken and parsnip puree. I did not have the deep fried, bacon wrapped meatloaf with a side of poutine smothered in rendered animal fat. Instant weight loss.
Yes, lots of things are backwards in the universe. Like the word Dog. More later on what the universe would look like if a Dog were in charge.
Tuesday 9 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: You had me at coffee
Helloooo Newman: You had me at coffee: I discovered a while ago what gets me out of bed in the morning. Coffee. Just coffee. I'm not talking about what motivates me to face ...
You had me at coffee
I discovered a while ago what gets me out of bed in the morning. Coffee. Just coffee.
I'm not talking about what motivates me to face the world, achieve things, build my career, and learn The Pussy Willow song on the piano. Rather, coffee is the immediate motivating factor that actually prompts my body to peel itself off the mattress, trounce downstairs and get my metabolism going.
The second I awake, the very moment I come out of REM sleep, even before I have to accept that the hot lady in my dream will not be marrying me, the first neuron to fire is a caffeine neuron.
If not for coffee, I can't see why any of us get out of bed.
Actually, it's caffeine. Coffee is just a nice delivery vehicle. Like Charlize Theron's body. It's a beautiful delivery vehicle for her mind, which is really why I coat my bathroom walls with her posters.
I'd be perfectly fine drinking Red Bull in the morning but it just doesn't fit into the white, middle class, 50 year old male thing to do. Red Bull is actually better than coffee in that it has 250% of the daily recommended B12. Once I drank two Red Bulls and half an hour later took a nap. When my body wants to nap, it naps. Even with enough B12 to power all the football, basketball and hockey teams in the world for several lifetimes, my body decides when it's had enough and nothin' gonna change dat.
My need for coffee reminds me of that Snickers commercial, the one where Joe Pesci bites into a Snickers and turns back into the real person. I'm not me without my coffee. I'm Mandy Manson, Charles Manson's little known, slightly less violent brother.
I can feel the life, the drive, the hutzpah flow into me as I drink my first coffee. It's too bad most of this drive ends up in the toilet bowl by the end of the morning. Otherwise I know I would achieve great things. Well, I'm kinda sure, anyway.
I remember once my sister poured this brownish liquid into my coffee cup. I drank it and then asked, "When are we having coffee?" I like it strong. She likes me to be quiet.
I'm not talking about what motivates me to face the world, achieve things, build my career, and learn The Pussy Willow song on the piano. Rather, coffee is the immediate motivating factor that actually prompts my body to peel itself off the mattress, trounce downstairs and get my metabolism going.
The second I awake, the very moment I come out of REM sleep, even before I have to accept that the hot lady in my dream will not be marrying me, the first neuron to fire is a caffeine neuron.
If not for coffee, I can't see why any of us get out of bed.
Actually, it's caffeine. Coffee is just a nice delivery vehicle. Like Charlize Theron's body. It's a beautiful delivery vehicle for her mind, which is really why I coat my bathroom walls with her posters.
I'd be perfectly fine drinking Red Bull in the morning but it just doesn't fit into the white, middle class, 50 year old male thing to do. Red Bull is actually better than coffee in that it has 250% of the daily recommended B12. Once I drank two Red Bulls and half an hour later took a nap. When my body wants to nap, it naps. Even with enough B12 to power all the football, basketball and hockey teams in the world for several lifetimes, my body decides when it's had enough and nothin' gonna change dat.
My need for coffee reminds me of that Snickers commercial, the one where Joe Pesci bites into a Snickers and turns back into the real person. I'm not me without my coffee. I'm Mandy Manson, Charles Manson's little known, slightly less violent brother.
I can feel the life, the drive, the hutzpah flow into me as I drink my first coffee. It's too bad most of this drive ends up in the toilet bowl by the end of the morning. Otherwise I know I would achieve great things. Well, I'm kinda sure, anyway.
I remember once my sister poured this brownish liquid into my coffee cup. I drank it and then asked, "When are we having coffee?" I like it strong. She likes me to be quiet.
