I knew him when…

Dear Reader.

Yes, I revere you far more than North Koreans revere their "Dear Leader", Kim Jong Un-human.

I am all wet today. Why? Everything is frozen.

Oh, I know why.

I am bathing in stardom.

My first article, my first birth, has been published. As a writer I've gone from fetus to meet us!

Here is the link: http://www.pointsincase.com/articles/is-your-chicken-tired

Thank you all for your adoring eyes.

You like me now. You really like me.

Helloooo Newman: Minding your Pees and Cues

Helloooo Newman: Minding your Pees and Cues: Entering a public washroom is always full of terror and tough decisions. 11:30 a.m. and it was time to pee. "NOW, PLEASE!", if m...

Minding My Pees and Cues

Entering a public washroom is always fraught with terror and tough decisions.

11:30 a.m. and it was time to pee. "NOW, PLEASE!", if my bladder had vocal chords, gurgled though they would be under water.

My poor bladder: aka the Titanic's hull, its various emergency compartments quickly bubbling up with sea water, sloshing over the safety walls into yet more compartments, and me frantically searching for a lifeboat.

I'M THE KING OF THE WASHROOM!

Gotta find one first. Sail around the corner at 5 kph. Thar she blows…a men's room.

Business people swam through the downtown tower, looking at me in awe, figuring I had an incredibly urgent meeting to attend with millions of dollars at stake.

Nope. Drank too much coffee.

I entered the men's room quicker than Bill Clinton said yes to the dress.

Now the real stress. So many important decisions needed to be made in a flash…as I got ready to flash the urinal.

Minding your pees and cues is of udder importance in the male public washroom.

First challenge – quick math. I counted 6 urinals. Five open, the far right one occupied.

First quick decision – I took the far left urinal, furthest away from the other occupier. That's the golden rule of the golden shower – always furthest away.

The occupier started to whistle a tune. The Titanic theme? No, no, no. Not cool. I had no idea if he's so happy peeing because he got a raise that day, enjoyed holding his dick in his hands, or wanted to dance with me on the upper deck.

Judging from his ill-fitted suit, TSX haircut and a certain cockiness in his stance, so to speak, I figured this guy for a broker. But why the whistling?

Perhaps his penis had a blue tooth connection and he's getting live stock quotes. Viagra is up 20%. Did he get a good stock tip on his, ah, tip?

I'd had enough of this man whistling dixie. Egressing the washroom quickly was now task number one.

I made a difficult decision – Three quick shakes and I pulled in. My little big man shrunk back slinky-style, rather upset to go back in his little box so soon.

On a normal day I would shake at least 10 times. One sacrifices in emergencies.

I couldn't leave without a good hand wash. I was not Poppie from Seinfeld.

The soap dispenser got romantic. As I pressed down on its extension, a barely perceptible piece of dried soap on its tip caused it to misfire and "ejaculate" milky-white goo all over my coat.

Monica Lewinsky's dress popped into my mind. I did not have sexual relations with that dispenser.

The damn tap! The hand sensor gave me three seconds of water and stopped.

The whistling pee-er was approaching.

I bent down towards the floor and then popped back up, hoping to convince the tap that I was, indeed, a new person. Please sir, can I have some more water? The tap Nazi did not deliver.

The towel dispenser did not respond to my frantically waving hand. The towels and the tap were working together.

I scurried out of the washroom, trying not to look like I just left a Roman bath.

The whole logic of the modern day public washroom is deeply disturbing to me. Very, VERY few people in this world have seen my penis, and yet there I was displaying it, in the open, not directly to, but beside a complete stranger.

The ability of the modern day public washroom to turn Roman bath is profoundly easy. One simple 45 degree turn and presto, say hello to my Augustus Flacidus.

From now on it's only private peeing for me.

Helloooo Newman: A Real Paul Buster

Helloooo Newman: A Real Paul Buster: Do you know the hardest thing about being a famous writer? Is it the demands of my editors? Hey Paul, only a small group of people were of...

A Real Paul Buster

Do you know the hardest thing about being a famous writer?

Is it the demands of my editors? Hey Paul, only a small group of people were offended by your last article. What's the story? Keep this up and you'll be writing for the phone book.

Nope.

Is it the fans camping outside my house trying to get a glimpse of me in the actual writing process? Women offering themselves and mistaking me for Jamie Dornan, the male lead in 50 Shades of Grey?

Sadly, no.

It's me. I'm the hardest on myself.

Truth be told, I'm a real Paul buster.

