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.