I don't understand the fuss about the health effects of caffeine. Scientists say the universe is made of energy, and coffee gives me energy, so its gotta be good. In fact, I think the C in E=MC2, the famous equation by Einstein, stands for coffee. The universe is really an extremely large cup of coffee, way larger than the trenta size (31 oz.) at Starbucks. It all started from a coffee bean so tiny and concentrated with caffeine that if you lived then, you would be up all night. It exploded and developed into individual coffee galaxies, similar to those Tassimo packets. Human civilization is the coffee stain around the edge of the cup.
Speaking of creation, is coffee mentioned in the Bible? It should be. I wonder how many coffees Moses had before parting the red sea? You can't tell me he did that without some kind of stimulant.
What about in the garden of Eden. Why an apple? Wouldn't a delicious hot cup of coffee be much more stimulating? Then we'd hear, "Hey Eve, drink this nice, sweet, creamy coffee latte" instead of "have I got a nice, sour granny smith for you." Presto, they gain the knowledge that there's a Starbucks down the path. That's the only reason I can think of for them to leave Paradise.
We can assume, then, that God had an awfully large amount of coffee before creating the universe. Judging from the results, I have a few questions. Where, exactly, did He get His coffee? Did He go to Coffee Time? The place I go to for my deck stain? That's why we have the phrase, "Too much coffee, God?"
One sure sign that God had too much lousy coffee is that the universe is full of entropy. The law of entropy states that overall, the amount of disorganization in the universe is always increasing. Wait a minute, what? He creates a universe that's impossible for us to clean up? Hasn't He made things difficult enough as it is? Try doing your own taxes in a universe like that. It means cleaning my garage is a complete waste of time. Yet He created my wife, who insists that the garage be ready for catalogue pictures.
Maybe He should have spent more than 6 days creating everything. It takes me 9 days to assemble a simple IKEA desk. Maybe He used one of those cheap, annoying allen keys to tighten everything, kept dropping it and then said, "Good enough, I'm sure it's suppose to rock back and forth anyway."
I checked on Amazon. There are some 12,000 books about getting organized. He could have read one on the 7th day. He could have enjoyed a nice, smooth coffee while He read.
Maybe, just maybe, He napped during Creation. And so far there hasn't been a nice enough coffee to get Him to peel himself off the mattress, trounce downstairs and fix the universe.
Maybe He should have spent more than 6 days creating everything. It takes me 9 days to assemble a simple IKEA desk. Maybe He used one of those cheap, annoying allen keys to tighten everything, kept dropping it and then said, "Good enough, I'm sure it's suppose to rock back and forth anyway."
I checked on Amazon. There are some 12,000 books about getting organized. He could have read one on the 7th day. He could have enjoyed a nice, smooth coffee while He read.
Maybe, just maybe, He napped during Creation. And so far there hasn't been a nice enough coffee to get Him to peel himself off the mattress, trounce downstairs and fix the universe.
Friday 5 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Elevatorage
Helloooo Newman: Elevatorage: I am not a person full of rage. That's not my default setting, anyway. When I do get mad, at least it's not over trivial things. If ...
Elevatorage
I am not a person full of rage. That's not my default setting, anyway. When I do get mad, at least it's not over trivial things. If my mashed potatoes touch anything else on the plate I become apoplectic. Make my coffee weak in the morning and I'll take the coffee maker, grind it into a fine powder with my bare hands and sprinkle into a stronger coffee that I made by flying to Brazil, taking some coffee farmers hostage, trading them for coffee plants, grinding the plants in the plane engines as I fly back, adding a bit of water and drinking it through the eye sockets from the hollowed out skull of an ex-Starbucks professional.
Otherwise I'm fairly calm.
But there is one activity that really flings me into a rage - waiting for an elevator. I think I developed this when I lived at 88 Erskine Avenue in Toronto. This is a building with 29,000 floors and 4 lame elevators that barely haul your butt into the sky. I was on the 15,000th floor (might have been the 15th floor) and for a time I actually walked up to my apartment to avoid my waiting rage. I use the word apartment very loosely. Archeological site is probably more accurate. Coroners office in the sky. Petrie dish with a balcony. Abattoir on Erskine.
