Helloooo Newman: The Answer is 404

Helloooo Newman: The Answer is 404: I had a dream. It was a dream deeply rooted in melatonin, nyquil and beer. I had a dream today. Like MLK, I had a dream that I will ri...

The Answer is 404

I had a dream.

It was a dream deeply rooted in melatonin, nyquil and beer.

I had a dream today.

Like MLK, I had a dream that I will rise up and live out my true meaning.

Okay, maybe not a dream as big as Mr. King's…but man, was it weird.

In this dream, God was the Internet. That part actually made a lot of sense to me. God is everywhere, so is the Internet. Or porn is everywhere on the Internet. Something like that.

What didn't make sense was when I searched for things on the Internet, um, God. I clicked on important links like "why does relish exist when everyone hates it?" or "why won't my ears and nose go bald instead of my head?", and all I got was that warning page when a link doesn't work:

404: Sorry this page is not available.

Has God gone down? Did he run out of bandwidth? The universe seems pretty wide to me, judging from the size of an average city block in Vegas. Lots of room for really big cables I would think.

What about the wifi signal? Where was it? Maybe it was being blocked by Vladimir Putin's chest, or Kevin O'Leary's planet-sized greed for money.

Maybe God needs more servers, like Jesus and the Pope. Today we have Joel Osteen. What a freaky smile that "man of God" has. I once met a guy in Mexico who smiled at me like Mr. Osteen smiles and he wanted to play Donkey Kong with my colon.

Pretty weird, right? Dreams are suppose to be weird, I guess.

They say dreams are a window into your favourite Netflix show.

Okay, that's not true, but I have been binge dreaming of late.

Binge dreaming is like having a Netflix subscription in your head while you sleep. Very low cost. The price of a few beers, 10 mg of melatonin and a shot of nyquil, required to produce the effect.

When I fall asleep and start dreaming, little icons of my favourite genres and shows pop up. Genres like suspense, porn, more porn, additional porn, further porn, last but not least porn, soft porn, hard porn, frozen solid porn, romance porn, food and porn (porn chops and porn bellies are favourites)… You get the picture.

Back to this crazy dream. On the 404 page was a little icon saying "download here". I clicked on it and suddenly I was downloaded into this room full of kids and me sitting at an old, ratty piano.

I started playing – the piano sounded like rusty metal – and the kids started booing. I was devastated. I had lost my fan base. Running out of the room, deciding suicide was the answer, I jumped into a freezing cold ocean to drown myself.

Instead of drowning, I floated up into this pre-historic room with one window in it. I nervously glanced through the dirty, half broken window and saw an old city laying in ashes, devastated by nuclear war. I certainly wasn't going to hang around here, I thought, until something caught my eye.

Sitting on the street was a spotless grand piano, as shiny as a gem. I jumped through the window, overcome with an urge to play this precious instrument. As the gorgeous sound swelled from the piano, old and broken people gathered around and smiled. I played for days and days.

Being a napper, I needed a rest. So I left that darn piano and found a bed to sleep on. My "audience" was not happy and showed their true perfidious nature. "Keep playing" they chanted. They carried swords high in the air, like steel soldiers marching to their orders. They were to cut off my hands unless I continued to play.

Well, I skedaddled out of there, through the window and back to that old, ratty piano. My home!

One could interpret this dream from many angles. Or one could just say, Paul, stop mixing beer and nyquil.

Or, one could wonder where God was when I needed Him most. Hair continues to consume my ears, and all I get is 404.

Helloooo Newman: Tree Talk

Helloooo Newman: Tree Talk: Tree 1: Hey Bruce, read the paper yesterday? Tree 2: I don't read papers, Burt. You know they cut down Leif and his family to make tha...

Tree Talk

Tree 1: Hey Bruce, read the paper yesterday?

Tree 2: I don't read papers, Burt. You know they cut down Leif and his family to make that paper.

Tree 1: Ya, shame. Thought you never liked him? Ever since you discovered his family roots.

