Helloooo Newman: Idearrhea

Helloooo Newman: Idearrhea: Idearrhea is a word I am proud to have coined several years ago in a speech I gave at Toastmasters. At least, I know of no other person w...

Idearrhea

Idearrhea is a word I am proud to have coined several years ago in a speech I gave at Toastmasters.

At least, I know of no other person who has claimed such an esteemed achievement. Not even Kim Jong Un.

It is, of course, borrowed from the root word – diarrhea.

It refers to a person who has so many ideas swirling around in their head that when they articulate them, say verbally or on paper, they just pour out all at once in a big mess.

I suppose the celebrity who suffered the most (or more likely benefited) from this condition was Robin Williams. He actually made a career out of Idearrhea.

I occasionally suffer from it too, but not often enough to make a career out of it, and the quality of Idearrhea is certainly not on a par with Mr. Williams.

Oh, I wish I suffered from that Grade A kind of Idearrhea. The kind where there's always a smile on your face and on everyone else's too. I would gladly ingest whatever ideas would cause such glorious Idearrhea. I would also cut out all probiotics from my diet.

I guess you could say Einstein had Idearrhea about the universe and it appeared as a big mess of equations. He managed to clean up his Idearrhea very nicely into the neat package that is E=MC2.

I am aware this is not a very "Christmassy" kind of topic. I apologize for that. I figure you've probably had it with Christmas, and the topic relates very well to my last few days.

Newman has had diarrhea for the last 3 days. The traditional kind. The kind that stains my rugs, floors, sofa, shoes and bedspread. These are the places Newman decided to "express" his diarrhea.

The kind that does not make me smile.

Yesterday I went to the movie The Theory of Everything, about the life of Stephen Hawking. It co-starred a woman named Felicity Jones, an astonishing actress far, far more adorable than diarrhea.

When I got home I had to disinfect the above mentioned objects of diarrhea. I also had to wash a very particular part of Newman's body in the shower.

I'll stop there.

It was kind of a weird feeling, moving rather suddenly from watching the exalted, lofty pursuits of Mr. Hawking trying to figure out why the universe exists, to removing diarrhea from shoe laces and wondering why there is diarrhea in MY universe.

To recover I ingurgitated several beers.

Thankfully, that led to a mild form of Idearrhea, and the birth of this article.

It may be all over the internet, but it's not all over my house.

Helloooo Newman: The Tired Chicken

Helloooo Newman: The Tired Chicken: I still don't understand why meat has to rest after it's been cooked. Every time I cook some meat, I want to tear into it right aw...

Helloooo Newman: The Resting Chicken

Helloooo Newman: Cooking Qs: I still don't understand why meat has to rest after it's been cooked. Every time I cook some meat, I want to tear into it right aw...

The Tired Chicken

You should always let your meat rest after it’s been cooked? Honest, that’s what she said!

Last weekend I pulled a golden brown free range chicken off the bbq for our guests and my wife said “you can’t cut it now. Leave it for a bit, it has to rest.”

Every time I cook some meat, I want to tear into it right away. Preferably the way my ancestors did. Fingernails and teeth, not knives and forks.

Isn't it me that should get some rest? I'm the one turning on the bbq, flipping the chicken, watching for excessive flame, poking with a meat thermometer, lifting the beer bottle. The hopes and dreams of several dinner guests in my tongs.

And I haven't even started chewing.

The meat just lies there.

Does the chicken really need to rest after complete inactivity for two hours? Isn't being dead rest enough?

I think there's another term for resting your cooked chicken. It's called getting cold.

What about the dinner guests? They're starving, you've prepared the plates with potatoes and veggies and the meat is still missing.

"Where's the chicken?"

"It'll be out in a minute, it's just napping."

"Okay. How often does it nap? Will it need another one before I finish eating it? Maybe I should eat it really fast before it gets drowsy. I hate when my chicken nods off during the meal."

"Pay attention, I'm eating you."

What if my chicken has narcolepsy? I guess a good poke with a fork should wake it up.

My chicken tastes bland. Is that because it's asleep? Is the flavour asleep too?

Compare a chicken before and after it's cooked.

If you ask me the chicken needs a rest before it's cooked. If you looked in the mirror and saw a raw chicken wouldn't you feel the need for a day off? Hey, did you go to Michael Jackson's doctor for that complexion? You need more like a full blown vacation, I would say.

And that's pretty much what a chicken gets when you prepare and cook it. It's a spa vacation for meat.

It starts off with a relaxing rub down of scented oils and herbs. There's probably some nice music in the background and the liquor is flowing.

After marinating (aka, resting) for a few hours while reading an exciting set of cooking instructions, it's time for the tanning booth. Two hours of relaxing warmth in your own private tanning pan with a nice window view? I'll take that.

Don't open the oven door, my chicken is on vacation. It needs the rest.

Then the chicken gets a free medical checkup – insert the thermometer, I hope this chicken isn't getting the flu.

Take it out of the oven and the chicken looks like George Hamilton – a tan that people pay thousands for.

The mashed potatoes are jealous. "Hey man, you just back from Barbados? Nice tan. We never tan. Sometimes they'll add a yam or two but we end up with one of those fake orange tans."

The chicken is moved to a cutting board, but really it's like a pilates mat for meat. You bend the chicken in all kinds of twisted ways to make sure it's cooked.

Time for the chiropractor to give the chicken a bone adjustment. All included.

By this time the chicken is so relaxed the meat just falls off the bone. Have you ever been that relaxed?

When the chicken is served, people go out of their way to gather around and fuss about it. This is no time for a nap.

Please, give me some of that treatment.

I wish I were a nice piece of meat.

Helloooo Newman: The I Don't Know List

Helloooo Newman: The I Don't Know List: Yesterday I set out to make a list of all the things I don't know. As my friends can attest to, there's a lot I don't know. So...

The "I Don't Know" List

Yesterday I set out to make a list of all the things I don't know.

As my friends can attest to, there's a lot I don't know. So I was prepared for a long list.

But still, I figured that list would be just short of infinite. Because clearly I do know some things.

Here are some things I know:

• I know to use the inside-my-head voice when comparing my daughter's application of makeup to a popular 70s rock band.

• I know that counting each stair every time I'm on a set of them is slightly OCD. And I'm currently at 4,576,342 stairs in my lifetime.

• I know that in the special case of escalators, it counts as one step, for obvious reasons.

• I know that when I enter a men's public washroom and there is only one guy at the urinals, I choose the urinal furthest away from him. No, I don't enter ladies washrooms.

• I know that the fleshlight is not a product of my imagination, but a real product and it will not be under my tree this year.

• I know that thickly-cut maple bacon is the best replacement for regular sex you'll ever find.

• I know that if a man eats maple bacon on a tablecloth with candlelight and soft music, his tongue will become erect.

But there's a problem.

I don't even know what know means. Is knowing myself the same as knowing that the $1,000 brass tap system we have in our bathroom has no available parts on this planet?

I am, you see, far more complicated than a plumbing part. Paul seems depressed – get the drano.

From this observation we can surmise that know doesn't always mean know.

During my single life, know always meant no. As in, I know the girl's answer would be no.

So I never refer to girls that have known me, but girls that have no'd me. This even applies to girls that don't know me, but know a girl that has said no to me in the past. God knows there's plenty of those.

Does know ever mean yes? I thought it did. Whenever I looked at a girl and she was playing with her hair, I would know that yes, she wants me.

What I didn't know is that earlier in the day she got some bubble gum stuck in her hair from groping her boyfriend and she didn't know I was looking at her.

Does no ever mean know? I learned that it did. After a while, as girls kept saying no, I began to know what was going on. I know – time to get married, get a fleshlight or die early from eating way too much maple bacon.

Suddenly there was something else I know. The list of things I don't know must be blank.

Obvious, because it's a list of things I don't know. How can I put them on a list?

Unless we get into the things I know I don't know and the things I don't know that I don't know.

I'd rather not do that at this time because I know that I (and probably you too) have a fucking headache.

Helloooo Newman: God Is Going On Vacation, But Where?

Helloooo Newman: God Is Going On Vacation, But Where?: God appeared on Fox-TV yesterday. Asked why He chose that vehicle for His interview, He stated that He likes to appear on His major compet...

Helloooo Newman: God Is Going On Vacation, But Where?

Helloooo Newman: God Is Going On Vacation, But Where?: God appeared on Fox-TV yesterday. Asked why He chose that vehicle for His interview, He stated that He likes to appear on His major compet...

God Is Going On Vacation, But Where?

God appeared on Fox-TV yesterday.

Asked why He chose that vehicle for His interview, He stated that He likes to appear on His major competitor's programs to show who's in charge – His major competitor being, of course, the Devil.

God said, in the sometimes combative interview, that He is going on vacation "for a while."

After being around for infinity, He explained, and suffering the blowback from creating people like Rush Limbaugh and Justin Bieber (jokingly calling him bobblehead), He "needs a break."

Asked how long He would be gone, God answered, "longer than that lousy seventh day I took off a while ago."

He was actually packing a bag during the interview.

God became hostile at the suggestion that things would fall apart without His guidance.

