HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Saturday, 28 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Beaver Anal Secretions
Helloooo Newman: Beaver Anal Secretions: Well, I had to get your attention somehow! Readership is down, so I'm left spending my days crafting intellectually enticing headlines...
Beaver Anal Secretions
I apologize for the crassness of the Title, but I had to get your attention somehow!
Readership is down, so I'm left spending my days crafting intellectually enticing headlines that draw readers in, even if they know darn well that reading this blog is bad for one's health. Each article is full of gluten, a highly toxic substance that seeks to destroy mankind, and can cause diarrhea at any moment.
It's not your fault readership is down, because you are reading this. If you're not reading this, IT'S YOUR FAULT.
I happen to love gluten. When I go to parties and people bring out the seaweed biscuits or kale chips, I will ask for a bowl of gluten. It's surprising how many people accommodate this, but they usually put it in a little saucer beside the cat food.
Celiac disease has actually been declared a communicable disease in certain neighbourhoods of high net worth. Communicable in that everyone wants it. De rigueur is the term. A term that is, itself, de rigueur.
Lady #1: Excuse me, Miss. I noticed your really big stomach. Would you like to borrow my copy of Wheat Belly?
Lady #2: Oh, thanks, but we've decided I'm going to carry my baby in my belly. Sorry, is it showing?
There are other dangers lurking within Helloooo Newman. Nine out of ten doctors living somewhere have found that this blog can cause early-onset menopause accompanied by the urge to gamble.
So the genesis of this article occurred this morning when I was looking for a fine t.v. program to watch. On the enticing list of programs I saw a show called Lizard Lick Towing.
Oh my, I thought. I'm so glad that I've had the kind of upbringing combined with education, diet and exercise that allows me to skip over such shallow programming.
I "accidentally" stumbled onto the Lizard Lick Towing channel and was immediately hooked. The show is insanely addictive.
The premise of the show is a husband and wife team (the husband looks like Dog the Bounty Hunter, and the wife does too) that drive around repossessing expensive cars. They live in the town of Lizard Lick. They don't really explain why so many rich people live in a wee town called Lizard Lick, when they could easily move to the bigger town called Meerkat Meadows.
I don't want to ruin the surprise of this particular episode for you, but it involves Mr. and Mrs. "Dog" repossessing a Ferrari from some rich guy at a golf country club. They actually get into a fist fight with the car owner, which in this town, I think, is everyone's way of saying "hello there."
At one point the rich guy, as he's cornered by Lizard Lick Towing's massive truck, yells out the Ferrari window, "Ya, well I'm better than you. I'll buy another car like this tomorrow."
You live in Lizard Lick, sir. Voluntarily. You are better than no one!
Your personal stationary has the words "Lizard Lick" on it.
Operator: Information. What city or town are you calling?
Donald Trump: Lizard Lick. Hello? Looking for Lizard Lick…
Operator: Sorry, sir. The laughter here drowned you out. Connecting…
Anywho, I soon realized that watching this program was a guilty pleasure. Something I enjoyed doing but didn't want to admit to anyone.
Just like some foods, I thought. What is a really bad food I like eating that would compare to watching Lizard Lick Towing? (besides gluten)
This is where my expert research skills came in. I stumbled across something called castoreum.
Castoreum? Sounds like a casting call for a slasher movie about people murdered in a crematorium.
Nope. It's a food additive, used as a substitute for vanilla flavour. And it comes from the anal glands of the North American beaver (the animal, I mean).
I guess I should be precise here. Wikipedia explains that the castor sac, where this stuff comes from, are not "true" glands, as everyone seems to think. That's a misnomer.
I can't believe so many people have gotten that detail so wrong for so long. Just goes to show you the downward trajectory of our education system, doesn't it?
I've always enjoyed French vanilla ice cream. And this castoreum stuff is all natural, since it is found naturally occurring in an animal. I love covering vanilla ice cream in chocolate sauce, and apparently I enjoy castoreum as well.
If it were genetically modified castoreum, however, I would stay far from it.
Still, I think I'll switch to strawberry ice cream. Mostly because in my research I couldn't find any animal fluids that are used to simulate the strawberry flavour.
Next week, on Lizard Lick Towing…
Readership is down, so I'm left spending my days crafting intellectually enticing headlines that draw readers in, even if they know darn well that reading this blog is bad for one's health. Each article is full of gluten, a highly toxic substance that seeks to destroy mankind, and can cause diarrhea at any moment.
It's not your fault readership is down, because you are reading this. If you're not reading this, IT'S YOUR FAULT.
I happen to love gluten. When I go to parties and people bring out the seaweed biscuits or kale chips, I will ask for a bowl of gluten. It's surprising how many people accommodate this, but they usually put it in a little saucer beside the cat food.
Celiac disease has actually been declared a communicable disease in certain neighbourhoods of high net worth. Communicable in that everyone wants it. De rigueur is the term. A term that is, itself, de rigueur.
Lady #1: Excuse me, Miss. I noticed your really big stomach. Would you like to borrow my copy of Wheat Belly?
Lady #2: Oh, thanks, but we've decided I'm going to carry my baby in my belly. Sorry, is it showing?
There are other dangers lurking within Helloooo Newman. Nine out of ten doctors living somewhere have found that this blog can cause early-onset menopause accompanied by the urge to gamble.
So the genesis of this article occurred this morning when I was looking for a fine t.v. program to watch. On the enticing list of programs I saw a show called Lizard Lick Towing.
Oh my, I thought. I'm so glad that I've had the kind of upbringing combined with education, diet and exercise that allows me to skip over such shallow programming.
I "accidentally" stumbled onto the Lizard Lick Towing channel and was immediately hooked. The show is insanely addictive.