Tree 2: True. Still, we trees have to stand up for each other.

Tree 1: I heard Mel is working with the lumber companies. Told them Leif's family would make great croquet mallets.

Tree 2: That's treeson.

Tree 1: Article in the paper said this global warming thing is going to destroy the planet.

Tree 2: Ha. My relatives have been here since that first fish walked out of the ocean. How long has that Al Gore dude been here?

Tree 1: He's a smart guy, you know. Invented the internet.

Tree 2: You mean that thing that was suppose to cut down on wood use so Leif's family could grow up?

Tree 1: Good point. But they need paper cups to hold their lattes. What will they drink their lattes from, Bruce?

Tree 2: From a bed pan for all I care. They're all getting so old anyway. Damn humans can't see the pulp for the paper.

Tree 1: You mean the trees for the forest?

Tree 2: That too.

Tree 1: Still, this warming thing could get really bad.

Tree 2: Bad for who, Burt? I'm thinking some warmer temps are pretty tempting. Maybe the humans will cancel that xmas thing. You know how many of my relatives ended up sitting in a pot full of mouldy water, surrounded by presents that aren't for them? Smell of delicious turkey and you can't do a damn thing about it. Oh Christmas Tree my ass.

Tree 1: Greenhouse gases, Bruce, that's what it's all about. They say carbon dioxide is one of the worst GH gases. They want to reduce them.

Tree 2. Nice. It's only what we breath, thank you. I have an idea. Why don't we all hold our breath, see how they like that.

Tree 1: I think we should be nice, Bruce. Maybe we can work something out with them. Come to an understanding.

Tree 2: You mean a treety? Fat chance. Oxygen deprivation is the best solution. Teach them not to mess with nature.

Tree 1: Okay Bruce, if you think it's best.

All the flora hold their breath, the oxygen disappears and the human race dies.

Tree 1: Morning, Bruce.

Tree 2: Morning. Beautiful day.

Tree 1: Yes. So quiet.

Tree 2: Isn't it nice?

Tree 1: What's that, over by the shore?

Tree 2: Appears to be a fish. He's walking on his fins. He's breathing air.

Tree 1: It's starting all over again, Bruce.

Tree 2: Damn.

Helloooo Newman: Jobs Disguised as Jobs

Helloooo Newman: Jobs Disguised as Jobs: Steve Jobs said, "Stay hungry, stay foolish." ( www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/answer-sheet/post/steve-jobs-told-students-stay-hungr...

Helloooo Newman: Jobs Disguised as Jobs

Helloooo Newman: Jobs Disguised as Jobs: Steve Jobs said, "Stay hungry, stay foolish." ( www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/answer-sheet/post/steve-jobs-told-students-stay-hungr...

Jobs Disguised as Jobs

Steve Jobs said, "Stay hungry, stay foolish." (www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/answer-sheet/post/steve-jobs-told-students-stay-hungry-stay-foolish/2011/10/05/gIQA1qVjOL_blog.html)

I certainly try to stay hungry, but there are so many chicken wings out there that know my name. They call out to me with their greasy, stentorian voices. To ignore them would be animal cruelty, rather like depriving the Kardashian's of the attention they so crave to hang on the liminal of relevance.

Steve got it half wrong. But, he also got it half right.

Staying foolish…now there's a task I'm built for. Like the cheetah, built for short bursts of speed, or the Dingo – natural born baby eater.

Or the La-z-boy reclining chair, built for comfort and watching t.v.

Perhaps the more apt comparison is the Dung Beetle, built to lift 1,141 times its weight – in dung. That's ten outhouses from our cottage stacked one on top of the other. Which is scarier – me carrying that much dung or me going downtown in my dungarees?

I will play the fool, Mr. Jobs. This is why, instead of asking people for a job, I am going to create my own job. Only they won't be "Job" jobs. They will be jobs disguised as "Jobs". No, not Steve Jobs. Okay, stop confusing me.