"Listen. I've put some good people in charge. They have extensive training in doling out pleasure and pain, are paid handsomely and have a benefits package that covers full dental, including ortho – I say again, including ortho! – for the next 5 billion years."

"And it's not like you people can't put a little more effort into making this fucking disaster of a planet a little nicer to visit." The last part was bleeped out and substituted with the helpful sponsor's message "it ain't gun control we need; it's sin control."

God became more contemplative when asked where He would go? As far as everyone knew, He was everywhere at once. The clever interviewer used the Biblical term "omnipresent". He had to define this for the Fox-TV viewers as they thought it meant a gun in every room.

"That is a particular problem for me, being everywhere at once. While it cuts down on travel expenses and the hassle of putting my shoes in a sad little grey box at the airport, it also limits my choices for novel places to go. Keep in mind there is only the tiniest part of me in all places. All of me can't be everywhere. I mean, let's get serious, that's impossible, even for me. I might take all of me to the Alberta Tar Sands, just to see what all the fuss is about."

"Ha ha, that's a joke. I can't say for security reasons. Some people just don't like my work. Some even think I've been on vacation from the beginning. No sympathy for me. Only for the Devil. Damn Rolling Stones. That's exactly why I made Jagger and Richards look like a Shar Pei's behind."

God then broke into a rap version of the song All of Me.

The more awkward parts of the interview were edited out for more gun commercials. At one point the interviewer asked why evil exists. God shot back, "why does good exist?"

The interviewer responded, "um, because it's…good?"

God answered, "That's what she said."

God wished everyone well, and as a parting gift to humanity, wiped Fox-TV out of existence.


Writer's Note: I can write rings around The Onion, can't I?

Helloooo Newman: Does Every Dog Really Have His Day?

Helloooo Newman: Does Every Dog Really Have His Day?: They say – the humans do – that every dog has his day. Where is my day? Or maybe my hour. How about a few measly seconds? I’m waiting. ...

Does Every Dog Really Have His Day?

They say – the humans do – that every dog has his day.

Where is my day? Or maybe my hour. How about a few measly seconds? I’m waiting. 

My dog days began at the adoption.

I was a valuable dog. A perfect mix of Aussie Shepherd and Standard Poodle. Pretty and smart. Then my breeders went Costco on me and put me on sale so they could “move the merchandise.” Will I be part of a family-pak? Fourteen puppies squirming inside plastic wrap with a 4-ton bag of sequoia-sized cheeses thrown in?

My soon-to-be owners entered the “store”. The sale price on my head was $950.00. The male was flummoxed. He kept hmmm-ing. I thought the kennel smell was getting to him but apparently he was thinking.

He pointed out that $950.00 is so close to the price point of a…Macbook Air. Should he get something that increases his productivity by 1000%, he wondered, or something that eats shoes? Could this be Gandhi reincarnated, I thought?

The Macbook Air has many benefits, he informed everyone. Update its operating system and it gets smarter. 

To contrast that, he brought up a touchy subject for me. When he got on his hands and knees to test me as a playmate, he accused me of wanting to start a family with him. Listen. I am a prisoner to some of my ancestral urges just like humans are.

The female, the smarter of the two, made the decision, wrote the cheque and off we were.

Then came my name. Newman. Obviously. We have ourselves here a slender, sophisticated and playful puppy so let’s name him after an abrasive, competitive and pudgy mailman.

The drive home afforded me the opportunity to have some fun with the malevolent male. Luck had it that the breeder fed me before we left. Do you know what bumpy car rides can do to volatile puppy tummies? Put my dinner all over the male’s jeans, is what. My sad and apologetic expression, mastered at such a young age, made punishing me impossible.

My male owner, Ralph (calls himself Alpha Ralph), thinks he’s top dog, and top human. He introduces me to friends as the “son” he never had. This way he can brag that it’s mostly his DNA in me. Look at the cute face, he says. Pay attention to the intelligent expression, denoting a high IQ. All true, of course, but all from his lineage.

Oh sure, he does acknowledge at least some genetic participation from the female. My tendency to growl at strangers and my love of shoes.

Fast forward a year. Alpha Ralph keeps complaining that I have to poop everyday. As far as I know he does too. And I’m not the one who encourages him to collect the stuff in bags.

One snowy day in December he sat me down and asked me, straight face and all, to stop pooping in the backyard for three short months. January to March. He’ll keep feeding me but I need to put a plug in it.

He carefully explained the urgency of the situation. Winter conditions interfere with his delicate metabolism and so he can’t get out to walk me or pick up poop as much as he’d like to. “Who the hell wants to freeze their ass off”, is how he put it. He drew a diagram for me. As I poop throughout the winter, it gets “frozen in time” in successive layers of ice and snow.

In Spring, he’s faced with cleaning up a mile high archaeological site of poop. Out come the tools. Chip, chip – this poop froze on Jan 3rd, he would note. Chip, chip – here’s a large one from Feb 18th.

I am not an archaeologist, he reminded me.

I frantically let him know I get it. Then I hatched a plan. With careful attention (and my high I.Q.) I formed one of my poops into the distinct shape of an arrowhead.

His mouth hung open for days when he found it. Is Newman evolving, he kept asking himself? Is it only a matter of time before he reaches the Bronze age? “Pretty soon I’ll be the one drinking from the toilet”, I heard him say. “Who is the master here?”, he cried.

He is still crying and I'm still pooping.

So you see, my glory days haven't arrived yet. But I keep things in perspective. At least my name isn’t Mulva.

Helloooo Newman: The Evidence is In

Helloooo Newman: The Evidence is In: One Saturday afternoon, while the girls were on one of their endless shopping tours, I found the time in my busy schedule to read an interes...

The Evidence is In

One Saturday afternoon, while the girls were on one of their endless shopping tours, I found the time in my busy schedule to read an interesting "scientific" study.

The bed sheets were being washed. That's what gave me the break in my busy napping schedule to read. Sleeping on a bare mattress? NO. Sounds like Guantanamo Bay.

The "scientific" study involved a bunch of scientists researching near death experiences, or more accurately, dead for just a short while experiences.

I'll précis the article. I have to, actually, because I didn't read most of it. Just the headline and the conclusion. Okay, a bit in the middle too. The bed sheets were now dry so I had to finish up reading quickly and get back to my scheduled activities.

These "scientists" looked at various studies of people who died (as in their heart stopped beating) for 20 minutes to half an hour. I could use a good solid nap like that.

They found that a healthy portion of these dead "temps" reported wonderful afterlife experiences while they were dead, and the experiences were all very similar.

From this they confidently concluded that there is no death as many traditionally view it – rotting corpse, no taxes and nothingness.

We can all expect an afterlife, and a pleasant one at that. A bold and brash conclusion, for sure.

Well, I have a few questions, thank you.

I think most of us, while we're alive, subscribe to the too-good-to-be-true point of view when it comes to a lot of everyday things.

Eat those love handles away with endless diet fries, the taxman made a mistake in your favour to the tune of $1,000,000, Charlize Theron asks where you've been all her life, Brad Pitt leaves his Queen of cinema for you and a backsplit in Don Mills. All too-good-to-be-true.

The joyful, no traffic, no job to get to, no kid's ass to wipe and FREE lifestyle, however, awaits your death.

Is this not the ethereal equivalent of Floridian swamp land?

Another, rather obvious question is why not skip the sucky life and go directly to the after sucky life?

The off-the-rack answer is you can't possibly enjoy the good without the bad to remind you that the good is, ah, actually good.

The afterlife, as advertised, is nothing but good. How do we know it's all good, when it is, ah, all good? Maybe there's just a tad bad, like a charge for the infinite buffet.

Who were these dead-for-a-while people? It sounds like ALL of them were headed to Heaven, seeing as they all reported finding their G(od) spot. But I'm thinking when you take a random sampling of the population, chances are there will be a pedophile or two in the mix.

Why didn't we hear a story of a guy having his scrotum slowly cut off with a dull blade and fed to him through one of those cake decoration tubes, as all pedophiles deserve? The bad with the good, right?

I find something even more disturbing in this afterlife sales job. Suppose you (a good person) are at a soccer game in Pakistan and a disgruntled religious fanatic sits down beside you and detonates his backpack.

Great, now you're both dead. Except you can't die, remember? As you both float into the afterlife, will you be beside each other, like you were at the soccer game?

Now that's awkward. Should the terrorist apologize? "Ya, about that explosion. Hey how 'bout a year's worth of free infinite buffet?

Should you demand an apology and some kind of compensation? Why, when we've "scientifically" established you're in for a much better time than lousy seats at a sporting event. Maybe a thank you is in order.

Is there really an afterlife? Sooner or later we're all experts on the subject.

Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times

Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times: As I was driving along Eglinton Avenue in me car, I saw a strange road sign. The sign read: Left Lane Exists . Really and truthfully, that...

Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times

Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times: As I was driving along Eglinton Avenue in me car, I saw a strange road sign. The sign read: Left Lane Exists . Really and truthfully, that...

Traffic sign of the times

As I was driving along Eglinton Avenue in me car, I saw a strange road sign.

The sign read: Left Lane Exists. Really and truthfully, that is how it read.

I was immediately curious. Having too much curiosity about a road sign, by the way, can be bad for your health. As I studied the sign to make sure of what I was reading, a bus almost rearranged my front hood, along with my face.

