Helloooo Newman: The Upside of Trump

Helloooo Newman: The Upside of Trump: I see a very strong upside to Mr. Trump as POTUS. (If you disagree with this bold statement, please address all death threats to my...

The Upside of Trump

I see a very strong upside to Mr. Trump as POTUS.

(If you disagree with this bold statement, please address all death threats to my twin brother living on the Canary Islands.)

The fundamental reason for Mr. Trump's rise is this: He is the candidate that "tells it like it is!"

Every since I popped out of the womb, some time around the Big Bang, people have complained about politicians, and have been clamouring for a politician that, finally, "tells it like it is."

Well, now we have that politician who, like the peacock, has his "like it is" feathers in full bloom.

So, what's the upside? Mr. Trump's feathers, like the peacock's, are all show and nothing else. Soon his feathers will get clipped, and he'll be just another naked old bird.

In other words, Mr. Trump will fail badly, despite the nice feathers, and we can finally dispense with this notion that the "tells it like it is" candidate has all the answers.

You see, there is no such thing as "tells it like it is." That's because there is no singular "is". Mr. Trump's "is", as in this "is" how things are, is one of a billion odd "is's" in this nutty world.

The proverbial "is" never was. Everyone has their own "isness". Yours is different from mine. And your "isness" is none of my "isness". Also, there's no "isness" like show "isness".

With all these "is's" existing, here is the average political conversation on what "is": Yes it is. No it is not. Yes it is. No it is not. It is. It is not…

Your "tells it like it is" might include excluding all muslims. My "tells it like it is" might include excluding mental patients from buying guns at the gas station.

I think the great philosopher Bill Clinton was on to something when he said, during his impeachment trial, "It depends upon what the meaning of "is" is." That clears things up nicely, doesn't it? His version of "is" allowed him to say yes to the dress, and no to the truth.

Not convinced? Consider this dark truth. When you type the word "IS" twice and forget the space in between, look what you get: ISIS. Mr. Trump will bomb the shit out of you for that.

There is only one source of absolute "is" in the world, and that's physics. When you jump off a building, the pavement you splatter on "tells it like it is". Your views on pavement matter not a bit.

The rest of the world, all the "is's" out there, are opinion – grey, muddled, full of crap.

Mr. Trump may seem like the wonderful wizard of "is", but keep in mind that the wizard never got Dorothy back home. The good witch helped her get there. (A nod to Hillary Clinton, perhaps?)

Mr. Trump will not get his beautiful wall built. He'll be but a blip in "istory". Soon enough his "is" will be a distant "was".

Sorry, but "it is what it is."

Helloooo Newman: Narcissist?

Helloooo Newman: Narcissist?: Who is this Narcissus guy? Yesterday someone called me a narcissist and I asked, a what? A narcissist! You are in love with you...

Narcissist?

Who is this Narcissus guy?

Yesterday someone called me a narcissist and I asked, a what?

A narcissist! You are in love with yourself.

My name’s not Narcissus. I’ve never met this guy, and I’ve been down a lot of rivers.

Thankfully I’ve never been up the river. Maybe that’s where this Narcissus guy is.

My name is Paul. Am I a paulisist?

Hmmm. If I’m a publicist, does that mean I love pubs? I do! Okay, I’m a proud publicist.

So, am I a paulisist? Do I love myself?

What does being in love with myself look like?

I don’t buy myself roses on V-Day. I don’t take myself out for romantic dinners. But if I did, wouldn’t that be Split Personality Disorder? That means I’m sick, so it’s not my fault.

On the other hand, I make love to myself all the time. It’s pretty boring because I fall asleep immediately after, and there aren’t many positions I can do it in. For example, doggy style totally puts my trapezius and latissimus dorsi muscles out. My favourite position is just staring at the video on the computer screen.

When Narcissus saw himself in the river, did he make love to himself? If he did, I’m not swimming in that river. Yuk.

It’s enough that I had a group of Grouper having group sex around my legs in that river.

I go for long romantic walks with myself, like to the beer store.