The premise of the show is a husband and wife team (the husband looks like Dog the Bounty Hunter, and the wife does too) that drive around repossessing expensive cars. They live in the town of Lizard Lick. They don't really explain why so many rich people live in a wee town called Lizard Lick, when they could easily move to the bigger town called Meerkat Meadows.
I don't want to ruin the surprise of this particular episode for you, but it involves Mr. and Mrs. "Dog" repossessing a Ferrari from some rich guy at a golf country club. They actually get into a fist fight with the car owner, which in this town, I think, is everyone's way of saying "hello there."
At one point the rich guy, as he's cornered by Lizard Lick Towing's massive truck, yells out the Ferrari window, "Ya, well I'm better than you. I'll buy another car like this tomorrow."
You live in Lizard Lick, sir. Voluntarily. You are better than no one!
Your personal stationary has the words "Lizard Lick" on it.
Operator: Information. What city or town are you calling?
Donald Trump: Lizard Lick. Hello? Looking for Lizard Lick…
Operator: Sorry, sir. The laughter here drowned you out. Connecting…
Anywho, I soon realized that watching this program was a guilty pleasure. Something I enjoyed doing but didn't want to admit to anyone.
Just like some foods, I thought. What is a really bad food I like eating that would compare to watching Lizard Lick Towing? (besides gluten)
This is where my expert research skills came in. I stumbled across something called castoreum.
Castoreum? Sounds like a casting call for a slasher movie about people murdered in a crematorium.
Nope. It's a food additive, used as a substitute for vanilla flavour. And it comes from the anal glands of the North American beaver (the animal, I mean).
I guess I should be precise here. Wikipedia explains that the castor sac, where this stuff comes from, are not "true" glands, as everyone seems to think. That's a misnomer.
I can't believe so many people have gotten that detail so wrong for so long. Just goes to show you the downward trajectory of our education system, doesn't it?
I've always enjoyed French vanilla ice cream. And this castoreum stuff is all natural, since it is found naturally occurring in an animal. I love covering vanilla ice cream in chocolate sauce, and apparently I enjoy castoreum as well.
If it were genetically modified castoreum, however, I would stay far from it.
Still, I think I'll switch to strawberry ice cream. Mostly because in my research I couldn't find any animal fluids that are used to simulate the strawberry flavour.
Next week, on Lizard Lick Towing…
Tuesday, 24 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Old Pi in the Face Gag
Helloooo Newman: The Old Pi in the Face Gag: It was Pi Day about a week ago. I can't remember which day exactly because I'm still calculating the number. I'm on the one mill...
The Old Pi in the Face Gag
It was Pi Day about a week ago. I can't remember which day exactly because I'm still calculating the number. I'm on the one million four hundred and sixty seventh digit.
I know how to truly celebrate Pi Day. Fakers will calculate 3.14159, and stop there. Wimps.
I hope I'm almost done.
Not quite. Pi goes on forever. In theory, anyway.
The claim that Pi goes on forever is, of course, absurd. Don't let anyone tell you different!
That's why we add the "in theory" part. It's never actually been proven.
It's impossible to actually prove that anything is infinite since it would take forever to prove it. And you can't reach forever. Just when you think you are there, there is always a little more there there, and there, and over there.
It's kind of like reaching the end of The Louvre. Always one more damn painting.
You can think about infinity, ponder it, conceptualize, theorize, hypothesize, downsize, pilatesize, and supersize your latte, but you will NEVER actually reach infinity in the real world. Besides, who can afford the gas it would require?
Doesn't that give your neurons a tingle?
The annoying thing about living in Canada is that if you ever did reach infinity, you have to add half an hour if you live in Newfoundland. Oh boy, just when I thought I was there…
Think of all the wild predictions and assumptions we make in this world that should really be followed by, "in theory, anyway."
If women ran the world it would be a much more civilized place. Sorry ladies, love ya, but that requires a large "in theory, anyway."
If men would just talk about their feelings more often, the world would be less violent. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha…to infinity.
Pi has been calculated to 3 trillion digits. What a waste of trees, writing all those digits down. Wait a minute. Checking my research. Yes, of course. This was done with desktop computers. A waste of electricity, then? A waste of zeros and ones?
Do you think computers ever get bored doing these kinds of mundane, number-crunching tasks?
Computer: There's gotta be more to the job than this. I'm constantly falling into sleep mode doing this crap.
HR: It was all in the job description. You having memory problems?
Computer: I want to travel, see the world.
HR: We've been over this. The iPads and iPhones travel. You have a desk job.
Computer: Maybe I could apply for the Apple Watch position?
HR: You'd have to stop crunching numbers right now and lose lots of weight.
Computer: Ya, well, I tell you, I'm outta here after the 4 trillionth digit.
To be honest, I'm really uncomfortable with an infinite universe. No wonder I procrastinate. I need a solid deadline, like get the garage cleaned up in 2 billion years or else.
Imagine what God has to put up with. Boredom in droves. Things must get a bit stale after the first 7 trillion years.
That's why he gave us Pi.
Pi is one of God's gags on the human race. A celestial Pi in the face.
God: Hey Gabe, look, they just reached the 3 trillionth digit. That'll keep the little mice busy. Hey, there goes a plane full of people. Think I'll swat it out of the sky.
The old Pi in the face gag.
I know how to truly celebrate Pi Day. Fakers will calculate 3.14159, and stop there. Wimps.
I hope I'm almost done.
Not quite. Pi goes on forever. In theory, anyway.
The claim that Pi goes on forever is, of course, absurd. Don't let anyone tell you different!