Left Lane Exists, you say?

I seem to remember in 1966 Time magazine questioned the existence of the left lane on the cover.

Is the left lane dead? asked the headline.

Oh, wait a minute. That was about God. Is God Dead? Time asked. Sorry, got confused.

The great philosopher Frederich Nietzsche said the left lane was dead. He didn't mean a literal left lane, but a metaphorical left lane, which makes it hard to pass slow cars.

What? Oh, ya. Fred was talking about God too.

Still, I'm not convinced the left lane exists. I didn't actually see it, although some signs were there.

Every once in a while I had the feeling a left lane must exist because I wanted to pass the old lady in front of me. I was sure this deep feeling to pass must signify the presence of a left lane.

I got into an argument with a guy claiming to be a Buddhist. He said there were many left lanes that existed. I questioned whether we have that much asphalt.

A bunch of guys in robes pulled me over and tried to convince me that the left lane did exist and could I give them money. I guess to repave the left lane? To build more?

A Hindu guy I ran into said there were many, many left lanes, and I should be careful not to speed in my carma because it will come back to me.

I guess I haven't decided yet if I believe that a left lane exists or not. There should be a word for people who are sitting in the middle of the road, not sure if there really is a left lane out there.

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?: Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to customers as "boss"? I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me bo...

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep  always  goes on top. And she doesn&...

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza: Glory be to Dr. Oetker. God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza. He must be readin...

Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul

Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul: I few weeks ago we went to a wedding. I don't attend a lot of weddings. If people celebrated divorces, I would be very busy with that....

Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul

Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul: I few weeks ago we went to a wedding. I don't attend a lot of weddings. If people celebrated divorces, I would be very busy with that....

Shoeless Paul

I few weeks ago we went to a wedding.

I don't attend a lot of weddings. If people celebrated divorces, I would be very busy with that.

My first reaction to the wedding was, well, at least it's not a funeral.

My second reaction? Oh God, how do I break the news to the moths that I need my suit for an evening?

The moths that survived took it well.

I wished we lived in a world where one could wear very comfortable running shoes with a suit and tie. People look at me like I'm from another planet, or they think I have the reverse aging disease.

So off I went to look for my dress shoes. I opened our front hall closet thinking they must be in there. Shoes poured out of what seemed like a black hole belonging to Fendi.

Fifteen minutes later, when I regained consciousness, I called TeleHealth and got a woman on the line. She insisted she needed to know the make and model of the shoes before she could treat me properly. Were they pumps or flats? Stilettos are very bad for the eyes. Did you pay retail? I hung up and covered my cuts with brown shoe polish. Weird tan, Paul.

Screaming in pain, I also almost swallowed my tongue. Quick work with a shoe horn saved me.

Subsequent forensic analysis revealed there were 1200 pairs of shoes, 1100 belonging to my wife and 100 to my daughter.

No sign of my shoes.

Long and sad story short. My shoes were buried away in the basement, obviously in a place that would survive a nuclear blast so we could enjoy a nice dinner out after the fallout.

I asked my wife, like, seriously, why were my shoes buried in Hell?

"Oh dear, it's so obvious. There was no room in the closet."

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?: Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to the customer as "boss"? I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me...

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?: Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to the customer as "boss"? I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me...

Who's the Boss?

Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to customers as "boss"?

I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me boss. "Your car is ready, boss." He had to say it three times because my name is not boss and I didn't know he was talking to me. I was busy lying on the floor checking the differentials on various trucks. They were all…um…the same?

I suppose he is right, though. At least temporarily, I am his boss in that I have "hired" him for a short time to attend to my needs.

He was a nice guy so I wanted to give him a raise, maybe an extra week of vacation or up his pee breaks to four a day. Technically I could have, since I was his boss, but he would only enjoy that for about an hour. Then I resign as his boss (a.k.a. leaving the store) and he starts all over with a new boss. Imagine breaking in a new boss every hour.

That last sentence reminds me of the time my brother and I broke into a vibrating bed machine at a motel. We cracked open this little metal case and kept re-feeding it quarters every hour so the bed shook all night. I guess bosses are like perpetually vibrating beds. Fun for a while, you don't get much sleep, and then you want to smash the metal case with a blunt instrument.

So why don't other professionals I use call me boss?

Why have I not heard my surgeon say: "Okay, boss, I changed up your spleen, aligned your joints, cleared your manifold veins, changed your speech filter, purged your heart valves and oiled your love handles. You should really get a new timing belt. It's choking your ball joints."

"All under warranty, boss."

That'll do, employee.

What about your priest. "Hey boss, I don't blame you for layin' a little pipe with the neighbour. She comes to this church and she's a hot one."

This would never happen, obviously, because the priest knows who's the REAL boss.

Imagine how confused I was when I overheard another customer complaining about the service. "I WANT TO SEE YOUR BOSS!"

He must mean me, I thought. I'm the boss. Or is the other customer? Are they calling him boss too?

Does this mean he's my boss? Where am I in the organizational chart?

Who's the boss here? I have to pee.

Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet

Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet: I guess now is a good time to admit to my loyal readers a secret I've been shouldering for a while now. Actually, forget my shoulders....

Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet

Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet: I guess now is a good time to admit to my loyal readers a secret I've been shouldering for a while now. Actually, forget my shoulders....

My head is coming out of the closet

I guess now is a good time to admit to my loyal readers a secret I've been shouldering for a while now.

Actually, forget my shoulders. It's about my head. I'm coming out of the closet about my head.

Yes, I use Product on my hair. With a capital "P". That rhymes with "G". G, that's expensive Product. Is there Cocaine in it?

The secret, really, is that my hair is thinning and the Product is suppose to thicken things up.

I know, the thinning part isn't so much a secret. Only to my self-esteem.

The Product comes in three varieties.

1: Helps just-starting-to-thin hair
2: For noticeably thinning hair
3: Helps grow a penis on your head so people don't notice the absence of hair. A Hair Distraction System.

Oh, look at that gentleman. So old and not balding. What an attractive penis on his head.

Actually, I use number two. I'm not sure if it works yet, but last week as I was massaging some into my scalp, a drop fell onto my lips and I had to shave them the next morning. Glad I wasn't using number three! I'm, um, not into that.

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza: Glory be to Dr. Oetker. God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza. He is reading my ...

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza: Glory be to Dr. Oetker. God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza. He is reading my ...

The Shroud of Pizza

Glory be to Dr. Oetker.

God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza.

He must be reading my blog after all.

This holy piece of parchment above came with my Dr. Oetker pizza. I followed the instructions carefully: Place pizza and parchment tray in oven at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. Genuflect. Pray.

And look what appeared. The face of Jesus in a pizza. Well, on the under-wrapping anyway.

It's a lucky bonus that this showed up in a "healthy" Dr. Oetker pizza, with only 15,000 calories (even after I added the maple bacon) instead of the normal 35,000

Oh, I get it. You think it's a fake? You want to carbon date it?

I really thought after all these years we had built up more trust.

I realize this image can be interpreted in many ways. Some of them occurred to me as well:

• Maybe the Fathers at the Vatican were a little distracted while the hosts baked too long in the oven. Boys will do that to you.

• Maybe the Vatican ovens broke down so they were forced to order hosts from the Waffle House down the street.

• Looks a bit like my underwear after I finish ironing it.

• Reminds me of a Timbit run over by a bus.

• Perhaps it's Al Jolson's cleansing pad (wow, you're aging yourself there, Paul)

• More currently, I might guess it's the resulting hickey from a date with Jian Ghomeshi

Nope, this is the one AND ONLY shroud of pizza, which means the J man (not Jian) was there in the oven while it was cooking.

If you zoom in about one million percent, His lips seem to be whispering my name. I don't know, maybe He's just saying, "more maple bacon."

I know for sure He's saying "Thank God there isn't any broccoli on this pizza," because that's the devil's work.

I've always known at the core of my spiritual self that Jesus is a meat lover.

Maybe it works like this: God is love. But Jesus, who has actually taken the time to come down here and try our food, loves meat the best.

Where's the proof? Notice how a bit of the edge is crumbled away? I think Jesus got a bit hungry and nibbled at what He thought was the pizza. I'm sure after eating hosts and all He's use to that flavour.

What do you see?

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep  always  goes on top. And she doesn&...

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep  always  goes on top. And she doesn&...

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep  always  goes on top. And she doesn&...

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep  always  goes on top. And she doesn&...

To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

I love sleep.

I'm also in love with sleep.

So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep always goes on top.

And she doesn't mind if I fall asleep after.

I eat, breath and sleep sleep.

Shakespeare inspired the name of this blog because there's nothing like his writing to put me to sleep. Even when he's translated into English, I get snoozy.

Actually, all reading puts me to sleep. So does talking. Moving, eating…

I guess the only thing that doesn't make me sleepy is actually sleeping.

When I heard they have sleep studies I was amazed. I've been studying for that my whole life. I did the exam in my sleep.

The best part of sleeping, other than not being awake, is dreaming.

I'm just so successful in my dreams. It's where all my dreams come true.