Demanding, exacting, fastidious, obdurate, intrepid, on the liminel of historical greatness.

I told you my vocab is growing. That last big word, "liminel", isn't even in the pathetic spellcheck my blog service offers.

I think I'm outgrowing this internet thing. I'm too big, too smart. Too perfidious.

I'm the Paul buster.

Helloooo Newman: Ebolarama

Helloooo Newman: Ebolarama: For the last sleepless 48 hours, since I found out one of my articles will be published, I've been braining heavily on my fame – how it ...

Ebolarama

For the last sleepless 48 hours, since I found out one of my articles will be published, I've been braining heavily on my fame – how it will explode and how it will change me.

Taking into account my awesome talents, offset by my egotistical mindset and complete detachment from creative reality (necessary qualities to be famous), I believe my fame will spread in a way that mimes the spread of Ebola and the Bowlerama phenomenon.

Ebolarama. This is the working title of my memoires.

Ebola is a virus. Viruses are spread via the internet. My fame will spread this way too.

Ebola is only caught through contact with the bodily fluids, blood or organs of an infected person. My articles will infect people the same way. Readers will be "touched" by my heart-wrenching prose. They will laugh, cry, wipe their eyes and thus catch and spread my fame. It will be painful. Some will not survive.

You will be infected by my fame only if you come into direct contact with my writing. Hearing about it second hand? – and you definitely will! You are safe. Until you are overcome with the urge to log onto the blog.

Ebola snuck up on the world and spread long before health professionals could get control of it. My fame will circle the globe in similar fashion.

Soon – very soon – people will gather around in large groups, much like they do at Bowlerama, read my articles, get hammered, and discuss the finer points of my deep messaging.

Their minds will roll into the gutter. They will realize the futility of life, much like the futility of knocking over pins with a boulder, only to have them pop up again and again. Thanks to my writing.

As the Bowlerama ads say, you don't really have to know how to bowl to have fun. Likewise, you don't have to know how to read to enjoy my articles. No skill is involved. That's the best part of my blog – you don't really have to know how to read.

Can we really call bowling a sport? I think not. Can we call enjoying my articles reading? Not likely.

And yes, you'll look and feel damn silly.

All the while my fame will spread across the world, and maybe my DNA as well.

I will have no time for FAMILY. I will have my FAME–ILY.

Has all this gone to my head? Unlikely. It usually takes much longer for things to make it to my head.

I. Am. A. Published. Author.

Helloooo Newman: Eating More Slow Food

Helloooo Newman: Eating More Slow Food: As I rapidly age, quickly heading towards THE END , I find that three things in my life are slowing down. My Body. My mind. And my food. ...

Eating More Slow Food

As I rapidly age, quickly heading towards THE END, I find that three things in my life are slowing down.

My Body. My mind. And my food.

Yes, my food is slowing down.

Fast food is a vanishing item on my daily menu.

This is a step forward because slower food is better for my body and mind, in theory anyway.

I have yet to see the benefits of food moving at a reduced speed, but I continue to believe all the studies out there saying I'll feel and look better.

Right now I'm just completely depressed!

Up until about today I have suffered from what scientists term EFG syndrome. Eating Fat and Grease.

Here are the ABCs of EFG.

Do you think my level of EFG affects my EKG? In today's parlance, IDK.

There is no vaccine against this so stop calling me Jenny McCarthy.

When I tell people I like burgers or steak or ribs or fried chicken, that's really kind of a lie. These foods are merely vehicles for carrying to my body what I really crave – EFG.

My craving for EFG starts around the time I open my eyes from a nice sleep. It only lasts for about 24 hours a day.

Some "experts" out there say that man wasn't meant to eat meat, or fat, or grains, or do anything that people actually enjoy doing.

It's hard to imagine that 4 million years ago, as man ventured out of Africa, battling climate change, mile-high sheets of ice, deadly animals and disease, that he would survive on a diet of tofu and kale salad.

I'm convinced if they search hard enough, archeologists will find the early remnants of the first bacon cheeseburger among the arrowheads and cave drawings.

It might be hard to spot at first – a small pile of sesame seeds from the bun, or a bit of the wrapper it came in. No doubt the skeleton found beside the bacon cheeseburger will have a big, toothy smile on its face. And you're telling me man wasn't meant to eat this crap? Booha!

Even today, we put a positive spin on fat. We all want a fat cheque, a fat chance in life, and we're all waiting for the fat lady to sing. Who's waiting for the skinny singer? Did Celine Dion just pop into your mind?