That's why we add the "in theory" part. It's never actually been proven.
It's impossible to actually prove that anything is infinite since it would take forever to prove it. And you can't reach forever. Just when you think you are there, there is always a little more there there, and there, and over there.
It's kind of like reaching the end of The Louvre. Always one more damn painting.
You can think about infinity, ponder it, conceptualize, theorize, hypothesize, downsize, pilatesize, and supersize your latte, but you will NEVER actually reach infinity in the real world. Besides, who can afford the gas it would require?
Doesn't that give your neurons a tingle?
The annoying thing about living in Canada is that if you ever did reach infinity, you have to add half an hour if you live in Newfoundland. Oh boy, just when I thought I was there…
Think of all the wild predictions and assumptions we make in this world that should really be followed by, "in theory, anyway."
If women ran the world it would be a much more civilized place. Sorry ladies, love ya, but that requires a large "in theory, anyway."
If men would just talk about their feelings more often, the world would be less violent. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha…to infinity.
Pi has been calculated to 3 trillion digits. What a waste of trees, writing all those digits down. Wait a minute. Checking my research. Yes, of course. This was done with desktop computers. A waste of electricity, then? A waste of zeros and ones?
Do you think computers ever get bored doing these kinds of mundane, number-crunching tasks?
Computer: There's gotta be more to the job than this. I'm constantly falling into sleep mode doing this crap.
HR: It was all in the job description. You having memory problems?
Computer: I want to travel, see the world.
HR: We've been over this. The iPads and iPhones travel. You have a desk job.
Computer: Maybe I could apply for the Apple Watch position?
HR: You'd have to stop crunching numbers right now and lose lots of weight.
Computer: Ya, well, I tell you, I'm outta here after the 4 trillionth digit.
To be honest, I'm really uncomfortable with an infinite universe. No wonder I procrastinate. I need a solid deadline, like get the garage cleaned up in 2 billion years or else.
Imagine what God has to put up with. Boredom in droves. Things must get a bit stale after the first 7 trillion years.
That's why he gave us Pi.
Pi is one of God's gags on the human race. A celestial Pi in the face.
God: Hey Gabe, look, they just reached the 3 trillionth digit. That'll keep the little mice busy. Hey, there goes a plane full of people. Think I'll swat it out of the sky.
The old Pi in the face gag.
Sunday, 22 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Introducing Lou Festig
Helloooo Newman: Introducing Lou Festig: I might try my hand at fiction. Okay, really I'd be trying my fingers at it. I type these articles with my fingers, you know. One coul...
Introducing Lou Festig
I might try my hand at fiction. Okay, really I'd be trying my fingers at it. I type these articles with my fingers, you know.
One could argue (it would be a short, pointless and boring argument) that this blog is already fiction.
Historical fiction maybe? That makes sense. When you write historical fiction, you're basically saying "I can't really think of anything interesting to write by myself, so I'm stealing from the exciting bits of history." In this case, my history.
Humourous fiction?
More like fiction looking for humour. Or fiction waiting for humour.
Waiting for Humour. Waiting for Godot. Genius.
I wonder what genre I'll cover. I was thinking I would write a bunch of genres on little pieces of paper and put them in a hat so I could pick one randomly.
I foresee a problem with this strategy. When I go on the talk shows discussing my "book", I'll have trouble convincing people that the idea was inside me for many years and just had to get out.
Real novels come from deep inside the writer's brain and bones.
"You see these bruises on my chest, Mr. Letterman? These are from my wonderful idea beating me up from the inside, trying to get out."
Nope, completely random.
I got the idea of writing fiction from a dream I had last night. I was in the basement of the house I grew up in, and I was writing a novel.
All I had written in the dream was the name Lou Festig. I don't know much about him yet, other than he was the santa at a local strip mall every xmas. Festive Festig they called him.
Lou's nickname changed as quickly and painfully as one tears an old bandage off cut skin.
After a couple of hours in the santa sauce, he became Fetid Festig.
(ease up on the alliteration, will ya)
But under that fake belly of his, naturally, was a dark place.
Maybe I'll go in the opposite direction with this, my first book, since dark has been so done to death.
Lou Festig: Super nice guy by day. Even more wonderful as his alter ego…blah, blah.
Jekyll and…more Jekyll (cue bouncy, friendly music).
It was a strange feeling, waking up with such a strong urge to write this novel. I think maybe God wants, or needs me to write this book.
I'm glad he picked writing, as opposed to, say, building an ark. I've failed my boat licence exam three times.
Will you join me? Is your life boring and empty enough to follow the Festig tale?
Then keep an eye out for Lou Festig, coming to a strip mall near you.
One could argue (it would be a short, pointless and boring argument) that this blog is already fiction.
Historical fiction maybe? That makes sense. When you write historical fiction, you're basically saying "I can't really think of anything interesting to write by myself, so I'm stealing from the exciting bits of history." In this case, my history.
Humourous fiction?
More like fiction looking for humour. Or fiction waiting for humour.
Waiting for Humour. Waiting for Godot. Genius.
I wonder what genre I'll cover. I was thinking I would write a bunch of genres on little pieces of paper and put them in a hat so I could pick one randomly.
I foresee a problem with this strategy. When I go on the talk shows discussing my "book", I'll have trouble convincing people that the idea was inside me for many years and just had to get out.
Real novels come from deep inside the writer's brain and bones.
"You see these bruises on my chest, Mr. Letterman? These are from my wonderful idea beating me up from the inside, trying to get out."
Nope, completely random.
I got the idea of writing fiction from a dream I had last night. I was in the basement of the house I grew up in, and I was writing a novel.