My favourite dreams are the ones where I'm sleeping. I'll admit, though, some dreams are hard to decipher. One time I fell asleep skydiving (I can sleep anywhere) and dreamt that I was falling.

What does that mean? Just plain weird.

People warn me. Paul, if you sleep so much you'll never get any exercise. Are you kidding me? Have they not heard of the sleep cycle? I ride it all the time. That's why I sweat so much when I sleep.

I don't just sleep alone, either. I've slept with a lot of women in my days. A lot. After we woke up, I would ask every one of them, listen, are we going to have sex or not?

Sleep is many things to me but it's especially my grade 9 math teacher. Just like my sleep, you never interrupt my grade 9 math teacher. If you did you suffered the 4 piece pencil trick.

He was a scary dude – he looked like Norman Schwarzkopf and had the demeanor of Norman Bates.

I aways wanted to show him the 4 piece collar bone trick. I've read collar bone fractures are quite painful.

You do not want to deprive me of sleep. Once I was in line to buy clothes. The line would just not move. The lady in front of me didn't move an inch and I couldn't believe how quiet she was about it. I was fuming under my breath. Then I realized I had lined up behind a mannequin.

Some of the things we buy to sleep are strange. Memory foam mattresses? Do I need my mattress to remember me? Will it soon talk to me?

Mattress: You Bill?
Me: No, Paul
Mattress: You look like a Bill.
Me: You look like a Matt-get it? Mattress?
Mattress: Clever! Where's Bill? Wait, don't answer that. I remember Bill. He tried me at the store. Nice guy. Small dick.
Me: How many people do you know?
Mattress: Thousands.
Me. I own you now.
Mattress: Can I see the Bill? Get it? Bill? Alrighty, hop in and let's get to know each other.

When I was a kid I played sleepy in a grade school production of Snow White. I was so excited to finally show my acting skills and this role was, of course, type casting.

I was so committed I gain 20 pounds for the role. I figured heavy people probably sleep more because they get tired of lugging around all that weight. I guess all the excitement and celebrity got to me because I was having great difficulty finding my character, even though I'm a natural sleeper.

I had to do something so I took some Nyquil before my big performance. I drank five ounces – because it comes with that little shot glass. I got the sleepy part perfect. I missed some of my lines – okay all of them. Hey, I was asleep. I guess the upsetting part for many people was the school having to remove me from the stage and put me in an ambulance. This kind of behaviour is what we now call performance art.

I've fallen asleep in many strange places. I worked at Sunoco for a time and would nap on the toilet. One time I accidentally hit the little handle and down the toilet went all my dreams.

People say sleeping is easy, takes no skill. Really? How come so many people have trouble achieving it? What about insomniacs? Losers. Now it's not looking so easy, eh?

Oh, another thing makes me sleepy. Writing…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Helloooo Newman: Bobble Dog Challenge

Helloooo Newman: Bobble Dog Challenge: Hi, I'm a dog bobble head. Former, actually. Those were the days, ridin' up there at the front of the car, screaming "I&#...

Helloooo Newman: Bobble Dog Challenge

Helloooo Newman: Bobble Dog Challenge: Hi, I'm a dog bobble head. Former, actually. Those were the days, ridin' up there at the front of the car, screaming "I&#...

Bobble Dog Challenge

Hi, I'm a dog bobble head. Former, actually.

Those were the days, ridin' up there at the front of the car, screaming "I'm the king of the world."

Then came the neck injuries. Headaches. All that bouncing around. No insurance.

I sued for damages, won and bought these two real legs. Very cool, but hard to balance.

I've stuck my neck out. Now it's your turn.

I beg you to take the Bobble Dog Challenge, a fundraiser to help me get a body and a second set of legs. Tail too.

It's so easy: the next time you're driving a car, stick your head out the window, bobble it around and yell "body and some legs for bobble."

Then keep driving to my place and give me money.

Pleeeeeeeeze. I beg you. I'll come to your house and stare at you if you don't do it.

You can follow me on my Headbook page and my Litter feed (#dogtag:Newman).

Bobble on over!

PS: Please, no bacon strips. Cash only.

Helloooo Newman: God

Helloooo Newman: God: As I get older I think a lot about God. He doesn't think much about me, but that's okay. He must be awfully busy these days – what...

God

As I get older I think a lot about God.

He doesn't think much about me, but that's okay. He must be awfully busy these days – what with ISIS and Ebola on the run and the bloody TTC being closed every weekend for repairs.

I'm often reminded of that song, which asked the question, "what if God was one of us?"

What would it look like if God were a regular dude, like you and me?

Take the universe, for example. He owns it, right? I wonder if there's a mortgage on it? I figure there must be and all His money is going to pay it off, amortized over infinity, of course.

That's why He has no money to fix things up. Not only are perfectly good stars exploding all over the place, but my George Foreman grill broke its leg the first time I cooked bacon on it. Shoddy work if you ask me.

It's possible He didn't create the universe, but rather bought it as a fixer-upper. DIY universe. No wonder we can't find any other life around. Would you buy here voluntarily? I'm just renting, thank you.

Hey God, you can start the reno anytime now. We won't mind the dust.

This might explain global warming. Poor humans – we think we're responsible for it. It's all God's work. A kind of neighbourhood improvement plan. To make the universe more pleasant for seadoos and tanning. You know, for resale.

I know God inspired the Apostles to write the Bible, but did He ever read it before going to press?

It says no man shall ever lie beside another. Does that include camping? It can get pretty tight in those popup tents. I faced that dilemma once with bunk beds. Clearly I was on top of a man. That must be worse!

Maybe He meant no man shall lie to another man – about the size of his penis.

He also makes greed a sin. Oh, really? Did He ever have a daughter in braces? I think a little greed is gonna help me eat today.

What would God's personal life be like? Does He vacation? If so, where? He's already everywhere. That limits your options for a good time.

As you can see, the more I think about God the more confused I get.

But at least I do know with certainty that He exists, thanks to Apple. Every time I type in "god" on my iphone, the spelling guy automatically capitalizes the "G". So I guess I'll go with – Dude.

Very respectful, indeed.

Helloooo Newman: I'm lousy at math but I do add up the little thing...

Helloooo Newman: I'm lousy at math but I do add up the little thing...: Life is full of stressors, big and small. I think it's the small stressors that add up to make our lives more difficult. One small t...

Helloooo Newman: I'm lousy at math but I do add up the little thing...

Helloooo Newman: I'm lousy at math but I do add up the little thing...: Life is full of stressors, big and small. I think it's the small stressors that add up to make our lives more difficult. One small t...

I'm lousy at math but I do add up the little things

Life is full of stressors, big and small.

I think it's the small stressors that add up to make our lives more difficult.

One small thing that really stresses me out – okay it's very tiny, minuscule, impossible to see without an electron microscope.

It happens when I approach an intersection on foot to cross the street.

The light is green and those numbers telling you how much time you have to cross are counting down. That's it. That's what gives my nervous system a little nudge. Over and over again. Each time taking a few seconds off my lifespan due to stress.

As soon as I look up and see the numbers crunching, 8-7-6, my brain automatically tries to calculate how many steps I walk per second, how many seconds are left and will I make it. Since my brain is distracted with the math, and not doing a good job, I lose focus and trip. Another 2 seconds lost.

Will I cross in time? Or will I get a free ride on the hood of a TTC bus? Worse still, will I be 1/27th of the way through the intersection and have to pull back, looking silly and awkward (and lousy at math).

Don't we get enough information in this world?

I watched the surgery channel the other day. A doctor was delicately routing his way through a man's brain who had a stroke.

What I didn't see was a little clock counting each and every second he had left to dig around in the brain before he caused another stroke, or erased the man's personality, or before the brain caught a cold.

Imagine if everything we did was counted by the second. You now have 15 seconds before you get diarrhea from eating at Red Lobster. 14-13-12.…I guess that's good to know, but not in the car. Maybe you could have held it a little longer, but the clock says no.

You are having sex. You now have 12 seconds before you lose your erection. Of course, once a man is told that pressure-filled information, the erection deflates immediately, looking much like the Hindenburg's ill-fated trip. No need to continue the count down, thank you.

See what I mean?

Then it occurred to me. Perhaps a pedometer would help. Maybe I could pair it via bluetooth with the lights and it would tell me the size and number of steps needed to safely cross.

I could pick an intersection and cross continuously until I got the numbers right. Would that look silly?

Writing this post has erased 3 minutes from my lifetime. See what I give up to entertain the world?

Helloooo Newman: It's the Most Saddiest Time of the Year

Helloooo Newman: It's the Most Saddiest Time of the Year: Come Fall, this is Newman's song. He howls it every day – to the tune of It's the Hap-Happiest Time of the Year. There is no tradi...

It's the Most Saddiest Time of the Year

Come Fall, this is Newman's song. He howls it every day – to the tune of It's the Hap-Happiest Time of the Year.

There is no traditional carolling for Newman as we approach the festive season. Taking its place is SAD, as in Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Dogs call this the Seasonal "I'm gonna crap on the shaggiest carpet I can find, I will eat rotten eggs and slow-release dog farts throughout the house, I will provide a safe and warm home to thousands of wayward ticks and fleas until you meet my one and only demand" Disorder.

And that demand is – take me back to that huge expanse where I can do anything I want.