I also nag myself a lot, so maybe I should marry myself. Common law is better for now. I can't afford to divorce myself.

Popular culture constantly tells me to have healthy self-esteem, and yet narcissists supposedly have too much self-esteem. Geez – so my self-esteem can go to 10 but not 11? How fussy is that?

Is it really that bad that I'm a paulisist? I'm confused.

Oprah tells me to believe in myself and Joel Osteen tells me to believe in God.

Maybe I'll compromise, and believe that I myself am God.

Helloooo Newman: Party ADD

Helloooo Newman: Party ADD: I have what's called party ADD. Yes, that's party Attention Deficit Disorder. What was I saying? I can only sustain a conver...

Party ADD

I have what's called party ADD. Yes, that's party Attention Deficit Disorder.

What was I saying?

I can only sustain a conversation at a party for about 10 minutes, and then I need a break from speaking, a repose.

My brain is kind of like a rocket, so after 10 minutes my boosters are gone, stage 3 of the rocket has been ejected and the inertial guidance system is down. I'm Apollo 13.

Or aPAULo 13? Sorry!

This explains why I never left any party with a girl when I was single.

"Hey Cath, that guy you were talking to is soooo cuuuuute. What's he doing in the corner by himself?"

"I don't know. He just sort of stopped talking and walked over there, like a robot being called back to its laboratory."

"You gonna date him?"

"Is that a serious question?"

When I went past the 10 minute mark, I could still manage to speak, but I answered questions out of context.

Girl: What do you do for a living?

Me: Oh, about ten inches. Eight when it's cold.

Girl: What do you think of the new Culture Club album? (It was the eighties)

Me: Don't worry, my doctor took a culture but it was negative.

Past the ten minute mark, only a few topics could keep me engaged enough to prevent milky retinas: discussions about me, sex, sex with me, sex with myself, my views on rough sex, women I've conquered.

Conversations weren't always that shallow. Occasionally I could delve into the intellectual: Freud and sex, sex with smart women, like Natalie Portman…you get the picture.

I once met this guy who was a master with women.

I called him a vaginius. A genius at attracting vagina.

He tried to teach me everything he knew at this bar one time, but it just didn't take.

That's because every lesson was 11 minutes long.

Helloooo Newman: On Bad Terms

Helloooo Newman: On Bad Terms: Why do you lie to me, Mrs. Dentist? Even my credit card questions the huge amount I pay you, and still, you lie. Visa: Wow, you sur...

On Bad Terms

Why do you lie to me, Mrs. Dentist?

Even my credit card questions the huge amount I pay you, and still, you lie.

Visa: Wow, you sure that total is correct?"

Me: Totally!"

Your dental terms are all lies. They obfuscate. Well, here's the truth.

Cavity: Contrary to popular belief, you don't visit the dentist with a cavity. You go with tooth decay, which is bad, but we're not talking about the decay of Western civilization here. It's the dentist that gives you the cavity (a hollow place) using a Black and Decker power tool that drills a hole in you. Just one more place the border guards can search.

Crown: Is this an episode of Game of Thrones, where I get to wear a crown, sleep with hot women and rule over my subjects in ever more cruel ways? Maybe even as cruel as you, Mrs. Dentist? I wish. But no, it's just a fake tooth.

Root canal: Where's the canal? A canal is in Venice, with honeymooners taking a romantic ride down an ancient water way sipping Grigio in a gondola. I guess in Venice it's called a route canal. Dentists should call it what it is: the root of all evil.

Gingivitis: Again, where's the goddamn gin? I was expecting a mixed drink with gin, a sprinkling of ginger, and some powerful vitamins to help me avoid coitus interruptus. But gum disease? Maybe after the gin, I'll get a hooker who sticks her gum on a bra strap to chew later, and I'll get a disease, but what do my gums have to do with it?

Orthodontist: What this really means is you can save thousands of dollars for a nice vacation or thodontist can take it, all for a few paperclips and glue on your kid's teeth.

