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.