Yesterday I was waiting for an elevator at a friends apartment. After about 30 seconds of this, all those rageful memories came flooding back. Then I realized I'm only on the fourth floor. It didn't matter. Two minutes go by. I started tearing the walls of the building apart with my mind. Then I looked for the common signs that the elevator was near. The door shakes from the breeze of the passing elevator car. My hopes were up, but I'm still up on the fourth floor. I stared at the lit up button for what seemed like the age of the universe. Will it go out, signaling the arrival of relief? Five minutes on…
At this stage one reaches what I call the elevator investment stage. I could end this now and take the stairs, but I've invested valuable time and I want some return on that. Otherwise I've wasted my time waiting. So let's waste more time, so that I don't feel like I've wasted the time that's already wasted. I've never really understood the analogy of investing time, as if you're investing money. When I invest money, I hope to get more money back. When I invest time, I never get more time back. I can't put that time aside and use it later for an emergency, like finishing my taxes on time. Time is more like a battery. You carry a certain amount around with you and it wears out too quickly. Unless it's an Energizer battery. Unfortunately, you can't recharge your time battery, unless you believe in reincarnation. If you believe in that, you also believe you will win the lottery. But you're more likely to be killed by a falling battery than winning the lottery. Sorry.
It's going on 6 minutes now. I turn around. There it is, glittering in the otherwise dull light of the hallway. Something to occupy my time in a productive way. A mirror. I'm sure they put it there for the very purpose of relieving rage. I stare at my face and my mind wanders. I try and convince myself I look like Ryan Gosling. A simple hair fix is required. Failure. I try and convince myself I look like George Clooney. Failure. Brad Pitt. Failure. Danny Devito. Closer. That guy on the Oliver Jewellery commercials (money for gold). Success. I quickly make a mental note of places where I need to remove hair from my body, an important process as you age - ears, nose, lips…Do you ever notice people, like on the subway, who fix their hair. They move a few hairs around as if they are making some kind of major transformation to their look. There we go, now I can be out in public. Um, no. You look the same as it ever was.
Suddenly, I hear voices. They are coming from the hollow chamber of the elevator shaft and sound like angels coming to gently usher me to heaven, which in this case is DOWN, not up. The voices continue but that annoying elevator light doesn't go out. It's at that moment I realize what's happening. These angels are moving into the building and they are holding the ONE available elevator to move their crappy furniture. I want to tear the wings off these angels and watch them writhe in pain. I want to scissor-kick these angels to hell.
I settle for walking down 4 flights of stairs. Another investment gone bad.
Otherwise I'm fairly calm.
But there is one activity that really flings me into a rage - waiting for an elevator. I think I developed this when I lived at 88 Erskine Avenue in Toronto. This is a building with 29,000 floors and 4 lame elevators that barely haul your butt into the sky. I was on the 15,000th floor (might have been the 15th floor) and for a time I actually walked up to my apartment to avoid my waiting rage. I use the word apartment very loosely. Archeological site is probably more accurate. Coroners office in the sky. Petrie dish with a balcony. Abattoir on Erskine.
Yesterday I was waiting for an elevator at a friends apartment. After about 30 seconds of this, all those rageful memories came flooding back. Then I realized I'm only on the fourth floor. It didn't matter. Two minutes go by. I started tearing the walls of the building apart with my mind. Then I looked for the common signs that the elevator was near. The door shakes from the breeze of the passing elevator car. My hopes were up, but I'm still up on the fourth floor. I stared at the lit up button for what seemed like the age of the universe. Will it go out, signaling the arrival of relief? Five minutes on…
At this stage one reaches what I call the elevator investment stage. I could end this now and take the stairs, but I've invested valuable time and I want some return on that. Otherwise I've wasted my time waiting. So let's waste more time, so that I don't feel like I've wasted the time that's already wasted. I've never really understood the analogy of investing time, as if you're investing money. When I invest money, I hope to get more money back. When I invest time, I never get more time back. I can't put that time aside and use it later for an emergency, like finishing my taxes on time. Time is more like a battery. You carry a certain amount around with you and it wears out too quickly. Unless it's an Energizer battery. Unfortunately, you can't recharge your time battery, unless you believe in reincarnation. If you believe in that, you also believe you will win the lottery. But you're more likely to be killed by a falling battery than winning the lottery. Sorry.