We call it the cottage.

He calls it his happy green acres. For reasons he will never understand, access to his happy place is cutoff from October to April.

What's really amusing is the excuses he comes up with to try and get me to take him there.

Oh Paul, he asks, have you seen my monkey chew toy? You know, the one that I slowly eat over months and months, causing you to occasionally have to remove long threads from my anus as a result – and usually while I poop on Davisville Avenue as hundreds of cars stuck in traffic watch you tug away.

Oh Newman, no I haven't. Perhaps it's under the pile of dirty underwear you collect.

No, checked there. I think I left it at the cottage. Could we just nip up for a weekend and fetch it?

Well, Newman, math has never been your strong suit. Monkey toy equals $2. Gas to cottage equals $40. 40-2 equals NO.

What about the dog food we left up there? It's gonna go stale.

And you're still gonna eat it.

I left my favourite book up there.

I memorized it: See Spot Run – away from my hand!

I left my pacemaker up there?

Thousands of dollars in vet bills says your heart is as good as it's gonna get.

I'll eat your shoes.

If the shoe fits – in your colon – have fun with that.

Helloooo Newman: I don't know, but if you hum a few bars…

Helloooo Newman: I don't know, but if you hum a few bars…: Sometimes I feel I should do as the hummingbird does. Every 6 months or so the thumb-sized bird migrates to southern climes to survive. ...

I don't know, but if you hum a few bars…

Sometimes I feel I should do as the hummingbird does.

Every 6 months or so the thumb-sized bird migrates to southern climes to survive.

Likewise, every 6 months or so I feel the urge to migrate to the crowded climes of downtown Toronto – in search of a real job.

The comparison with the hummingbird is apt. Whenever I'm downtown I feel like a puny extra in an old Japanese movie, flitting around, screaming out-of-sync as the Godzilla-like buildings disappear me.

It's not just my voice that's out of sync. I think I'm out of sync with reality.

As I walked among the suits and subway grates a few weeks ago, it came upon me that maybe I wouldn't fit in. One clue: I was bouncing along King Street whistling the tune Chic-Chic-Chicken from the nursery school where I play piano every day.

Would the CEO of Royal Bank know that song? I guess his version would be Chicken Cordon Blue.

The real version is this:
Chic, Chic, Chic, Chic, Chicken
Lay a little egg for me.

Now, after playing that song until my ears bleed, I need to change it up a bit to survive.

Now I sing:
Swiss Chalet Chicken
Lay a double leg for me

That's pretty harmless for the children. With another song I might have gone a bit too far.

The Apple Tree Song. It goes like this:

Way up high in the apple tree
Two little apples smiled at me
I shook that tree as hard as I could
And down came the apples
Mmm were they good

Can you imagine giving a child an apple directly from the tree, with its invisible skin of insecticide? I wonder how many honey bees had to die to keep that apple shiny and red. Were they stealing the apples from an orchard? Did they put a hard working farmer out of business?

I prefer my version:

Way up high in the apple tree
I slung a rope to hang me
I tightened that noose as hard as I could
And down came my body
Mmm, it felt good

The kids loved it. The child care inspector needed some convincing.

I am not allowed in the Royal Bank tower anymore.

Helloooo Newman: Introducing Miss Cellaneous

Helloooo Newman: Introducing Miss Cellaneous: I was going to be an artist…but there were too many drawbacks.

Introducing Miss Cellaneous

I was going to be an artist…but there were too many drawbacks.

Helloooo Newman: Sleeping with the entrails of a dead walrus

Helloooo Newman: Sleeping with the entrails of a dead walrus: They say that smell is the oldest and most powerful of the human senses. That's really unfortunate when you own a dog. Especially a do...

Sleeping with the entrails of a dead walrus

They say that smell is the oldest and most powerful of the human senses.

That's really unfortunate when you own a dog. Especially a dog that sleeps on your bed. Especially a dog that likes to sleep on you, on your bed.

The smell on Newman built up over weeks. I guess it was like storm clouds off in the distance. Fun to watch. Oh they creep along so slowly. I have nothing to worry about. Today is a perfect day to golf.

Suddenly the clouds are above you, the lightning hits and you're a piece of Denny's breakfast toast.

So went Newman, who is the storm, the smell is the lightning and my olfactory (the toast) lays everyone off and shuts down for good. (Danger: mixed metaphor)

I've never smelled the entrails of a dead walrus. But somehow I sensed Newman smelled like that. Plus I had to find an interesting comparison, since I'm a successful, high-priced writer.

I've smelled some bad things. Things that certainly qualify as entrails. One summer, right near our cottage, a dead moose carcass rotted away over several hot months in the summer. It was so much fun watching Satan play around in the evil aroma.

I once visited the Harvey's bathroom on Jarvis Street. I was waiting for a hooker. No, wait a minute. For a burger. I couldn't approach the hookers, on account of their spending lots of time in the bathroom, and thus becoming a walking Harvey's bathroom with high heels and thongs.

I don't think Harvey's calls it a "bath" room. Vomit shit hole room I believe the sign said.

Newman loves to roll around on the ground. Yippee yee, what a fun dog. Isn't that cute?

I'm sure he's aware that's deer shit and he will wash and exfoliate soon enough.

Newman doesn't come with the washing app. Newman is not the new iDog.

Helloooo Newman: You have no business evolving

Helloooo Newman: You have no business evolving: The inconvenient thing about dogs, and I believe I've covered this is an earlier blog, is that they poop. Even throughout the winter. ...

You have no business evolving

The inconvenient thing about dogs, and I believe I've covered this in an earlier blog, is that they poop.

Even throughout the winter. I've tried to get Newman to hold off on pooping from about January 15 until April 10th. I tried to stop feeding him but then he just eats shoes.

The problem with Newman pooping (in our backyard) throughout the winter is that the poop freezes in successive layers until it's time for me to clean up all that crap using 5 or 6 wheelbarrows in April.

Why don't I pick the poop up throughout the winter so it doesn't build up, you ask? So you're suggesting I pick up poop, freeze my ass off, get covered in ice AND have large trees fall on me? Balls!

I'd rather get my haircut by ISIS. Just a little off the top, please. No, that's not a yarmulke, it's a cloth hairpiece.

Anywho, when I start the cleanup in April, my backyard very much resembles an archaeological site.

I get out the hammer and chisel and very carefully chip out a piece of poop that froze low in the ice, meaning it froze sometime between Dec 15-28, early in the freezing cycle.

I put a little flag in the ice, marking this important find.

One time, and this scared me immensely, I found a piece of poop in the distinct shape an arrow head.

Quite disturbing. Is Newman evolving? Is he hunting wild animals in the backyard and feeding himself?

It's only a matter of time before he reaches the bronze age. Before you know it, I'll be the one sitting and shaking a paw, drinking from the toilet.

I'm the master of the house, not Newman.

I know Newman has a lot of my genes in him because he's so damn cute.

But this is ridiculous.

Stay tuned to find out who the real master is.

Helloooo Newman: You're that guy from…

Helloooo Newman: You're that guy from…: Newman, and the blog that we started together, has changed my life. I can't count the number of people who stop me on the street and s...

You're that guy from…

Newman, and the blog that we started together, has changed my life.

I can't count the number of people who stop me on the street and croon, "Hey Newman, love your blog."

I don't have the heart to tell them my name isn't Newman.

Wonderful people yelling out of car windows, down from the concrete shells of burgeoning condos rising up to the diminishing ozone layer, the doorman at Holt's.

Sometimes they approach me in crowds of one or two. It's all, like, a dream.

I was at a Belly Buster submarine shop last week and they gave me the best seat in the house, even though it was extremely crowded. It coincided very nicely with the fact that I had to pee during my fine meal.

I get a lot of fan email too, although much of it asks me if I want to achieve a better sex life through a larger penis. Not sure what that has to do with my blog, but at least they enjoy the stories.

Many of these people, who have wonderful taste in reading, ask me, "Newman, how do you come up with your hilarious ideas?"

I tell them the truth. I don't come up with the ideas, Jesus does. I'd like to think they come directly from God herself, but I don't get enough hits for her to even be bothered. She sends her underling – directly into my brain.

The idea starts rather like a tumor. I get headaches, my nose starts to bleed. I clean the blood off the keyboard.

As the great idea grows it crowds out the rest of my brain and I lose all motor control, except the ability to type. I relent. The idea is in charge now. Soon there will be extremely funny, gripping articles.

The secret is ignoring these symptoms. Soon enough it metastasises into a very, very funny blog.

The idea takes over me, much like ISIS gobbling up prime Middle Eastern real estate. Luckily, I don't lose my head over things.

I could very easily lose my head over this fame. But I'm just like you, a regular guy, only with heaps of talent.

I admit my head swells a lot when I'm writing, but that's just the tumor idea expanding in my skull. It is NOT my ego.

One time, upon seeing the initial symptoms of my burgeoning great ideas, my wife called an ambulance. I refused to go. Plus my head was so large I couldn't fit in the back.

Also, OHIP doesn't cover brain swelling due to genius.

I've achieved such notoriety that the rumour I heard yesterday is, in fact, true.

Anson Williams, of Happy Days fame, is directing an updated version of Annie Hall, starring Jessica Biel and Zac Efron.

