HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Friday, 28 November 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, 23 November 2014
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...
Friday, 21 November 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, 18 November 2014
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...
Thursday, 13 November 2014
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&...
Wednesday, 12 November 2014
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....
Friday, 7 November 2014
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."
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."
Thursday, 6 November 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, 4 November 2014
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.
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.
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