It's going on 6 minutes now. I turn around. There it is, glittering in the otherwise dull light of the hallway. Something to occupy my time in a productive way. A mirror. I'm sure they put it there for the very purpose of relieving rage. I stare at my face and my mind wanders. I try and convince myself I look like Ryan Gosling. A simple hair fix is required. Failure. I try and convince myself I look like George Clooney. Failure. Brad Pitt. Failure. Danny Devito. Closer. That guy on the Oliver Jewellery commercials (money for gold). Success. I quickly make a mental note of places where I need to remove hair from my body, an important process as you age - ears, nose, lips…Do you ever notice people, like on the subway, who fix their hair. They move a few hairs around as if they are making some kind of major transformation to their look. There we go, now I can be out in public. Um, no. You look the same as it ever was.
Suddenly, I hear voices. They are coming from the hollow chamber of the elevator shaft and sound like angels coming to gently usher me to heaven, which in this case is DOWN, not up. The voices continue but that annoying elevator light doesn't go out. It's at that moment I realize what's happening. These angels are moving into the building and they are holding the ONE available elevator to move their crappy furniture. I want to tear the wings off these angels and watch them writhe in pain. I want to scissor-kick these angels to hell.
I settle for walking down 4 flights of stairs. Another investment gone bad.
Thursday 4 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Visiting Hannah, Montana
Helloooo Newman: Visiting Hannah, Montana: I wish Hannah Montana would stop singing. This would be my objective if I won a huge lottery. I would double her yearly salary and pay her t...
Visiting Hannah, Montana
I wish Hannah Montana would stop singing. This would be my objective if I won a huge lottery. I would double her yearly salary and pay her to be a mime artist. She could move to Vegas and do very well. Or maybe a full time spokesperson for Laryngitis Anonymous.
I'll certainly never visit Hannah, Montana again. Everyone there just yells into microphones. And when people grow up there, they have to dress like sluts so the world knows they aren't daddy's little girl anymore. It's such a clever debutante kind of thing. And the mayor of Hannah, Montana - Billy Ray Cyrus - doesn't seem to mind how his constituents behave. As long as they keep paying those huge taxes.
Toto, I hope we're not in Hannah, Montana anymore.
I realize the possibility that only readers with kids might know who Hannah Montana is. For those who have never been to Hannah, Montana, can I have your brain?
I'll certainly never visit Hannah, Montana again. Everyone there just yells into microphones. And when people grow up there, they have to dress like sluts so the world knows they aren't daddy's little girl anymore. It's such a clever debutante kind of thing. And the mayor of Hannah, Montana - Billy Ray Cyrus - doesn't seem to mind how his constituents behave. As long as they keep paying those huge taxes.
Toto, I hope we're not in Hannah, Montana anymore.
I realize the possibility that only readers with kids might know who Hannah Montana is. For those who have never been to Hannah, Montana, can I have your brain?
Helloooo Newman: What a Wonderful World
Helloooo Newman: What a Wonderful World: We live in a beautiful, wonderous and awe-inspiring world. But let's face it, we also live in a cruel, horrific and nutty world. How d...
What a Wonderful World
We live in a beautiful, wonderous and awe-inspiring world. But let's face it, we also live in a cruel, horrific and nutty world.
How do we deal with this dichotomy? We have dogs join our pack. I think dogs are the healthiest choice in this regard. Definitely vodka is not a good choice. From what my hazy memory tells me, anyway. Nor is escapist t.v. shows like So you Think you can Dance?, which was originally called So you Think you can Think? A good book or movie works, but they don't wake you up with a lick in the face and you can't tease them by, say, putting peanut butter on a part of their body they can't reach.