Do you recall that scene where Woody is in line for a movie and gets into an argument with the guy behind him? Woody cleverly calls upon Marshall McLuhan for an enlightened opinion.

Well, I'll be the new "Marshall McLuhan" in the new, improved Annie Hall.

Please, when you see me on the street, don't be afraid to come up and say hi. And if my head starts to grow, please stand back. There's funny writin' to do.

Helloooo Newman: Weapons of Mass Distraction

Helloooo Newman: Weapons of Mass Distraction: I believe I'm starting to understand what life is all about. It's a series of distractions. Your life, every second of it, is a lo...

Weapons of Mass Distraction

I believe I'm starting to understand what life is all about. It's a series of distractions.

Your life, every second of it, is a long (hopefully) jumble of distractions to keep your attention off the result – death, decomposition, nonexistence.

God's real objective is two things – He gets off on creating things and destroying things. Life is just what happens in between His two favourite activities.

When God first created life, He realized, "Guess I better keep these creatures busy until I'm ready to stamp them out of existence." Thus He created distractions like Ebola, sex, t.v., Rob Ford. His weapons of mass distraction.

And then there's my weapon of mass distraction – peanut butter. (From God to peanut butter - that's reader's whiplash)

There really doesn't exist a more astounding substance.

Oh sure, there's some good competition. Silly putty. I remember longingly gazing at Farah Fawcett's smudged face as I lifted the impression from my sister's celeb mag, scurried to my bedroom and locked the door.

Dynamite is a boy's dream, especially when it was packaged in a child's favourite "toy" during the seventies – lady fingers. Tiny fire crackers you could fit in the smallest of spaces. As the inventor must have wondered, "Why is it so hard for kids to blow things up? Let me take care of that."

And blow things up I did. With my best friend I led the assault on my neighbour's rock garden, striking over 70% of the rare and beautiful flora with precision explosions. Were we the early inspiration for Al Qaeda and ISIS?

As I got a bit older, other substances become more important – spermicidal gels, alcohol. Currently my second favourite substance is the memory foam that makes up my mattress.

But alas, peanut butter still holds first place. It staves off hunger far more effectively than beer ever will.

(What does this have to do with Newman?)

Well, Newman adores peanut butter too. Far more than Poodletang. So much so that I use it as a weapon of distraction against him, without him even realizing it. What a dummy.

On days when Newman wakes up and stalks me until I throw a ball for him, as in every day since we've had him, I have to find ways to avoid him. Previously I would lock myself in the dryer and turn it on. Newman is afraid of the dryer.

(You need a new strategy, buddy)

Peanut butter is the new strategy.

I generously apply peanut butter to his little rubber bone toy. He goes ape shit over it! Spends a good part of the morning tonguing it to death.

The toy is so full of minuscule nooks and crannies I'm certain there is peanut butter from 9 months ago drying into something resembling concrete.

I still don't understand how Newman can down a litre of peanut butter and still bark coherently. When I eat peanut butter by itself, I might as well have inserted a no-pest fly strip in my mouth. Things get very sticky.

If I just finish a dollop of peanut butter and then the phone rings, I answer it sounding like I have a life-threatening cold and went overboard on the dextromethorphan. Sir, you need to go right to the hospital if someone cut your tongue out, exclaims the person on the other end. (That's sick)

To my rescue is jam, which serves as a kind of WD40 for my mouth.

Anyway, peanut butter keeps Newman distracted, which keeps me happy and looking for distractions myself. The internet now replaces my silly putty.

Helloooo Newman: Chew or Chase

Helloooo Newman: Chew or Chase: I've learned with Newman that you have to categorize his toys. To him they're all alike and they all serve the same purpose. Just li...

Chew or Chase

I've learned with Newman that you have to categorize his toys. To him they're all alike and they all serve the same purpose. Just like when I'm drunk – any beer will do, they all taste the same by then, they all serve the greater good of keeping me in good humour.

Two important categories for Newman's toys are chew toys and chase toys. The names are pretty much self-explanatory.

I found out the hard and embarrassing way that a chase toy should not become a chew toy.

Newman loves tennis balls. This is not unique among the canine population. This summer I tortured him by chaining him to the front of the t.v. to watch Wimbledon tennis and laughed at his several million failed attempts at getting the ball.

There is great danger in letting the tennis ball, clearly a chase toy, become a chew toy.

Let me explain. I was walking with Newman along our busy street when he began to assume the position known as Hold Up, I Gotta Crap.

I waited patiently with the retrieval bag around my hand.

Hmmm. It was taking longer than usual. Still waiting. Alright, now I gotta check things out.

I glanced at the magical poop hole and there it was. A little piece of brown dangling from the "area".

It kinda looked like Newman was giving birth to a brown sea monkey who was still attached to its umbilical cord.

From a different angle it looked like a fortune cookie – you will meet a Great Dane who loves walks in the park.

I surmised that Newman had been chewing the tennis ball for weeks and the fur built up in his bowels. Several pieces of fur got together and acted as an umbilical cord for this poor sea monkey, holding it just outside Newman's body and not letting go.

A baby sea monkey, hanging by a thread. My dignity, hanging be a thread.

I am tough. I did what I had to do. I reached over and tugged at the sea monkey, feeling like a brilliant doctor delivering a joyful mother her baby.

The umbilical cord did what umbilical cords do, I guess. It stretched and stretched…and then snapped.

I felt proud. I hope the driver who was beside me on the street stuck in traffic felt the same way. He had a front row seat to the show.

Newman is doing well after the procedure. Can't say the same thing for the sea monkey.

Helloooo Newman: Stop Bed Bugging Me

Helloooo Newman: Stop Bed Bugging Me: In my world the most valuable real estate I own is… My mattress. Sure, a condo overlooking Central Park would be delightful. A beach hou...

Stop Bed Bugging Me

In my world the most valuable real estate I own is…

My mattress.

Sure, a condo overlooking Central Park would be delightful. A beach house in Hawaii would be delicious.

After all, House Hunters International is one of my favourite programs, even though I always pick the house no one wants.

But in the end, wherever I lay my ass, that's my home.

Over the last few weeks I've fought a nightly battle for mattress space with Newman.

It wasn't suppose to be this way. I fully expected to vie for millimetres of cozy mattress comfort with my wife. I have a solid military plan to combat this. I can't go into details, for security reasons, but it involves special forces: pizza, wings, chili dogs, beer, and what my body does with those foods.

Newman is an entirely different enemy. This IS asymmetrical warfare at its most challenging.

Newman begins his bedtime with my daughter, pretty much because my daughter forces him there. My daughter can be quite commanding when she needs to be. I still think she has a bright future water-boarding ISIS members.

Newman keeps a watchful eye on my daughter, snaps a paw in front of her eyes to ensure she's asleep, and darts over to my bed. Onto the mattress he melts. Usually I am on my side with my knees bent, as if sitting in a chair, and Newman moulds his bendy little body into the space around my legs.

At first it's a graceful kind of sleeping "dance". Like Astaire and Rogers taking a nap. Give it two hours and it turns to Jekyll and Hyde. Or perhaps like a half-played Jenga game – one brick away from the 9/11 of entertainment.

Newman lays his 35 pound carcass onto my legs. Is this how Jimmy Hoffa went? Weighted down into the ocean, never to be seen again. I cling to the hope that Jimmy is still alive, changed his last name to Dean and sells faux sausages in supermarkets across North America.

I try to lift my legs against this hideous weight. My stomach muscles say no! After several hours of sleeping perpendicular to the mattress, well, it hurts.

Then I try a classic war strategy – the pincer move. I squeeeeze with both legs. Newman farts and gets even more comfortable.

Newman is the Trojan dog. Cute on the outside, a monstrous consumer of real estate on the inside.

It becomes an episode of Greatest Tank Battles.

Morning arrives. Newman – "Yo, Paul. Buddy. You look tired." Not a hint of irony in these words.

Cue caffeine drip.

Night comes again. I'm in Groundhog Day, or rather, Night. Everything repeats. Grounddog Night if you like.

Next morning. Cue Sonny and Cher.

Helloooo Newman: How to Raise the Perfect Wife

Helloooo Newman: How to Raise the Perfect Wife: I heard the Dog Whisperer is into a new line of work - how to raise your wife properly. Okay, he's not. But he should be. I see from...

How to Raise the Perfect Wife

I heard the Dog Whisperer is into a new line of work - how to raise your wife properly.

Okay, he's not. But he should be.

I get from reading his book How to Raise the Perfect Dog all kinds of excellent marriage advice.

In Chapter 4, called "Puppy Comes Home", General Cesar deals with the all-important issue of preventing separation anxiety.

The human equivalent Chapter Title would be "When My Marriage Begins." The advice is worth a gander, ladies.

Cesar discusses a dog named Angel, who had the hardest time when her owner would stay out late, leaving Angel to her own devices. Those devices included whining out of every window in the house, barking at pictures of her owner, scratching the screen and occasionally loading the family Uzi and intently studying "Uzi Does It" courses on Youtube.

The owner made the typical human mistake when he got home – he went to Angel and started to coo, and woowoo, and dopey doh, and "it's okay, good girl."