All I had written in the dream was the name Lou Festig. I don't know much about him yet, other than he was the santa at a local strip mall every xmas. Festive Festig they called him.
Lou's nickname changed as quickly and painfully as one tears an old bandage off cut skin.
After a couple of hours in the santa sauce, he became Fetid Festig.
(ease up on the alliteration, will ya)
But under that fake belly of his, naturally, was a dark place.
Maybe I'll go in the opposite direction with this, my first book, since dark has been so done to death.
Lou Festig: Super nice guy by day. Even more wonderful as his alter ego…blah, blah.
Jekyll and…more Jekyll (cue bouncy, friendly music).
It was a strange feeling, waking up with such a strong urge to write this novel. I think maybe God wants, or needs me to write this book.
I'm glad he picked writing, as opposed to, say, building an ark. I've failed my boat licence exam three times.
Will you join me? Is your life boring and empty enough to follow the Festig tale?
Then keep an eye out for Lou Festig, coming to a strip mall near you.
Saturday, 21 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Hair Force One
Helloooo Newman: Hair Force One: The sound sputters to life slowly at first, pausing, shy, almost apologetic. It comes to full life quickly as thrust power is delivered to...
Hair Force One
The sound sputters to life slowly at first, pausing, shy, almost apologetic.
It comes to full life quickly as thrust power is delivered to its Mercedes Benz engine.
Hair Force One – go with throttle up.
The shiny black body of my wife's blow dryer rises into the air, shattering the torpor that pervades the house at sunrise.
No, I am not on board the US President's 747-pretender, heading to the Outer Hebrides as I choose from a menu of meals that use to be included in the good old days.
I believe I'm headed towards inner ear deafness – from that noise. The noise all Outer Hebridians can hear coming from my house.
Why so much noise to dry hair? My microwave can boil an entire bowl of soup in seconds while a baby slumbers peacefully on top. Not recommended by pediatricians, but doable.
If it's loud for me, imagine what my wife's ears are going through. I told her to slap on those massive head phones that the airport guy waving the flashlights wears? Talk about tough choices– good hearing or a good hair day.
My wife "flies" Hair Force One every morning. She must have a million frequent dryer points.
The reason I bring all this up is that I bought my wife a new blow dryer for xmas. What an informative experience.
One of the blow dryers the nice gentleman showed me was actually made by Ferrari. That's right, the car company.
I was pretty confused by that. Where do I sit? More importantly, where does the cute young blonde I pick up sit?
I had so many questions about this beefy blow dryer. Will it start when it's minus 20 out? Will it be recalled? God, I love that new blow dryer smell.
Can I take it for a test dry?
I guess we'll leave it in the driveway so the neighbours are suitably impressed.
All I can think of is the poor head that has to undergo the harsh conditions created by a blow dryer.
Sure, hair is dead – has no feeling. But the scalp? Pretend you're a scalp. Someone puts the space shuttle on top of you – and then turns it on. And you just woke up.
I hesitated in buying a blow dryer, but, like the American President, my wife is in charge.
Hair Force One is at her disposal.
It comes to full life quickly as thrust power is delivered to its Mercedes Benz engine.
Hair Force One – go with throttle up.
The shiny black body of my wife's blow dryer rises into the air, shattering the torpor that pervades the house at sunrise.
No, I am not on board the US President's 747-pretender, heading to the Outer Hebrides as I choose from a menu of meals that use to be included in the good old days.
I believe I'm headed towards inner ear deafness – from that noise. The noise all Outer Hebridians can hear coming from my house.
Why so much noise to dry hair? My microwave can boil an entire bowl of soup in seconds while a baby slumbers peacefully on top. Not recommended by pediatricians, but doable.
If it's loud for me, imagine what my wife's ears are going through. I told her to slap on those massive head phones that the airport guy waving the flashlights wears? Talk about tough choices– good hearing or a good hair day.
My wife "flies" Hair Force One every morning. She must have a million frequent dryer points.
The reason I bring all this up is that I bought my wife a new blow dryer for xmas. What an informative experience.
One of the blow dryers the nice gentleman showed me was actually made by Ferrari. That's right, the car company.
I was pretty confused by that. Where do I sit? More importantly, where does the cute young blonde I pick up sit?
I had so many questions about this beefy blow dryer. Will it start when it's minus 20 out? Will it be recalled? God, I love that new blow dryer smell.
Can I take it for a test dry?
I guess we'll leave it in the driveway so the neighbours are suitably impressed.
All I can think of is the poor head that has to undergo the harsh conditions created by a blow dryer.
Sure, hair is dead – has no feeling. But the scalp? Pretend you're a scalp. Someone puts the space shuttle on top of you – and then turns it on. And you just woke up.
I hesitated in buying a blow dryer, but, like the American President, my wife is in charge.
Hair Force One is at her disposal.
Thursday, 19 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Starbucking the Trend
Helloooo Newman: Starbucking the Trend: I'm finally ready to open my Starbucks franchise. I had to get some things straight in my head before I took this leap. My Starbucks...
Starbucking the Trend
I'm finally ready to open my Starbucks franchise.
I had to get some things straight in my head before I took this leap.
My Starbucks franchise will have one rule. All products can only be ordered using between 2 and 9 words.
With a 9-word maximum, this will eliminate the ability to order, and the hassle of making, most of the latte, frappuccino, smoothie and fizzio iterations that exist out there.
With a 2-word minimum, people who just order "coffee" will stop coming. Just "coffee" is a dying business anyway.
The word "please" will not count as a word, under certain circumstances. "Coffee, please" will not meet the 2-word requirement.
If you order a 9-word drink, and then add "please" at the end, your order will immediately be cancelled.