Dogs have a powerful influence on just about everyone. I bet you Jeffrey Dahmer, the sadistic cannibal killer, would not have eaten his dog, if he had one. I know, he still would have enjoyed pan fried human pancreas, but maybe more exposure to a dog, with the Dog Whisperer's help, would have eventually steered him towards calves liver, and then on to the healthier choices like subs from Belly Buster, an actual food place downtown. This "restaurant" is almost right beside an excellent and expensive Italian place called La Fenice. Been there several times. How did the La Fenice people react when they got the news from the restaurant doctor that a tumour, by the medical name of Belly Buster, was growing on their turf? Did they get a second opinion? "They are doing wonderful things for tumours these days", said the restaurant doctor reassuringly. The doctor goes on…"belly tumours often cause loss of appetite, so we can only hope that a few Belly Buster subs will have this effect on all the bellies that consume them. That way, we starve the tumour. Failing that, we slowly cut it out with your kitchen knives." Belly Busters really stands out on the street. So when people ask for directions to La Fenice, I think the La Fenice people have no choice but so say, "we're just west of Belly Busters. What's that, sir? Do Belly Busters participate in summerlicious?" The La Fenice people disconnect their phone.
What about Son of Sam, the New York gun killer? He was really bad. He shot people with a revolver called a 44 caliber Bulldog. How disgusting to besmirch the name of the honourable bulldog, even if these dogs look like they've been injured in a record press. Cute they are! I once saw a Pug and a Bulldog come face-to-face. They were both shocked, and with good reason. My God, I look like that? How much would that cosmetic surgery be?
Son of Sam claimed he took orders from a demon that possessed the neighbours dog. I told you dogs have a powerful influence. Of course this wasn't the dogs fault. It was that nasty demon. I wonder if the demon was there when the dog got fixed? A couple of extra snips and that might have taught him a lesson. Otherwise we would have had Max von Sydow reenact his priest role in The Exorcist, tie the dog to a bed and watch out for green vomit. Linda Blair would do those creepy sounds and talk about the horrible things the priest's mom does in Hell.
I don't think Charlie Manson would have hurt his dog. He may have carved a swastika in his forehead, but that could be cute if done properly. The annoying thing would be having to constantly trim the hair so people can see the swastika and know you are a completely psychotic, and proud, dog owner.
So I think dogs can help so many more people than the blind or the sick or the old. They help smooth out those crazy dichotomies in life. What dogs can't do is pass bylaws prohibiting Belly Buster tumours.
How do we deal with this dichotomy? We have dogs join our pack. I think dogs are the healthiest choice in this regard. Definitely vodka is not a good choice. From what my hazy memory tells me, anyway. Nor is escapist t.v. shows like So you Think you can Dance?, which was originally called So you Think you can Think? A good book or movie works, but they don't wake you up with a lick in the face and you can't tease them by, say, putting peanut butter on a part of their body they can't reach.
Dogs have a powerful influence on just about everyone. I bet you Jeffrey Dahmer, the sadistic cannibal killer, would not have eaten his dog, if he had one. I know, he still would have enjoyed pan fried human pancreas, but maybe more exposure to a dog, with the Dog Whisperer's help, would have eventually steered him towards calves liver, and then on to the healthier choices like subs from Belly Buster, an actual food place downtown. This "restaurant" is almost right beside an excellent and expensive Italian place called La Fenice. Been there several times. How did the La Fenice people react when they got the news from the restaurant doctor that a tumour, by the medical name of Belly Buster, was growing on their turf? Did they get a second opinion? "They are doing wonderful things for tumours these days", said the restaurant doctor reassuringly. The doctor goes on…"belly tumours often cause loss of appetite, so we can only hope that a few Belly Buster subs will have this effect on all the bellies that consume them. That way, we starve the tumour. Failing that, we slowly cut it out with your kitchen knives." Belly Busters really stands out on the street. So when people ask for directions to La Fenice, I think the La Fenice people have no choice but so say, "we're just west of Belly Busters. What's that, sir? Do Belly Busters participate in summerlicious?" The La Fenice people disconnect their phone.