Scaling: This describes weighing myself, or, cleaning a fish, not scraping my teeth with a tiny spear and making me bleed. All I think of is Arnie in Predator, "If it bleeds, we can kill it." I want my mommy.

Tell the truth Mrs. Dentist. Or I'll go public with it all.

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes: I'm starting Uber Zamboni, with all the backyard skating rinks around. Look for me steaming up the road at 1 kph. I finally remember...

Musings and Woes

I'm starting Uber Zamboni, with all the backyard skating rinks around. Look for me steaming up the road at 1 kph.



I finally remembered to return my memory foam mattress the other day. It was getting old. I think it developed Alzheimer's disease. It kept calling me Chris Hemsworth. I definitely confuse myself with Mr. Hemsworth, but no one else seems to.

Helloooo Newman: You Know the Drill

Helloooo Newman: You Know the Drill: I was captured by ISIS yesterday and tortured. Wait a minute. No. I was at the dentist. Always get those two situations confused. Had ...

You Know the Drill

I was captured by ISIS yesterday and tortured.

Wait a minute. No. I was at the dentist.

Always get those two situations confused.

Had two teeth refilled. I asked for my entire head to be frozen. That's what ISIS dental clinics do, if they can find your head.

Nope. Would have untold consequences on the brain. Ya, that's what I was hoping.

Pain-wise, it was a breeze. There was none during the procedure! The pain started as I entered my PIN to pay for it.

Still, there were two bigger problems.

Holding my mouth open like a damn pelican for two hours was a chore.

The last time my mouth was that far open, aghast, was when my wife said yes to my marriage proposal.

I had enough cotton in my mouth that I took the opportunity to impress the dentist with my Brando. I did the scene when he finds out Sonny is dead. Her face mask was soaked in tears.

She thought it was from Godfather II, but I overlooked her ignorance.

Worse still was the drill. Not the pain. There was none.

The sound.

We've got to change the sound of that drill.

Why can't we instill the drill with pleasant sounds. I think these sounds would work:
• a woman discovering her G-spot
• an Enya song
• a voice saying "congratulations on your tax refund"
• Donald Trump saying "I'm sorry." Spliced, of course, from two sentences, one saying "I'm the greatest mind in the world" and "you should say sorry to me."

Maybe just a sexy voice. A dentist's drill talking sexy would be called drexting.

"What are you wearing, Paul?"

"Um, a dentist's bib and sunglasses." (this said after removing all the cotton from my mouth)

"Oooo, sounds sexy. Give me some fluoride. Or a floor-ride."

"Sure. Let me just finish spitting."

Helloooo Newman: Tryth to Power

Helloooo Newman: Tryth to Power: Oh, politicians and the pithy things they say. Here is Hillary Clinton in a recent interview. Interviewer: Have you always told the trut...

Tryth to Power

Oh, politicians and the pithy things they say.

Here is Hillary Clinton in a recent interview.

Interviewer: Have you always told the truth?

Clinton: I've always tried to (wide-eyed).

Hmmm.

How does one try to tell the truth? Is it that hard for her?

Is telling the truth like playing beer pong? Hey, I'm trying to knock the ball off the bottle, but it ain't so easy (burp).

What does the trying part mean? Maybe it's like trying to mix the perfect drink. The drink called Truth.

Sip. Spit. "Hey man, there's not an ounce of truth in this. I asked for a double. I am enjoying the Bullshit mixer, though."

Does Mrs. Clinton have a neurological condition whereby as she approaches the truth, her lying neurons start furiously firing?

Maybe she's so use to lying that telling the truth is a major achievement in her life. If you see her out one night celebrating with an expensive meal, you know she told the truth that day.

It could be that telling the truth is an important goal of hers, but it remains stubbornly elusive, like someone who drinks more coconut water to stay healthy, but keeps reaching for the gin and gun oil mixer instead.

Given her answer, "I've always tried", wouldn't the next question be, "and how successful have you been at that?"