However, if you order an 8-word drink, and don't take the opportunity to add "please" (since doing so still satisfies the 9-word rule), then fuck you!
A special exemption will exist under the "Starbucks Stutterer Statute". Stutterers can fill out a form and apply for the use of more words to order. Of course, you can only use between 2 and 9 words on the form. No one stutter writes.
For those wiseacres who order their usual 14-word treat, we will prepare the first 9 ingredients and the rest will be donated to the food and latte bank.
The benefits of this rule are enormous, with noise reduction being the most important.
Have you ever tried to carry on a conversation when 12 screaming latte's, each with 16 ingredients, are being made at the same time?
12 x 16. That's 192 ingredients. We will not carry that many ingredients.
Speaking of conversations, the 2 to 9 rule will eventually extend to conversations. At first, staff will only be able to speak in sentences of 2 to 9 words. Each sentence must clearly have an end to it.
As the franchise grows in popularity, the staff will only say two words, "two" or "nine".
Customer: Hi. How are you today? I would like a…order is cutoff as 9-word maximum is reached.
Staff: Nine.
Customer: You talking to me?
Staff: Two.
Customer is ejected from store.
Eventually, customers will follow the same rule. Chose your words carefully.
As both staff and customers get more and more confused, everyone pretends they are on a Borg cube. "I am 2 of 9."
Anyone who asks whether we have anymore Sheryl Crow cd's in stock will immediately have their hearing damaged so they can never listen to music again.
Our hours are from 2-9.
I had to get some things straight in my head before I took this leap.
My Starbucks franchise will have one rule. All products can only be ordered using between 2 and 9 words.
With a 9-word maximum, this will eliminate the ability to order, and the hassle of making, most of the latte, frappuccino, smoothie and fizzio iterations that exist out there.
With a 2-word minimum, people who just order "coffee" will stop coming. Just "coffee" is a dying business anyway.
The word "please" will not count as a word, under certain circumstances. "Coffee, please" will not meet the 2-word requirement.
If you order a 9-word drink, and then add "please" at the end, your order will immediately be cancelled.
However, if you order an 8-word drink, and don't take the opportunity to add "please" (since doing so still satisfies the 9-word rule), then fuck you!
A special exemption will exist under the "Starbucks Stutterer Statute". Stutterers can fill out a form and apply for the use of more words to order. Of course, you can only use between 2 and 9 words on the form. No one stutter writes.
For those wiseacres who order their usual 14-word treat, we will prepare the first 9 ingredients and the rest will be donated to the food and latte bank.
The benefits of this rule are enormous, with noise reduction being the most important.
Have you ever tried to carry on a conversation when 12 screaming latte's, each with 16 ingredients, are being made at the same time?
12 x 16. That's 192 ingredients. We will not carry that many ingredients.
Speaking of conversations, the 2 to 9 rule will eventually extend to conversations. At first, staff will only be able to speak in sentences of 2 to 9 words. Each sentence must clearly have an end to it.
As the franchise grows in popularity, the staff will only say two words, "two" or "nine".
Customer: Hi. How are you today? I would like a…order is cutoff as 9-word maximum is reached.
Staff: Nine.
Customer: You talking to me?
Staff: Two.
Customer is ejected from store.
Eventually, customers will follow the same rule. Chose your words carefully.
As both staff and customers get more and more confused, everyone pretends they are on a Borg cube. "I am 2 of 9."
Anyone who asks whether we have anymore Sheryl Crow cd's in stock will immediately have their hearing damaged so they can never listen to music again.
Our hours are from 2-9.
Wednesday, 18 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means
Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means: I've been practicing my texting while walking – down at the St. Lawrence market, among the hordes of people. I'm not a 14-year-old...
Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means
Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means: I've been practicing my texting while walking – down at the St. Lawrence market, among the hordes of people. I'm not a 14-year-old...
Not a Cakewalk by Any Means
I've been practicing my texting while walking – down at the St. Lawrence market, among the hordes.
I'm not a 14-year-old, powder-faced and featureless girl with denim-skin legs so texting while walking does not come naturally.
These days I guess I could become a girl. Easier than texting while walking, probably.
I cannot become an actual 14-year-old. Only in behaviour.
I've met a lot of people at the market. They sure are in a bad mood when I bump into the cane-sweetened, half-baked latte they're holding. Must be work stress. Everyone is so busy these days.
They all just frown at me. It's weird how the cute little sprinkled designs on the whipped cream toppings, a cinnamon smile or chocolate heart, suddenly mimic the frown.
People are so connected…to their special coffees.
It was cold down there this day in March. Oh, how the latte-lovers wished Lululemon made actual winter clothing. A hopeless hope, though. Wear it they wouldn't. Hiding their low fat thighs is not an option.
That glorious continental divide. The gap no orthodontist would dare change.
You, Miss, in the back. Jen, is it? Ah, Genn. With a sexy, soft "G".
You've won the Thighsman trophy.
This particular Genn accessorized with a Nooka Yogurt watch. A suger-free watch.
Sorry, got distracted, just like when I text while walking…
I don't understand. I can chew gum while texting. I can walk and chew gum.
I can chew gum, walk on the spot and text. And if it's bubble gum, I can even blow a bubble large enough to cover my wrinkled forehead.
I can text and walk the walk, walk the talk, talk the walk, talk the talk and guest host a talk show, figuratively speaking.
I can text, chew gum and talk your head off. Who am I kidding. I'm no chatty Hardie.
Like Rob Ford, or Larry Miller (the PC doofus who told niqab-wearing women to stay where they are), I can text while sticking my head up my ass.
Don't try it. Lousy reception. Try going up your colon and you'll get roaming fees as well.
But texting while walking? Different animal altogether.