What about Son of Sam, the New York gun killer? He was really bad. He shot people with a revolver called a 44 caliber Bulldog. How disgusting to besmirch the name of the honourable bulldog, even if these dogs look like they've been injured in a record press. Cute they are! I once saw a Pug and a Bulldog come face-to-face. They were both shocked, and with good reason. My God, I look like that? How much would that cosmetic surgery be?
Son of Sam claimed he took orders from a demon that possessed the neighbours dog. I told you dogs have a powerful influence. Of course this wasn't the dogs fault. It was that nasty demon. I wonder if the demon was there when the dog got fixed? A couple of extra snips and that might have taught him a lesson. Otherwise we would have had Max von Sydow reenact his priest role in The Exorcist, tie the dog to a bed and watch out for green vomit. Linda Blair would do those creepy sounds and talk about the horrible things the priest's mom does in Hell.
I don't think Charlie Manson would have hurt his dog. He may have carved a swastika in his forehead, but that could be cute if done properly. The annoying thing would be having to constantly trim the hair so people can see the swastika and know you are a completely psychotic, and proud, dog owner.
So I think dogs can help so many more people than the blind or the sick or the old. They help smooth out those crazy dichotomies in life. What dogs can't do is pass bylaws prohibiting Belly Buster tumours.
Wednesday 3 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Parallel Universe
Helloooo Newman: Parallel Universe: Physicists (string theorists to be precise) now posit that the universe has many dimensions and that possibly there are an infinite number o...
Parallel Universe
Physicists (string theorists to be precise) now posit that the universe has many dimensions and that possibly there are an infinite number of other universes. This excites me on many levels.
It means in one of those universes Charlize Theron IS returning my messages and does want to share an elephant with me on an African safari. In at least one of those universes I never have to play Shake Your Sillies Out on the piano. Or maybe just a couple of times instead of four thousand times. In one of those dimensions I am NOT growing more hair in my ears than on my head. Never lose hope because there is always a universe where things are working out very nicely. However, finding that particular universe is slightly easier than finding any particular item in my wife's purse. And if you live in Toronto, public transit does not go to that universe. And if it did, it would be extremely crowded.
I am amazed how my relationship with Newman parallels my relationship with my wife. Especially in the anger department, which is a very large and successful department. Let's call it an Anger department store, it's so big.
When I get mad at Newman there is now a glint of hope that he understands something is not right. If I were to put what Newman was thinking into words, it would be something like, "Hey man, I get it. You're mad. You really don't have to yell any louder. I'm a dog and I have excellent hearing. Save your voice for the shower, Mr. rock star. I have no idea what you're mad at. I don't speak that nonsense of yours. But I'm sorry, okay? I'm reallllly sorry. See my ears? They're drooping, okay? Were your two most valuable assets ripped out by a doctor? I live with that every day. I pray you know that pain. Now throw the damn ball".
This is exactly where I am with my wife. I know I'm in trouble and I can move my ears down just like Newman. The next step, for Newman and I, is figuring out what the particular issue is. Until then, we just keep chasing the ball.
There is one hitch, though. It's really hard for me to remain mad at Newman because he's so damn cute. It would be so much easier if he had some grotesque flesh eating disease that consumed his face and he went around saying, "I am not a man. I am an animal. I am a dog".
No such luck. His is the face that launches a thousand tennis balls. I wish my wife felt the same way about me.
It means in one of those universes Charlize Theron IS returning my messages and does want to share an elephant with me on an African safari. In at least one of those universes I never have to play Shake Your Sillies Out on the piano. Or maybe just a couple of times instead of four thousand times. In one of those dimensions I am NOT growing more hair in my ears than on my head. Never lose hope because there is always a universe where things are working out very nicely. However, finding that particular universe is slightly easier than finding any particular item in my wife's purse. And if you live in Toronto, public transit does not go to that universe. And if it did, it would be extremely crowded.
I am amazed how my relationship with Newman parallels my relationship with my wife. Especially in the anger department, which is a very large and successful department. Let's call it an Anger department store, it's so big.