Telling the truth should be like skydiving. You either jump out of the plane or you don't. There's no middle ground. Unless you throw an arm and a leg out, while the rest of you enjoys a bag of peanuts in first class.

Or, like being pregnant. No such thing as a little bit.

Wouldn't it be nice to hear Mrs. Clinton say, "I've always tried, and I have a one hundred percent success rate – so far."

So, let's welcome a new word to the English language.

Tryth (n.)

Verb form, Trything. The act of trying to tell the truth.

The opposite is Lying, the act of trying, and failing, to tell the truth.

"And that's the tryth. Blpphh."

Helloooo Newman: Brokn

Helloooo Newman: Brokn: Everything is brokn. Even the word  "brokn"  in this article is brokn. We're told this all the time, like a brokn record. ...

Brokn

Everything is brokn.

Even the word "brokn" in this article is brokn.

We're told this all the time, like a brokn record.

Here's a list of all the things brokn in this world.
• everything

Health care, politics, education, immigration, the environment, the tax code, the penal code, the Code of Hammurabi, the voting system, the water supply, the UN, capitalism, the geopolitical system, the system itself, all brokn.

Also, my personal hair care system just broke. Last night my memory foam mattress broke. Totally forgot who I was.

I'm sick and tired of people saying everything is brokn.

I prefer a more positive and accurate diagnosis, like "everything is shitty to begin with."

Health care? Shitty.

It's damn tragic that the guy sitting in emergency with a nail gun in his larynx dies because doctors are too busy or too greedy to treat him. That's not brokn. That's the system working. Sorry, but it ain't brokn.

Donald Trump says immigration is brokn. Nope. Neither is his hair.

Not brokn. I hate to sound like that brokn record. But nothing is brokn.

There are two problems with declaring everything brokn.

First of all, it implies that everything worked sometime in the past. Here's a quick look at our glorious past.

How about Vietnam? Watergate? Kent State?

The plague and vague political promises.

The Crusades, the Escapades, AIDS. All shitty. All business as usual.

Everything is going to shit. But nothing is brokn. Important distinction.

Secondly, when we say something is brokn, we really mean it isn't working the way we'd like it to.

That ain't brokn. Things are shitty, but they ain't brokn.

Brokn means brokn. If I say my car's brokn, I can't drive it. It doesn't work as a car. At all.

If I say I have a shitty car, the car works, but you would rather walk the 100 miles to work than hitch a ride.

Get it? Things aren't brokn, they're just shitty.

The system isn't brokn, it's just shitty. Oh, and there's no system anyway. The system is no system. It's just a bunch of shitty things crowded together at the same time.

When the primordial atom exploded into the Big Bang, it didn't break. It started working. It's shitty, I know, but it works.

And the word brokn? Not brokn. Just shitty typing.

The takeaway.

Nothing is brokn.

Everything is shitty.

More or less.

Now go out there and break a leg.

Helloooo Newman: Cosmo, Paul, a tan

Helloooo Newman: Cosmo, Paul, a tan: Hi. My name is Cosmo. I hang out in dog Heaven these days. It's my second coming, to write a blog for this Newman fellow. It's ...

Cosmo, Paul, a tan

Hi. My name is Cosmo. I hang out in dog Heaven these days.

It's my second coming, to write a blog for this Newman fellow. It's nice to have one up on Jesus, who we are all still waiting for.

I was the prototypical dog. The first canine to grace the life of Paul, my owner. He was awfully lucky to find me in the big city pound.

This blog, this farrago of articles, would not exist without ME.

Look into my eyes. Keep looking. What do you see? No, not the devil. That's the flashbulb, because Paul doesn't know how to take a picture.

I'll tell you what you see. A handsome dog. Pulchritude at its finest. A clear sign that I wasn't genetically related to my owner.

Note the sexy tan, the slim snout, the shiny coat and the intelligent expression. You can't tell if I just finished a game of chess or ate a high heeled shoe. I'm that good. Far superior to that Newman, that pale excuse for a "dog". A country dog. A redneck.