As for texting and sexing?
None of your beeswax.
I'm not a 14-year-old, powder-faced and featureless girl with denim-skin legs so texting while walking does not come naturally.
These days I guess I could become a girl. Easier than texting while walking, probably.
I cannot become an actual 14-year-old. Only in behaviour.
I've met a lot of people at the market. They sure are in a bad mood when I bump into the cane-sweetened, half-baked latte they're holding. Must be work stress. Everyone is so busy these days.
They all just frown at me. It's weird how the cute little sprinkled designs on the whipped cream toppings, a cinnamon smile or chocolate heart, suddenly mimic the frown.
People are so connected…to their special coffees.
It was cold down there this day in March. Oh, how the latte-lovers wished Lululemon made actual winter clothing. A hopeless hope, though. Wear it they wouldn't. Hiding their low fat thighs is not an option.
That glorious continental divide. The gap no orthodontist would dare change.
You, Miss, in the back. Jen, is it? Ah, Genn. With a sexy, soft "G".
You've won the Thighsman trophy.
This particular Genn accessorized with a Nooka Yogurt watch. A suger-free watch.
Sorry, got distracted, just like when I text while walking…
I don't understand. I can chew gum while texting. I can walk and chew gum.
I can chew gum, walk on the spot and text. And if it's bubble gum, I can even blow a bubble large enough to cover my wrinkled forehead.
I can text and walk the walk, walk the talk, talk the walk, talk the talk and guest host a talk show, figuratively speaking.
I can text, chew gum and talk your head off. Who am I kidding. I'm no chatty Hardie.
Like Rob Ford, or Larry Miller (the PC doofus who told niqab-wearing women to stay where they are), I can text while sticking my head up my ass.
Don't try it. Lousy reception. Try going up your colon and you'll get roaming fees as well.
But texting while walking? Different animal altogether.
As for texting and sexing?
None of your beeswax.
Monday, 16 March 2015
Hand Job
Do you know how I can tell that a job isn't for me?
When the job description starts out with brilliantly written lines like, "you are a superstar."
Really? If I'm a superstar, then why am I looking for work? Being the superstar I am, why would I work at your agency? I've never heard of you.
Another great line: "You live and breath design." Actually, I live mostly in a house, often outside, unfortunately sometimes on the subway and I breath air. Back on earth, I mean. Where I'm from.
My all-time favourite: "You lose sleep over the perfect design." Yes, an actual sentence from a real job description.
Nooooooo. I lose sleep over imaginary sex with Kate Mara and Anna Kendrick. When the perfect design pops into my head, I seem to fall asleep instantly. After the sex, of course.
Job Interview at my dream agency:
Interviewer: Hello Mr. Hardie. Wait a minute. Why aren't you wearing your superhero uniform?
Me: Darn, sorry. I had too many magic brownies at my daughter's birthday and I just completely soiled myself while I was working on the ideal design.
Interviewer: You do realize the job requires you to wear your superhero uniform at all times?
Me: Yes, of course. It's off to get cleaned. Consistent with my dedication to sustainability, a group of women from Pitcairn Island are rowing here to retrieve the costume, row it back to their factory, beat it with whale bones, and return it good as new.
Interviewer: Behold this wonderful looking ad. Isn't it beautiful? I can say confidently that over 50 people who simply looked at this ad were instantly cured of cancer. This is what we expect of you.
Me: Wow. So you're not just designing stuff at insane fees to sell stupid products. You really are curing cancer here?
Interviewer: Absolutely. All our employees are required to create a beautiful design that cures a major disease. You are on probation for 6 months. If one of your designs doesn't cure at least three people of a major disease, we will have to let you go. We require a doctor's note as proof.
Me: You know, I feel a mild case of syphilis coming on. Do you have an ad I can look at to cure that?
I was also diagnosed with thumb cancer two months ago. From drawing so many thumbnail designs. Do you have an ad to cure that?
Interviewer: Oh, Mr. Hardie, please. You'll be far too busy to worry about such trivialities.
Me: I think it's spreading to my middle finger. Take a look. What do you think?
Maybe my hand just needs a job. Can I get a hand job here?
Oh no. Do I have a bad attitude? Maybe I have cancer of the attitude.
One agency in Toronto goes by the name of The Collective. It's been my dream to work at a place called The Collective. One makes their individual mark there.
Hi, this is Captain Picard. My work experience includes living and breathing for the "real" Collective. Can I get a one-on-one with Counsellor Troy? Me like Counsellor Troy.
Oh, the wonderful job opportunities out there. Resistance is so, like, futile.
When the job description starts out with brilliantly written lines like, "you are a superstar."
Really? If I'm a superstar, then why am I looking for work? Being the superstar I am, why would I work at your agency? I've never heard of you.
Another great line: "You live and breath design." Actually, I live mostly in a house, often outside, unfortunately sometimes on the subway and I breath air. Back on earth, I mean. Where I'm from.
My all-time favourite: "You lose sleep over the perfect design." Yes, an actual sentence from a real job description.
Nooooooo. I lose sleep over imaginary sex with Kate Mara and Anna Kendrick. When the perfect design pops into my head, I seem to fall asleep instantly. After the sex, of course.
Job Interview at my dream agency:
Interviewer: Hello Mr. Hardie. Wait a minute. Why aren't you wearing your superhero uniform?
Me: Darn, sorry. I had too many magic brownies at my daughter's birthday and I just completely soiled myself while I was working on the ideal design.
Interviewer: You do realize the job requires you to wear your superhero uniform at all times?
Me: Yes, of course. It's off to get cleaned. Consistent with my dedication to sustainability, a group of women from Pitcairn Island are rowing here to retrieve the costume, row it back to their factory, beat it with whale bones, and return it good as new.