Bad human. By reacting kindly, the owner is just reinforcing Angel's use of the Uzi. I don't mind if my 9-year-old daughter uses an Uzi, but my dog? Never!

General Cesar says you must be calm and assertive, communicating to the dog, "I don't agree with your behaviour. I want you to relax."

I employ this sage advice in my marriage.

It's 3 a.m., there's a pile of vomit in the backyard and I am just about to enter the bedroom. My wife is upset, was probably screaming from every window but, on the bright side, does not hold an Uzi.

Now, you tell me. Am I suppose to reward this behaviour with an apology? "It's okay honey woney, I'm home now, I'm sorry, good girl."

I think not. So I be calm, assertive and drunk. Very quickly, of course, because I soon fall asleep.

"I don't agree with your behaviour, honey. I want you to relax." Zzzzzzzzzzzz…

Angel, and my wife, don't understand that this treatment is ultimately good for them.

That's okay. I am very patient with my wife.

Helloooo Newman: What Colour is Newman's Parachute?

Helloooo Newman: What Colour is Newman's Parachute?: Newman woke up this morning and told me in broken English that he no longer desires to be the family pet. He's tired of placating us, ...

Helloooo Newman: What Colour is Newman's Parachute?

Helloooo Newman: What Colour is Newman's Parachute?: Newman woke up this morning and told me in broken English that he no longer desires to be the family pet. He's tired of placating us, ...

What Colour is Newman's Parachute?

Newman told me this morning in broken English that he no longer desires to be the family pet.

He's tired of placating us, performing silly tricks and he has no privacy to bring home dog dates.

He wants to get a job. Eventually he sees himself getting a place of his own, preferably near the water because there are lots of off-leash parks there and plenty of, as he calls it, poodle-tang.

Newman is part poodle.

I said "fair enough." "I'll miss you, but I'm really proud of you."

So now I had to help Newman pick a career.

Proctologist popped into my head. This shouldn't be surprising. Newman has been sticking his nose in other people's butts since day one.

I suggested "Assman" on his dog tag. For marketing purposes.

Gynecologist is another possibility. He is well versed in the exploration of genitalia.

There are lots of benefits to Newman choosing this area. Women need only stand there while Newman performs his exam. No undignified lying on a cold metal table and inserting feet into medical stirrups.

The exam can also be performed at one's leisure at dinner parties or during Sunday brunch.

Newman went as far as to take the OB/GYN exam. That was a toughie, as I had to talk him through the entire process.

"No Newman, this is a person, she's not your bitch."

"I see that you brought your ball but you can't bury it in the hole. Not in this context, Newman."

"Yes, I realize you're the only one in the room that's fixed." "I know it's unfair, but we can't fix her. Not now, anyway."

"Newman, we went over this." "It's at these delicate times you cannot get an erection. Just think of Phyllis Diller."

"Newman, stop licking that." "I expressly told you…"

He failed the exam.

He could be a drug-sniffing dog at the airport but how boring is that? I suggested air traffic controller.

When I introduced Newman to the air traffic controller screen he kept trying to bite the little moving dots. No Newman. These are planes with people on them. Gentle, boy.

Since Newman has the pack animal instinct, he wanted to group all the planes together in a cozy bundle and land them all at once. The pilot monitoring the flight simulator test had never seen so many virtual deaths.

We both agreed that Newman was too rambunctious to be a seeing eye dog for the blind, unless people enjoy being dragged along the concrete at 10 kph.

Newman suggested being a hearing ear dog for the deaf. I was proud of him for quickly realizing the drawbacks of this as a career. When Newman hears a strange sound he barks frantically for 20 minutes, growls for 3 minutes and huffs and snorts for 30 seconds. Then back to sleep. Neither of us could figure out how this would help a deaf person.

I guess for now Newman's wisest career choice is to be my best friend.

Helloooo Newman: If the Porsche Fits…

Helloooo Newman: If the Porsche Fits…: Nuggets. That's what I call them. Little things occurring in this nutty world that keep me laughing. I found this nugget at my mecha...

If the Porsche Fits…

Nuggets. That's what I call them.

Little things occurring in this nutty world that keep me laughing.

I found this nugget at my mechanic's shop. Yes, I have a mechanic.

Rather, he has me. In debt. For a lot of money.

I was waiting patiently in my grease shop for about 3.5 hours when I thought, okay, it's time for me to rotate the hemispheres of my brain before I hurl myself in front of a street car in boredom.

This well-dressed man walks in carrying a pair of very nice shoes in his hands. Swaddling them, actually. Like a new-born.

Do these shoes require an oil change? Will he have the soles rotated?

Don't laugh. The well-dressed man proudly states that these $450 shoes are made by Porsche.

More questions pop into my rotated hemispheres. Is this why he came to an auto body shop instead of a shoemaker? How fast do they go?

Turns out there is some kind of screw or nail sticking out of the bottom of one car, um shoe, and it is affecting his back. He said at least 36 times that the shoe was hurting his back. Soon enough I wanted to hurt his back as well.

He thought maybe the mechanic had the right kind of screw or some other car-fixing device to help his shoe run more smoothly.

The mechanic took it into the shop and tried. I wonder if he had to put it on one of those car lifters so they could get a good look underneath?

The mechanic said no go and suggested the gentleman take it to a shoemaker.

This is why I chose my mechanic. He has all the honest answers. He will not take your shoes into the shop, find all kinds of things wrong with them, and then charge you glorious amounts of money to walk out.

As the man with the $450 Porsche shoes drove away, the mechanic told me that the actual car this customer was driving was 20 years old and worth about $500.

Will I go to Sandals?

I realize my last story might cause some confusion, especially with the Big Guy. I certainly don't want that.

Just because I don't step into a church and listen to some pedophile tell me how to be a good person doesn't mean I am an atheist.

Religion and God really have nothing to do with each other. If I were God and saw you getting up early Sunday morning to go to a stuffy, hot building and then brunch, I would say you are a fool. Your first mistake was getting up early on Sunday. Then you paid way too much for those eggs with the dash of parsley on them. Come on. Think! How much are eggs at home?

I suppose I am an agnostic, but only because God is too. I mean when it comes to Him believing in me. Sometimes He does, sometimes He doesn't. He's not really sure. At least it feels that way.

Will I go from playing piano at a nursery school to rock stardom or not? Please make up your mind. I'm waiting.

More and more, the question of a creator is a quantum mechanical one.

And that makes sense. He's there until you need a lottery win. Then He's not. He's a He, then He's a She. He's in the building. God has now left the building.

God will not be pinned down by anyone!

And life is one big quantum mechanical equation. When I'm gone, I'll become part of that grand minus sign.

Helloooo Newman: Stairway to Sandals

Helloooo Newman: Stairway to Sandals: I am not a person hip with organized religion. And that's a surprise, I guess. As a kid, I went to church every Sunday and I went to C...

Stairway to Sandals

I am not a person hip with organized religion.

And that's a surprise, I guess. As a kid, I went to church every Sunday and I went to Catholic school until grade three. This is prime time to inculcate people.

But even as a kid, I always had a sense that organized religion is, how would you say…bullshit.

This does not, of course, impact in any way on the possibility of a Creator. How the Creator can stomach Catholicism is anybody's guess.

Forget about all the silly details that Catholicism covers. Just look at the huge contradictions in the "story" it tells.

God created everything and is all powerful, yet feels insecure when humans, and only humans it seems, don't bow to Him.

God certainly doesn't mind that Newman won't bow to him. Newman has peed on many church lawns. That's outright disrespect if you ask me.

He didn't just create humans that always bow to him because?…He was looking for a challenge, or was bored. Perhaps boredom is the mother of invention.

The only purpose I can see for organized religion is that it helps you to become more organized. Being organized is good. In this sense, organized religion is on a par with organized crime and organized labour.

One thing I've never understood is how the afterlife is sold. The way the afterlife is portrayed by religion, it's easily up there with the most luxurious Sandals resort. And as far as I can tell, there is no money in heaven. There are probably no lineups at the buffet as well.

Heaven is Sandals on crack.

• visits to Hell are included and among the most popular day trips, except for people from Scarborough, who've spent enough time there as it is.

• Germans and Americans do go to Heaven, but behave more like regular humans compared to when they were… human.

• that blonde in the poster really is there.

If the afterlife will be so good to us, what are we waiting for?

Now there's a question for the Big Guy.

Helloooo Newman: Newman's Nuances

Helloooo Newman: Newman's Nuances: What does it all mean? What am I doing here? Not just in the larger philosophical sense. What am I doing here in this spot when I coul...

Newman's Nuances

What does it all mean?

What am I doing here? Not just in the larger philosophical sense. What am I doing here in this spot when I could be rooting around in the garbage for rib bones?

All this reflecting on life…I get it from my owner. He doesn't realize that if you reflect too much you eventually fall in love with your reflection.

Then you have to destroy the thing you love to really understand it. I don't really understand that statement. It was scrawled on the wall of the kennel I was born in.

What will I do with my life? I was thinking of something that could really advance the human condition, since humans take care of me. Perhaps a major in gender studies, with a thesis on transgenders in the workplace.

I can totally relate to those transgenders, having your privates messed with and all.