And what does Paul do? Names me after Cosmo Kramer, instead of far more appropriate people. Real people, like George Clooney, Chris Hemsworth or Samuel L. Jackson.

One time I took down a vicious Bullmastiff with my bare teeth in five seconds flat, and then continued on with my day like nothing every happened, casually plucking Bull fur from my jaws. And Newman? Well, he's afraid of the vacuum.

Newman is cute and all, but scratch below the surface and you don't win the lottery on dogs. You get "Please try again".

I'll tell you, it's no use trying for the alpha dog, or alpha blog writing, because I have to return to Heaven.

Remember this face. We made a great team. Cosmo. Paul. A tan.

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes: As my brain gets older, I'm moving from the aphorism "if only I knew then what I know now" to "if only I knew now what I ...

Musings and Woes

As my brain gets older, I'm moving from the aphorism "if only I knew then what I know now" to "if only I knew now what I knew then."

Helloooo Newman: Read 'Em and Sleep

Helloooo Newman: Read 'Em and Sleep: Newman is celebrating 16,000 page views! That's 32,000 eyeballs!!!!! We are glad we could assist our readers in falling asleep every...

Read 'Em and Sleep

Newman is celebrating 16,000 page views!

That's 32,000 eyeballs!!!!!

We are glad we could assist our readers in falling asleep every night.

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes: Why all this fuss about some smart scientists discovering gravitational waves? I found gravitational waves around my waist when I turned 40....

Musings and Woes

Why all this fuss about some smart scientists discovering gravitational waves? I found gravitational waves around my waist when I turned 40.

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes: I received my colorectal cancer kit last week. I call it the male pap smear. As important as it is, I'm not doing it, because they are...

Musings and Woes

I received my colorectal cancer kit last week. I call it the male pap smear.

As important as it is, I'm not doing it, because they are asking me to join this weird fecal occult, and I'm just not into the occult.

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes: Today I learned that I should just be myself, but at the same time I would be more successful if I wasn't myself so often.

Musings and Woes

Today I learned that I should just be myself, but at the same time I would be more successful if I wasn't myself so often.

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes: As many of you may be aware, I don't often get serious in this blog. Many of you may also know I'm no Road's Scholar, or even ...

Musings and Woes

As many of you may be aware, I don't often get serious in this blog.

Many of you may also know I'm no Road's Scholar, or even a Rhodes Scholar.

More of a Dirt Road Scholar. Donkey Trail Scholar. Maybe just a Tire-Treads-in-the Mud-Leaving-a-Murder-Scene Scholar.

Lately, though, I've been wrestling with the meaning of life. My life, in particular, since I have to put up with it every day.

I read some of Viktor Frankl's Man's Search For Meaning.

I read the English version…I think. Couldn't really understand all of it. But some of it stuck with me.

As I age, how is my raison d'être changing?

First off, I don't really like Glosette raisins anymore. I prefer the peanuts.

But I think it goes deeper than that.

What really gives meaning to my life right now? What do I get up for?

Here's a partial list:

• Adam's Peanut Butter
• Miss Vickie's Applewood Smoked bbq Chips
• Adam's Peanut Butter
• Miss Vickie's Applewood Smoked bbq Chips

That about does it. We're done here.

Helloooo Newman: Weather or Not

Helloooo Newman: Weather or Not: We spend far too much time talking about weather. I don't mean at the interpersonal level. You're sandwiched in a chairlift with a...

Weather or Not

We spend far too much time talking about weather.

I don't mean at the interpersonal level. You're sandwiched in a chairlift with a stranger or waiting for a bus and the brass-balls-off-a-monkey arctic air exfoliates your face. Weather is bound to come up as a topic.

The weather coverage on your average newscast is far too long, technical and boring.

Everything I need to know about the weather can be shown in about four pictures – a smiley face sun, clouds, raindrops (with the occasional lightning bolt) and snowflakes. Done.

You could get a JK class to report the weather every day, because they're drawing that kind of shit all the time.

I think The Wiggles singing the weather is far more interesting than what's out there now. Have you heard their rendition of Dylan's "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall"? Completely new take on it.