For the longest time the most popular Broadway show was – Grease! See my point?

I don't know why people are so concerned about being big. Have you read lately about how large the universe is? In human terms the universe is grotesquely obese. And it's getting larger by the second. What the hell is it eating, anyway? Dark matter? Sounds like the pudding at Denny's.

On the other hand, your body is a tiny speck on a speck that sits on the speck of a speck.

Go ahead and eat more. There's room!

The other day I was looking at gorgeous pictures of our galaxy, the Milky Way. Viewed from the side it looks an awful lot like a bacon cheeseburger. Mind you, the bun is too small for the patty. Bun to meat ratio is quite important. Still, there's a message there somewhere.

Think about it. Our galaxy is named after a chocolate bar. I guess the Kale Way was voted down.

Let's be careful. I'm not saying all fast food is the same. There's crap, and there's crap crap. Try eating at a Red Lobster.

There's only two things that always smell the same, no matter what they contain. Garbage and anything from Red Lobster.

While I was eating my steak and lobster, they gave me a lobster-shaped bib. After the meal I was thinking, why not a lobster-shaped diaper for the diarrhea later on.

I got to pick my own lobster. Can I pick the stomach ailment I'll get as well? Can I pick the bill I pay?

Everyone who eats there looks like that first creature that crawled out of the ocean. Something not quite meant to be on land yet.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the skinny on fat

The Regifted List

Last week I visited my very old high school, which is now a brand new high school, and found out one of my closest friends received a university scholarship after grade 13.

His name is on a plaque. The plaque came alive, reached out and burned into my forehead the words "Hey Paul, look what I got, you loser."

I wanted to burn the school down. It's really hard to set brick on fire, let alone get the high temperature needed to melt a plaque.

I suppose my friend is gifted, like so many other people walking around these days.

I can't stand gifted people. Okay, I don't really mind them. It's more like trying to mix O.J. and milk. Bleueeckkk.

You see, I'm on a rarely-talked about list.

I was born re-gifted.

Yup – I'm like that bottle of wine that no one wants. Hey, here's some wine from the Gobi Desert. Just add water and shake.

It's passed 'round and 'round until finally someone needs to clean their silver with something very acidic.

You can always tell the regifted wine bottles. They're either still in that thin, tall bag or people separate them out from the fine wine.

Same happened to me. If you look at the family photos you'll notice I'm always on the side, a bit away from everyone else.

That's Paul. He's over there because we'll probably regift him soon.

Too bad it's against the law to pass on re-gifted children like they're a wine bottle.

Hey Frank, I brought a little kid with me in case Janice can't get pregnant. Go ahead, keep him. You can always unload him later.

If I were a math symbol I would be the less than symbol (<). Gifted people are, of course the greater than symbol (>). Beats being zero, which means you're dead.

Other symbols that describe me: square root. Whatever you expect of me, take the square root and that's what you'll get.

I walked by an ex-toggery and all the employees came out and cooed – oh, there goes a re-gifted person. They know re-gifts when they see them. Let's put him on the rack, maybe someone will take him.

They don't even offer me gift receipts at the store. Ha ha ha, look at the poor regifted person. Probably buying that for himself.

Maybe calling myself regifted is a little too ambitious. I'm more like a loot bag from a snotty-nosed kid's party.

One thing I never do is buy gifted people Christmas or birthday presents. They've been gifted enough.

Regifteds don't find girlfriends. They are regifted girlfriends. All the single girls I ever met were girls my brother turned down. I assumed those girls learned how to turn me down from my brother.

Why was I born regifted? Most likely because my mom smoked and drank way more during my gestation than for the others. I was the last child of five, and not really wanted or expected. I was a regift from God. Yes, even the Man with everything regifts once in a while.

Know your gestation in life – that's what my mom always said.

I researched some of the qualities of gifted adults and I seem to fit right in.

Some of the qualities are:

Do you have a good long term memory?
Yes, there are several kids from grade school I still want to beat up

Do you have a vivid imagination?
I was single through my 20s and 30 so yes, I developed a very good imagination. In HD, in colour, no commercials, can pause it at any time. It's called Sexflix.

Can you concentrate for long periods of time?
Sometimes at a bar I have to spend a lot of time choosing a beer. That requires focus.

Are you very curious?
Yes. Why do celebrity women want their lips to look like inner tubes from a large truck? Marie Osmond's face looks like an upside down Hummer.

Thankfully, RE-gifted people look very forward to RE-incarnation!