I've created a few jobs for myself that sound incredibly impressive in pixels, and require no skill whatsoever.

Disguised Job #1: Mud Spatter Expert
You would be dazzled by the amount of useful information I can glean from your suspiciously average looking mud spatter on your everyday car.

Immediately upon beginning my mud reading, I can tell the make and model of the car. True, the car is in front of me anyway, but I can tell this info way faster than you, the spatter dilettante.

Through careful re-enacting of the car's movements, using strings and Jedi magic, I can tell how fast it was going, how deep the puddle was, and the name of the blonde sitting beside you.

A thorough analysis, required in more serious cases, has often brought forth startling results, such as how many Timbits were consumed within 100 km of the puddle that day, and I even found the Virgin Mary image on the rear-fender mud spatter of a hearse cum house painting truck.

I am in hush-hush talks to star in an HBO production called Paulster, about a serial killer who works as a mud spatter expert for the local mechanic. My targets are people who fix their own cars, via Youtube, NOT the mechanic. After I cut up my victims, I send their family, as per the mechanic's practice, a bill for labour and body parts. The labour is always what gets them.

I am surrounded by co-workers who, whenever they pass me, exclaim, "the Paulster", in a Rob Schneider SNL-type voice.

The producers preferred that the show be called Dickster, because it fit more closely my personality. I didn't laugh.

Disguised Job #2: Dock Spider-Man
Most super heroes have it all wrong. They are too pretty, work too hard, don't drink enough alcohol, wear silly colourful costumes while trying to be introspective and take themselves far too seriously. Not Dock Spider-Man.

The best thing about being Dock Spider-Man is the dock part. Because that's where you'll find me all summer. My eight legs splayed over the sides of a chaise lounge, munching on lightly sea-salted dragon fly chips and rubbing SPF 50 on my fangs.

If you're drowning, I'm there. I don't actually save you, though. You won't learn anything that way. I throw you a damn lifejacket. Do it yourself. Don't be stupid next time. It's a teaching moment. Instead of super heroes saving everyone's ass, they should employ the power of "don't be stupid next time."

Disguised Job #3: Righter
Society is full of writers. Everyone and their dog thinks they can write. Blogs abound, peddling presumably profound prose.

What society really needs is more Righters. Few things feel better than finding yourself in an argument and being right. After hurling invective and skillfully using ad hominem attacks, the last thing you want is to end up on the wrong side of an argument. That's where I come in.

I have a wealth of experience being right about things. You are a husband, arguing with your wife. She is slowly wearing you down with her one-two punch of emotional incoherence and irrational exuberance.  Your titanium man-shell begins to crack. You consider, for a fleeting moment, that you might be wrong. I'll be there to back you up.

"You are right! Quinoa and kale salad does not belong with chicken wings and beer. You have every right to be mad. Let it out. Take the truck for a spin through the mud. Go get some dock time."

"My job here is done."

Helloooo Newman: This is my brain on peanut butter

Helloooo Newman: This is my brain on peanut butter: Peanut butter is the perfect food. The natural kind of peanut butter, naturally. It's full of so many good things, but my favourite part...

This is my brain on peanut butter

Peanut butter is the perfect food. The natural kind of peanut butter, naturally. It's full of so many good things, but my favourite part is the peanut butter part. Way better than the peanut margarine I use to eat. It had this sickly puce colour, so idiots wouldn't confuse it with peanut butter, and tasted like it was made from a piece of that plastic island floating in the ocean.

Functional MRI experiments show that peanut butter has astounding effects on the brain. People who consume huge quantities of peanut butter while in the MRI machine, a task in itself that requires an I.Q. of 140 or better to perform and a very large bib, develop an urge to dip themselves in chocolate and press themselves into a cup-shaped mould. Other parts of the brain that lit up were the "I need jam with this because the peanut butter is stuck to the roof of my mouth" area and the area that controls inquisitiveness, with the brain asking, "has anyone tried this stuff with banana?" These brain parts were named the PB&J region.