Interviewer: Behold this wonderful looking ad. Isn't it beautiful? I can say confidently that over 50 people who simply looked at this ad were instantly cured of cancer. This is what we expect of you.
Me: Wow. So you're not just designing stuff at insane fees to sell stupid products. You really are curing cancer here?
Interviewer: Absolutely. All our employees are required to create a beautiful design that cures a major disease. You are on probation for 6 months. If one of your designs doesn't cure at least three people of a major disease, we will have to let you go. We require a doctor's note as proof.
Me: You know, I feel a mild case of syphilis coming on. Do you have an ad I can look at to cure that?
I was also diagnosed with thumb cancer two months ago. From drawing so many thumbnail designs. Do you have an ad to cure that?
Interviewer: Oh, Mr. Hardie, please. You'll be far too busy to worry about such trivialities.
Me: I think it's spreading to my middle finger. Take a look. What do you think?
Maybe my hand just needs a job. Can I get a hand job here?
Oh no. Do I have a bad attitude? Maybe I have cancer of the attitude.
One agency in Toronto goes by the name of The Collective. It's been my dream to work at a place called The Collective. One makes their individual mark there.
Hi, this is Captain Picard. My work experience includes living and breathing for the "real" Collective. Can I get a one-on-one with Counsellor Troy? Me like Counsellor Troy.
Oh, the wonderful job opportunities out there. Resistance is so, like, futile.
Saturday, 14 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE
Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE: In my never-ending quest for fame and riches as a writer, I came across something odd, maybe quaint, definitely annoying, as I was searching...
Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE
Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE: In my never-ending quest for fame and riches as a writer, I came across something odd, maybe quaint, definitely annoying, as I was searching...
Pushing the Envelope: The SASE
In my never-ending quest for fame and riches as a writer, I came across something odd, maybe quaint, definitely annoying, as I was searching for a publication that might publish one of my fabulously-written, heart-felt articles.
Every publication has a "how-to" section on submitting articles. This section serves to weed out morons who submit moronic humourous articles about, say, cute dogs or deeper issues like whether God puts the lid down after going pee. Um, anyway…
This one publication site – I emphasize the word "site" because I was searching on the internet – asks that you mail your article to them.
Like, on a piece of paper. This requires you to actually type out your article and print it.
And get this. You also have to send a SASE (self addressed stamped envelope, for those under 40) so they can mail back their acceptance or rejection letter.
That is so, ah, charming. They actually call themselves old school. Hence the SASE.
I call it inner-city, broken down, drug-riddled school.
Or stupid school.
Duh, of course we have an "old school" website. But getting our web designer to add something that allows you to attach, or maybe email, your article?
That's waaaayyyy to 21st century for us. After all, our publication is printed on birch bark.
Did I say printed? Sorry. I meant scrawled with the blood of a bison.
I guess I'll submit a timely article to their publication on how to renovate your cave, or the latest in cave drawings, or how to tenderize mastodon meat.
Obviously these people have stock in the post office. And their stock ain't doing so well these days. Let's get some biz going for the posties, don't you know.
I sent them a self addressed stamped memory stick. Oh, this is gonna be fun.
These people need to stop pushing the envelope!
Every publication has a "how-to" section on submitting articles. This section serves to weed out morons who submit moronic humourous articles about, say, cute dogs or deeper issues like whether God puts the lid down after going pee. Um, anyway…
This one publication site – I emphasize the word "site" because I was searching on the internet – asks that you mail your article to them.
Like, on a piece of paper. This requires you to actually type out your article and print it.
And get this. You also have to send a SASE (self addressed stamped envelope, for those under 40) so they can mail back their acceptance or rejection letter.
That is so, ah, charming. They actually call themselves old school. Hence the SASE.
I call it inner-city, broken down, drug-riddled school.
Or stupid school.
Duh, of course we have an "old school" website. But getting our web designer to add something that allows you to attach, or maybe email, your article?
That's waaaayyyy to 21st century for us. After all, our publication is printed on birch bark.
Did I say printed? Sorry. I meant scrawled with the blood of a bison.
I guess I'll submit a timely article to their publication on how to renovate your cave, or the latest in cave drawings, or how to tenderize mastodon meat.
Obviously these people have stock in the post office. And their stock ain't doing so well these days. Let's get some biz going for the posties, don't you know.
I sent them a self addressed stamped memory stick. Oh, this is gonna be fun.
These people need to stop pushing the envelope!
Friday, 13 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Golf
Helloooo Newman: Golf: I don't understand golf. I know, I'm male, so all my DNA should be pushing me towards lowering my golf score. Salmon go upstream, ...
Thursday, 12 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Golf
Helloooo Newman: Golf: I don't understand golf. I know, I'm male, so all my DNA should be pushing me towards lowering my golf score. Salmon go upstream, ...
Golf
I don't understand golf.
I know, I'm male, so all my DNA should be pushing me towards lowering my golf score. Salmon go upstream, my golf score goes downstream.
Plus I'm self-employed. Even more reason to get that club membership so I can do some deals over "tee" and crumpets.
I guess I'm just not into the kind of simian bonding that goes on while driving around someone's lawn stroking your balls and catching birdies (or hopefully the endangered Eagle).
What I really don't understand is the concept of the handicap in golf. The handicap idea also appears in very challenging, intellectual sports, like chess, basketball and bowling(?).
Is it just me? I really don't want to play a sport where, before I'm even out of the gate, I'm basically labelled a retard. Or a cripple.
I didn't know I have a handicap. I feel pretty normal. Does it show?