When I get mad at Newman there is now a glint of hope that he understands something is not right. If I were to put what Newman was thinking into words, it would be something like, "Hey man, I get it. You're mad. You really don't have to yell any louder. I'm a dog and I have excellent hearing. Save your voice for the shower, Mr. rock star. I have no idea what you're mad at. I don't speak that nonsense of yours. But I'm sorry, okay? I'm reallllly sorry. See my ears? They're drooping, okay? Were your two most valuable assets ripped out by a doctor? I live with that every day. I pray you know that pain. Now throw the damn ball".
This is exactly where I am with my wife. I know I'm in trouble and I can move my ears down just like Newman. The next step, for Newman and I, is figuring out what the particular issue is. Until then, we just keep chasing the ball.
There is one hitch, though. It's really hard for me to remain mad at Newman because he's so damn cute. It would be so much easier if he had some grotesque flesh eating disease that consumed his face and he went around saying, "I am not a man. I am an animal. I am a dog".
No such luck. His is the face that launches a thousand tennis balls. I wish my wife felt the same way about me.
Monday 1 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Happy Canada Day?
Helloooo Newman: Happy Canada Day?: I've been told to wear this silly thing around my neck and wish you Happy Canada Day. But I really want to smell that cute poodle over...
Happy Canada Day?
This humans race is going nowhere fast. Dogs rule. What the heck is a Canada? Happy Dog Day.
Helloooo Newman: Opposite Day
Helloooo Newman: Opposite Day: Opposite Day At my daughter's school they have something called opposite day. This entails bratty kids doing the opposite of what they...
Opposite Day
Opposite Day
At my daughter's school they have something called opposite day. This entails bratty kids doing the opposite of what they would normally do. An example would be students wearing their shirts inside out, staying inside instead of going out for recess, doing the afternoon's activities in the morning, etc. Other opposites they don't normally engage in would be paying attention, respecting the teacher, eating your own lunch instead of trading it on the black market for skittles and gatorade.
Opposite day is an entirely silly concept, as far as my daughter is concerned anyway.
Why is this entirely silly? Because when she's home it's always opposite day. Flush the toilet, daughter. It goes unflushed. Changes colours. Pick up only three of the many thousands of items that are strewn all over your bedroom floor. They lie there. She has more separate items on her floor then all the grains of sand on all the beaches in the world. But the view sucks. There is no nice breeze and that certainly isn't the smell of the fresh ocean spray. Please do not talk to us like we are fellow rap artists shootin' the breeze. She quotes lines from Family Channel as easily as I do from Talladega Nights or Predator. Mine are funny, hers are rude.
One sort of standing rule we have in the house is…don't burn it down. It's a useful rule if you want somewhere to sleep for the night. Yet when I left the house for 5 minutes one time, the opposite of that rule was almost realized. She and a friend decided they wanted to cook this really yummy macaroni that goes in the microwave. Mmmm, I love nuked food. You would think that the microwave, as far as devices go in the house (iron, furnace, stove, matches, knives, dental floss) isn't too dangerous. Punch a few buttons, cook, and there is no flame. One key ingredient went missing in the microwave - water. I'm not Jamie Oliver but I do know you cook pasta in water. It took 3 minute for the container to melt and burst into flames. This is when they decided to introduce water to the mix, only they had to do it as firewomen putting out a fire. They cleaned it up and then did what any 11-year olds would do who gave incidents like this any thought. They tried it again. What happened next was the most shocking thing of all. They got the same result. That's opposite day at my house.
Somehow, Newman found out about opposite day and now he wants to participate. Last night I dragged myself out of bed at 2:00 a.m. for some aspirin to stifle a beer-driven headache. I probably also got dehydrated tossing and turning as I napped during the day. I try to make these night time jaunts very quick so I can get back to my dream and find out if that young woman really wants me in that way, or if she's just my family doctor putting a rubber glove on. Newman is sitting at the doorway. I was very clear. It was plain English. "Come here, Newman". It's not Shakespeare but it says what it means. Well, it was opposite night for Newman. He passes Go, skips jail, collects $200 and moves directly to lying down in the doorway. My next moves were entirely controlled by my headache. It took over my brain, moved my leg behind Newman, and kicked him into the bedroom. My headache felt better. Newman looked at me as if I was spoiling the fun because I didn't want to play opposite night in the middle of the night.