I don't need to know the dew point to dew what I do. I need to know what the hell you dew for a living, weatherperson.

Some of these weather reports get into types of clouds, convection currents, wind sheers, convergence, humidity levels, warnings and minute-by-minute precipitation, all seven days in advance, and taking 20 minutes to explain.

The weatherman on CNN is so dead serious about the, um, weather. As if he's some kind of investigative reporter. Is he the Bob Woodward or Carl Bernstein of weather? I think he wrote All the President's Weathermen.

It's time to fire all the weather reporters out there and make it more interesting. Let's give some other people a chance.

Here are some ideas:

A bi-polar weather reporter: Only reports the highs and lows.

A drug dealer weather reporter: Only reports about acid rain and snow.

The ADHD, or schizophrenic, weather reporter: Only reports scattered showers.

An AA member weather reporter: Only reports during the dry season.

A bank manager weather reporter: Only reports on the owezone.

The eye doctor weather reporter: Only reports visibility.

The diamond thief weather reporter: Only reports about ice. The racially sensitive diamond thief reports about black ice too.

The only weather report I'll really pay attention to is the one 3 billion years from now when the sun is about to explode. That's useful. I'll put on a little extra sunscreen that day.

Helloooo Newman: Not My Type

Helloooo Newman: Not My Type: As I've alluded to in past blogs, my single, dating life was abysmal. I had less chance of success than the ISIS barber shop down the ...

Not My Type

As I've alluded to in past blogs, my single, dating life was abysmal.

I had less chance of success than the ISIS barber shop down the street "taking a little off the top, please."

The girls I met all had the same excuse. "You're not my type." If I was paranoid, I would conclude that they all somehow colluded in rejecting me. BUT I'M NOT PARANOID ABOUT GIRLS THAT ARE AGAINST ME!

I looked for all kinds of situations in which to meet my match.

One time I met a girl while designing a newsletter for a big client. She said I'm not her typeface.

I went to the blood bank beside Pierre Trudeau's office and asked a girl, "Hey, I'm a bleeding heart Liberal, would you go out with me?" "Sorry, not my blood type."

On a date one time, I treated a girl to all the timbits she could eat, and she said, "Um, you're just not my type two diabetes."

I met a really cute girl at an audition, and she said, "You're not my typecasting."

I wrote a sweet love letter to a girl and misspelled "love" as "live". "I live you." "Nope. You're not my typo."

I tried playing romantic music. "You're not my stereotype."

I gave out phone number after phone number. "You're not my teletype."

I used every excuse in the book.

During a really bad rain storm, I told a girl it was flooding and she better hop in my boat. "You're not my archetype."

My twin brother below, the same genotype as me, never had that problem.

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes

Helloooo Newman: Musings and Woes: If there are mermaids, why aren't there manmaids? Maybe they died out. Great, another manmaid disaster. Does the airport in Montreal r...

Musings and Woes

If there are mermaids, why aren't there manmaids? Maybe they died out. Great, another manmaid disaster.

Does the airport in Montreal really need to be called Pierre Elliot Trudeau airport? It's such a long name. Why not just Pierreport?

Helloooo Newman: Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name.

Helloooo Newman: Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name.: I'm not a sex trade worker, but I can make you want me soooo bad. I won't cook your food and clean your underwear, but you'll ...

Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name.

I'm not a sex trade worker, but I can make you want me soooo bad.

I won't cook your food and clean your underwear, but you'll still be in a great mood when I'm around a lot.

I won't stand five steps behind you and laugh at all your jokes, but when I'm beside you, you'll love that party.

I'm not alcohol, but when I flow, everything seems great.

You want that chili coming out the other end - as chili? You'll need me to avoid that.

I can just pick up and leave, and you will get very depressed. Once I'm gone, you'll be begging me to come back, or you might even forget I ever existed. Then you're in big trouble.

I can be Satan, or a sweet angel.

Hi, My name is Sarah. Sarah Tonin.

Your best friend.