Maybe that won't be enough. So many big problems ahead. Global warming. When will humans get their shit together? I have my shit together – in the backyard – in neat little piles.

It's a big thing if my shit doesn't freeze anymore. So much easier to eat that way. Have you tried feces for dinner during a heat wave? Not pretty.

I feel pulled in so many directions. Sitting pretty here with the wind all in my face. I should be waxing poetic. But what I really long for is to lick my groin right NOW.

Do you think Aristotle ever licked his groin?

God, I hope prime rib is on the menu again for guys weekend at the cottage.

Helloooo Newman: Decisions, Decisions

Helloooo Newman: Decisions, Decisions: When Newman gets up every morning, he has some important decisions to make. Some of those decisions require him to check his watch periodi...

Decisions, Decisions

When Newman gets up every morning, he has some important decisions to make.

Some of those decisions require him to check his watch periodically.

"Oh my, where has the time gone? Have to bug Paul about breakfast now. Think I'll go with my normal routine, grab some toilet paper from the basket and chew on it til it's a toxic blob from the pulp and paper mill. Combined with my saliva and left on the floor for a period, it makes an awesome mess when it dries. Drives him nuts."

He's right, it does. Toilet paper trailing from his ass, like he's back from a wedding or a prom.

Then it's breakfast time. As soon as I put the food down, Meryl Streep shows up and exclaims, "the dingo ate my baby".

His ravenous appetite has yet to be eclipsed by honey booboo visiting a chick-fil-a.

I knew we should have named him Dyson. The way he sucks that food up, I mean.

One thing Newman is unable to do is hold a tennis ball in his mouth and solve complex problems at the same time. When I present him with a difficult question, like "where is mommy?" or "do you think those chicken bones you just ate will tear the lining in your stomach?", he promptly drops the ball and considers his answer. He can't walk and chew gum, so to speak.

Much the same as me when my wife gets home and asks me what I did all day. I put my beer down and think very carefully.

Come play time and things get really dicey. Spattered on the driveway are Newman's toys: 7 balls and two frisbees. The balls are of different colours, some squeak, some are split in half and roll no more.

God knows how he chooses which ball to play with on any given day, but once he does he's married to it. Kind of like how I imagine a polygamist chooses a wife on any given day. Smells one, licks her, picks one and discards the rest like so much refuse.

You could throw all the tennis balls Serena Williams could fit in her bra and he would ignore every one of them

Let's call him a ball-ygamist.

My enjoyment comes from throwing the frisbee. Any residual anger I have from the previous day, or from my life in general, is worked off laughing while I watch Newman try to pick up the frisbee, a flat object completely flush with the driveway. Drives him nuts.

I might as well paint a frisbee on the driveway and reward him for picking it up.

"Looks so, like, real, doesn't it dude?"

One couldn't have more fun water boarding Rob Ford to have him explain how he'll stop the gravy train, but start the new subway trains.

Can you imagine how much water it would take to create the sensation of drowning in this guy? His belly is one huge reservoir, waiting to be filled. Maybe we should send him to California, where two things are always burning: brush fires and venereal disease.

I saw the man's belly in person a couple of weeks ago. The Ice Capades could tour in that belly for the next decade.

A friend of mine actually saw him in a bathing suit. At first he thought, is this guy about to bear children? Then he realized those stretch marks matched up with the longitude/latitude lines on his Google earth map.

Oh, is that mean of me? I can't decide.

Helloooo Newman: The Lady and the Ladder

Helloooo Newman: The Lady and the Ladder: So I was walking along my street one day. And there 100 yards in front of me was this big yellow ladder. The top was propped up against th...

The Lady and the Ladder

So I was walking along my street one day.

And there 100 yards in front of me was this big yellow ladder. The top was propped up against the hydro wires and the bottom was tucked comfortably into the side of a huge rock garden.

I wasn't too worried. There was plenty of room to walk under the ladder. One could have had a dinner party under the ladder, there was so much room.

The lady walking the other way was quite worried. So worried, in fact, that instead of opting for the leisurely stroll under that big yellow ladder, she put on her rock climbing boots and ventured the other way, about 10 feet up the rock garden - and almost fell.

Was she studying for her rock climbing exam? I thought, no.

Was she avoiding the horrific consequences of walking UNDER a ladder? A fair conclusion.

I suddenly felt very sorry for the human race, myself included, since I am in some ways a member of that race.

We are so fragile. So afraid. So dependent on what we think.

Think - of all the things we walk under every day: trees, bridges, clouds, umbrellas, hydro wires, planes, ceilings, birds, cars (the subway), mistletoe, your bosses' heel, pressure…

And people assign such danger to a ladder?

I find asking a lot of questions helps to fight irrational fears.

Which do you think is more dangerous? Climbing a 30 foot ladder or walking under it? I would pick the former, not the latter, in regards to the ladder, I mean.

What about the ladder factory where they make the ladders? At what point in the production process does a ladder become a "ladder" and is bestowed with the power to bring misfortune on human beings? Does it have to have all its rungs on it before it targets individuals who dare to venture underneath?

Is a ladder with only three rungs patiently planning to ruin people's lives when it becomes full-fledged?

Do the ladder builders ever have to be under the ladder when it becomes a "ladder"? Do ladder builders have increased misfortune compared to the population of non-waking-under-ladders people?

What if a ladder rung breaks? Does it still have magical powers?

I have seen people, myself included, who carry ladders over their head because it's sometimes easier to manoeuvre around. Does that constitute being "under a ladder", with the prerequisite bad luck to ensue?

What about those wooden ladders you see in kid's playgrounds? I'm sure more than one kid has run underneath these ladders. Will YOUR kid have bad luck if he/she finds themselves under ladder?

And there are symbolic ladders, like the corporate ladder. When I first starting working at a company, I didn't feel like I was at the bottom rung of the corporate ladder. I felt like I was underneath the corporate ladder. By the way I was treated. But I managed to get up a few rungs anyway.

See what I mean? It becomes absurd.

I am not ridiculing the rock climbing garden lady. We all have fears, rational and irrational.

Why do I vacuum the house? Why do I mow the lawn? Fear of my wife! Rational or irrational?

It's just kinda hard to imagine a species with so many small fears actually going out and conquering the universe. But we have to, if we believe the U.N. and the planet will soon fall apart.

Forget the ladder. Shit happens.

Helloooo Newman: I got to say cawk at work

Helloooo Newman: I got to say cawk at work: I love my job at the nursery school. Sure, I play Down by the Bay so many times that soon you'll find my bloated and decomposing body ...

I got to say cawk at work

I love my job at the nursery school.

Sure, I play Down by the Bay so many times that soon you'll find my bloated and decomposing body on the shore of that bay.

But it has some precious moments.

This week we sing Spring songs. Nothing puts Spring in your step better than songs about robins.

Teacher asks students, "what does a robin say?"

Student, naturally, answers, "caw, caw…k". Repeat two times. Wrong bird, but brilliant comedy.

Piano player tells other teachers all about it.

I got to say cawk at school today.

Helloooo Newman: Those were the nanoseconds

Helloooo Newman: Those were the nanoseconds: One of the great things I love about science is that they are discovering new and interesting things all the time. Our picture of the univer...

Those were the nanoseconds

One of the great things I love about science is that they are discovering new and interesting things all the time. Our picture of the universe is getting more complicated and interesting every day.

Unlike religion, of course. Religions never discover anything new. They aren't even looking. There will always be 72 virgins awaiting you and the temperature of Hell never changes, even factoring in global warming.

This is how things were, are, and will be forever so shut up and follow the rules.

Oh sure, they discover a pedophile priest or two, but there's nothing revolutionary or surprising about that.

A very recent discovery about the universe has me quite depressed. Scientists have found evidence of the so-called "inflationary period".

The discovery is pretty difficult to understand. All I really get about it is that scientists found gravitational waves that confirm the "inflation" theory. What is a gravitational wave? I have no idea, but I know I feel them around my waist and hips.

The inflation period is easy to understand (although impossible to conceive actually happening) and is also quite depressing.

The inflation theory states that at some time just after the big bang the universe expanded about a trillion, trillion, trillion, trillion times its tiny size in about a nanosecond.

That's right, it's kind of like having breakfast at a Denny's. Expansion occurs very quickly.

And we're talking about an extremely short period of time. Between 10-35 seconds and 10-24 seconds. That is fast, indeed. Trillionths of a second fast. There's only about one activity I can do that quickly. And even that is slowing down.

Depressing, isn't it? This means that just before 10-35 seconds, let's say 10-36 seconds, everything in the universe was cheaper. Much cheaper.

I remember those nanoseconds fondly. You could fill up your car for 0.00000000000000001 cents. And that's premium gas!

Macintosh computers were about the price of a slap in the face and they actually paid you enormous sums to "buy" a PC.

Back then the U.S. had free health care and no Republicans to argue that we can't afford health care because it's too expensive sending people to their death in the Middle East. Imagine, no John Boner (or is that Boehner?). I bet you John Lennon can imagine that.

The entire universe was one big, tiny Costco. I would have stocked up on everything if I knew prices were going way up four trillionths of a second later.

A little notice next time, please.

Ah yes, those were the nanoseconds.