Then he took opposite day a few steps too far. Alright, a few thousand miles too far. We left Newman in the car to do a bit of craft shopping. Normally when left alone in the car, Newman will bark a few times, let you know he's not happy, then take a break and lie down to lick his groin. This time he was as upset as Donald Trump would be if you locked him in a room and piped in over and over on speakers, "Barak Obama was born in Hawaii". Then he broke the cardinal car rule - no crap in the car. There it was, a steaming pile on the seat and mixing in with the seat belt mechanism. He might as well have put poop in the microwave along with my daughter's pasta.
Now we only play opposite opposite day at our house. And in the car. It could also be called please behave day. But that's no fun.
At my daughter's school they have something called opposite day. This entails bratty kids doing the opposite of what they would normally do. An example would be students wearing their shirts inside out, staying inside instead of going out for recess, doing the afternoon's activities in the morning, etc. Other opposites they don't normally engage in would be paying attention, respecting the teacher, eating your own lunch instead of trading it on the black market for skittles and gatorade.
Opposite day is an entirely silly concept, as far as my daughter is concerned anyway.
Why is this entirely silly? Because when she's home it's always opposite day. Flush the toilet, daughter. It goes unflushed. Changes colours. Pick up only three of the many thousands of items that are strewn all over your bedroom floor. They lie there. She has more separate items on her floor then all the grains of sand on all the beaches in the world. But the view sucks. There is no nice breeze and that certainly isn't the smell of the fresh ocean spray. Please do not talk to us like we are fellow rap artists shootin' the breeze. She quotes lines from Family Channel as easily as I do from Talladega Nights or Predator. Mine are funny, hers are rude.
One sort of standing rule we have in the house is…don't burn it down. It's a useful rule if you want somewhere to sleep for the night. Yet when I left the house for 5 minutes one time, the opposite of that rule was almost realized. She and a friend decided they wanted to cook this really yummy macaroni that goes in the microwave. Mmmm, I love nuked food. You would think that the microwave, as far as devices go in the house (iron, furnace, stove, matches, knives, dental floss) isn't too dangerous. Punch a few buttons, cook, and there is no flame. One key ingredient went missing in the microwave - water. I'm not Jamie Oliver but I do know you cook pasta in water. It took 3 minute for the container to melt and burst into flames. This is when they decided to introduce water to the mix, only they had to do it as firewomen putting out a fire. They cleaned it up and then did what any 11-year olds would do who gave incidents like this any thought. They tried it again. What happened next was the most shocking thing of all. They got the same result. That's opposite day at my house.
Somehow, Newman found out about opposite day and now he wants to participate. Last night I dragged myself out of bed at 2:00 a.m. for some aspirin to stifle a beer-driven headache. I probably also got dehydrated tossing and turning as I napped during the day. I try to make these night time jaunts very quick so I can get back to my dream and find out if that young woman really wants me in that way, or if she's just my family doctor putting a rubber glove on. Newman is sitting at the doorway. I was very clear. It was plain English. "Come here, Newman". It's not Shakespeare but it says what it means. Well, it was opposite night for Newman. He passes Go, skips jail, collects $200 and moves directly to lying down in the doorway. My next moves were entirely controlled by my headache. It took over my brain, moved my leg behind Newman, and kicked him into the bedroom. My headache felt better. Newman looked at me as if I was spoiling the fun because I didn't want to play opposite night in the middle of the night.
Then he took opposite day a few steps too far. Alright, a few thousand miles too far. We left Newman in the car to do a bit of craft shopping. Normally when left alone in the car, Newman will bark a few times, let you know he's not happy, then take a break and lie down to lick his groin. This time he was as upset as Donald Trump would be if you locked him in a room and piped in over and over on speakers, "Barak Obama was born in Hawaii". Then he broke the cardinal car rule - no crap in the car. There it was, a steaming pile on the seat and mixing in with the seat belt mechanism. He might as well have put poop in the microwave along with my daughter's pasta.
Now we only play opposite opposite day at our house. And in the car. It could also be called please behave day. But that's no fun.
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