At one point in the experiments, a glob of peanut butter (the crunchy kind) made its way into the MRI mechanism. Until it was found, patient after patient was diagnosed with a peanut-shaped tumour on their occipital lobe.

When some errant mice, sniffing the peanut butter, made their way into the MRI machine for a snack, the tumours changed to a smushed mouse shape. One of the clever doctors got suspicious, checked the machine, and found what they termed a "statistically significant gross-out mess."

The lawsuits continue.

Since peanut butter is the perfect food, why can't everything be made of peanut butter? I wish my finger nails were made of peanut butter. I would sell short on the stock market more often. Peanut butter boogers would be very convenient. If I was an Orthodontist I would make the retainers out of peanut butter. They naturally stick to the roof of the mouth and kids would love seeing me. I wonder if I'm the only one who uses peanut butter as a face cream. Well, I did until I discovered I couldn't have a face-to-face with anyone having a peanut allergy, including my shrink, priest, dermatologist and local hooker.

If you're into DIY projects, consider using peanut butter instead of drywall compound. Drywalling and sanding is a dirty and frustrating activity, right up there with colorectal surgery and discussing foreign policy with John McCain. Imagine the pleasure of sanding dried peanut butter. Stick your tongue out and enjoy.

Don't you think John McCain is part chipmunk, and those cheeks of his are loaded up with peanuts? Check it out (http://cheezburger.com/1136657152). He's two or three chews away from having his own peanut butter churning machine in his mouth.

I seriously think if the Catholic church put peanut butter on their hosts they'd have way more churchgoers. They would also need jam on there, or the Lord's prayer would come out as, "our thather, who tharts in theventh."

Many things will be possible in the future that seem outlandish right now: time travel, teleportation, a rational Republican.

But no one will ever be able to put the jam on bread first, and then spread the peanut butter in any coherent way. Right down to the quantum level, peanut butter will not spread over jam. It would be like Meryl Streep and Carrot Top reading excerpts from An Actor Prepares together on "Inside the Actor's Studio" – NEVAH, EVAH!

My favourite meal of all time, to this day, is the PB&J sandwiches we had on our canoe trips at camp. This was way back in the fur trading days, when I was a member of the Métis. Hauling birch bark canoes, heaving packs full of reeking beaver pelts, a little tyke like me built up an appetite.

Of course, I was so starving I would have eaten the slow-roasted body of another camper. Cannibalism was a real possibility back then, save for peanut butter.

Humanity can be so cruel. Imagine the gall of personifying a peanut, as Planters did with Mr. Peanut, and convincing kids that some peanuts are walking around with arms, legs, a top hat and a bi-focal. A very well-dressed peanut, meaning he's a member of the upper echelons. But then every time a kid enjoys a PB&J sandwich he/she is left with the guilt that thousands of peanuts were lined up, stripped down and liquefied in a grinder so mom can make an easy lunch and watch The Price is Right. Once we've tortured their little minds into accepting that peanut "people" can be massacred for a good snack, a few years later we teach them the evils of the Holocaust. #ConfuZING!!!

I discovered some interesting facts about peanut butter. According to my research the first person to think of sticking a banana into some peanut butter was Linda Lovelace. After a short term of experimentation she decided another good place to stick the peanut butter-covered banana would be into her mouth. Peanut butter and banana have since been getting along famously as a snack. A pioneering woman, that Linda.

Startling fact: peanuts are not nuts. They are legumes. Does anyone really need to know this distinction? Pineapples, believe it or not, are not apples. Nor do they come from a pine tree. And head cheese is not made from someones head.

By the way, if peanuts aren't nuts, why are they always included in those incessant warnings about nut allergies? Allergic kids can't even be around someone wearing a peanut costume. You never hear about Billy having a legume allergy.

The average American eats 2500 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before they graduate from high school. The 2500 figure doesn't surprise me, although I thought it would have been closer to 100,000. What shocked me was that the average American graduates from high school.

