HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Thursday, 24 April 2014
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
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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.
Thursday, 17 April 2014
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.
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.
Friday, 4 April 2014
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?
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.
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