Oh that Paul, he isn't quite right. Let's give him a head start. Is this a race between 6-year-olds?
Hey Paul, your crutches are gouging the green. Replace your divots, you moron, or we'll add 6 strokes.
I think golf was invented by kids:
Billy: Ah Teddy, this is no fair. You're so much better at this than me.
Teddy: Now Billy, show me who the big six year old is. Come on, I'll give you 10 strokes.
Billy: But why is the hole so far away? I prefer Billiards. The hole is much closer. Can we take the golf ball and play Billiards with it? Plus we've already crashed the golf cart 6 times. Shouldn't you have that compound fracture looked at? Can we play against girls? That'll be easier.
Teddy: NO GIRLS, Billy. Girls are yucky. If girls insist on playing, they can have a later tee time, after we're drunk.
I take that back. The above is a conversation between grown men.
Think about it. The more you suck, the bigger the handicap and the more strokes you can deduct.
What if I can't play at all? Do I automatically win? That was easy. I'm going back to the club house for my beer and trophy.
Is this a way to achieve excellence in society?
What if we use this system for other professions? Well, I guess we already do for politics. But for medicine? Twelve of your patients died? That's okay. Factoring in your handicap, we'll call it, um, let's see… three people. Not bad for a beginner.
Maybe it's the name. Who on earth picked "handicap"? Did the inventors of golf pride themselves on their honesty? "Gentlemen, I don't see why we should hide the fact that these particular players are idiots. Incapable. In a word, handicapped. But as long as they are men, they can play. They need our help. We need a foursome."
Maybe it's time to pick a more positive, life-affirming and honest name. How about sucky strokes? Bogus balls?
Wait a minute. If my handicap is large enough, do I get handicap parking? Awesome.
Do you think Jesus golfed? I do. First of all, men really don't like women messing in "their" golf game. What a perfect atmosphere for starting a religion.
Secondly, think of how easy it is to spread your message. Hushed crowds waiting on Jesus' every stroke, watching him sink that 100 foot putt. What a great time to work in a few words about not messing with your neighbour's donkey.
And do you know who His caddy was? Moses.
Jesus: Hey Moses, looks like the green is on the other side of that water trap. What do you recommend?
Moses: J.C. Just take the shot, I'll part the water when it's time.
Of course, back in Jesus' day, there were no golf handicaps because Jesus healed all the handicapped. I believe the chief reason Jesus is coming back is to heal all those current golf handicaps out there.
The sports handicap: we know you suck, and we have a name for that.
I know, I'm male, so all my DNA should be pushing me towards lowering my golf score. Salmon go upstream, my golf score goes downstream.
Plus I'm self-employed. Even more reason to get that club membership so I can do some deals over "tee" and crumpets.
I guess I'm just not into the kind of simian bonding that goes on while driving around someone's lawn stroking your balls and catching birdies (or hopefully the endangered Eagle).
What I really don't understand is the concept of the handicap in golf. The handicap idea also appears in very challenging, intellectual sports, like chess, basketball and bowling(?).
Is it just me? I really don't want to play a sport where, before I'm even out of the gate, I'm basically labelled a retard. Or a cripple.
I didn't know I have a handicap. I feel pretty normal. Does it show?
Oh that Paul, he isn't quite right. Let's give him a head start. Is this a race between 6-year-olds?
Hey Paul, your crutches are gouging the green. Replace your divots, you moron, or we'll add 6 strokes.
I think golf was invented by kids:
Billy: Ah Teddy, this is no fair. You're so much better at this than me.
Teddy: Now Billy, show me who the big six year old is. Come on, I'll give you 10 strokes.
Billy: But why is the hole so far away? I prefer Billiards. The hole is much closer. Can we take the golf ball and play Billiards with it? Plus we've already crashed the golf cart 6 times. Shouldn't you have that compound fracture looked at? Can we play against girls? That'll be easier.
Teddy: NO GIRLS, Billy. Girls are yucky. If girls insist on playing, they can have a later tee time, after we're drunk.
I take that back. The above is a conversation between grown men.
Think about it. The more you suck, the bigger the handicap and the more strokes you can deduct.
What if I can't play at all? Do I automatically win? That was easy. I'm going back to the club house for my beer and trophy.
Is this a way to achieve excellence in society?
What if we use this system for other professions? Well, I guess we already do for politics. But for medicine? Twelve of your patients died? That's okay. Factoring in your handicap, we'll call it, um, let's see… three people. Not bad for a beginner.
Maybe it's the name. Who on earth picked "handicap"? Did the inventors of golf pride themselves on their honesty? "Gentlemen, I don't see why we should hide the fact that these particular players are idiots. Incapable. In a word, handicapped. But as long as they are men, they can play. They need our help. We need a foursome."
Maybe it's time to pick a more positive, life-affirming and honest name. How about sucky strokes? Bogus balls?
Wait a minute. If my handicap is large enough, do I get handicap parking? Awesome.
Do you think Jesus golfed? I do. First of all, men really don't like women messing in "their" golf game. What a perfect atmosphere for starting a religion.
Secondly, think of how easy it is to spread your message. Hushed crowds waiting on Jesus' every stroke, watching him sink that 100 foot putt. What a great time to work in a few words about not messing with your neighbour's donkey.
And do you know who His caddy was? Moses.
Jesus: Hey Moses, looks like the green is on the other side of that water trap. What do you recommend?
Moses: J.C. Just take the shot, I'll part the water when it's time.
Of course, back in Jesus' day, there were no golf handicaps because Jesus healed all the handicapped. I believe the chief reason Jesus is coming back is to heal all those current golf handicaps out there.
The sports handicap: we know you suck, and we have a name for that.
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