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.