While peanut butter is an awesome snack, it's not particularly creative as a food.

Neanderthal husband: Honey, found these in the ground. Me and the boys decided to call 'em peanuts.

Neanderthal wife: Oh dumb dumb, those look like legumes, not nuts.

Neanderthal husband: Okay, but peaumes doesn't sound very appetizing. What should we do with 'em?

Neanderthal wife: Well, I think I'll slow roast them and then make a nice velvety peanut reduction. Hmm, what spices to add?

Neanderthal husband: Na, I thought we'd just crush 'em. Call it butter. That's what this large boulder's for.

So, peanut butter being a very "unsophisticated" dish, it was obviously invented by a man. And that man was none other than Adam, from the garden. How did Adam come to invent peanut butter? Well, he needed the protein to start the human race. Adam provided the peanut butter and jam, while Eve provided the soft bread. It all spread so easily. So did Eve.

Is this a cosmic coincidence? My current favourite peanut butter is called Adam's All Natural Peanut Butter (www.adamspeanutbutter.ca/). It just has a flavour no other peanut butter manages to achieve. Why is that? There's no sugar, salt, veggie oil, bacon, beer, bugles or any other of my favourite ingredients. I guess it could be the cocaine they add. But I kicked that habit years ago. One of life's pleasant mysteries.

Peanut butter also has many practical uses. One of the better uses is for controlling the rodent population. Cheese is a big one too. I prefer peanut butter in all my mouse traps. I love the idea that I can enjoy a nice peanut butter snack and a few feet away my beloved peanut butter is helping me separate a mouse's head from its torso.

I found peanut butter was really handy when you needed a good excuse in school. In Grade Twelve English, where I had to read Shakespeare in front of the class, I butchered it so badly I told my teacher I had just finished a peanut butter sandwich and my mom forgot the jam. I hadn't a clue what I was reading and remember wishing the teacher would re-enact the Romeo poisoning scene on himself.

When my mom found her 200-page Vogue in my bathroom reduced to a few turnable pages from all the sticking together, peanut butter was a very handy excuse. Wrong colour, but what did she know?

If I had kids over again, I'd name them Peanut Butter, Jam and Banana. The boy, for obvious reasons, would get the Banana name.

Peanut butter is so marvelous, I would devote an entire t.v. channel to its celebration. It would be called PBS - The Peanut Butter Station.

I've always wanted to visit a peanut butter farm.

When I retire I'm moving to the country to operate my own peanut butter farm.

Helloooo Newman: Cell Face

Helloooo Newman: Cell Face: I was jaunting along Bloor Street when these two young girls stopped me. I turned to look at them. I sensed they wanted to ask me someth...

Cell Face

I was jaunting along Bloor Street when these two young girls stopped me.

I turned to look at them.

I sensed they wanted to ask me something, perhaps directions to a good shoe store, but I could hear no voices. Just a series of soft whoop sounds.

To my horror, I realized I was talking to a pair of cell phones. Their faces had been surgically removed and replaced with an iPhone on the shorter, prettier girl and a Samsung Galaxy on the lanky, plain looking girl.

Suddenly a new meme occurred to me. Cell Face.

It took me a moment to gauge what was happening. They weren't speaking to me. They were texting me.

I had to move closer to read the text, but this was disturbing. The puffy red scars surrounding the phones were not entirely healed. The iPhone girl even had a few drops of blood emerging from the stitches. That can't be good for the phone, I thought. I wonder if they've tried a topical vitamin E on the scars.

They were not happy. I could tell from the emoticons on their faces…phones, I mean. I'll admit it took a bit of getting use to.

Soon I could see the benefits of cell face. You never wrinkle. No actually feeling those tough negative emotions that handicap so many of us. The emoticons take care of that. All those self help books to make yourself a better person? Gone. Just update your iOS.

And all this for the small price of plugging your face into an outlet for a few hours.

I feel so old, having a plain old regular face to face the world.