HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Friday, 28 November 2014
Helloooo Newman: The Evidence is In
Helloooo Newman: The Evidence is In: One Saturday afternoon, while the girls were on one of their endless shopping tours, I found the time in my busy schedule to read an interes...
The Evidence is In
One Saturday afternoon, while the girls were on one of their endless shopping tours, I found the time in my busy schedule to read an interesting "scientific" study.
The bed sheets were being washed. That's what gave me the break in my busy napping schedule to read. Sleeping on a bare mattress? NO. Sounds like Guantanamo Bay.
The "scientific" study involved a bunch of scientists researching near death experiences, or more accurately, dead for just a short while experiences.
I'll précis the article. I have to, actually, because I didn't read most of it. Just the headline and the conclusion. Okay, a bit in the middle too. The bed sheets were now dry so I had to finish up reading quickly and get back to my scheduled activities.
These "scientists" looked at various studies of people who died (as in their heart stopped beating) for 20 minutes to half an hour. I could use a good solid nap like that.
They found that a healthy portion of these dead "temps" reported wonderful afterlife experiences while they were dead, and the experiences were all very similar.
From this they confidently concluded that there is no death as many traditionally view it – rotting corpse, no taxes and nothingness.
We can all expect an afterlife, and a pleasant one at that. A bold and brash conclusion, for sure.
Well, I have a few questions, thank you.
I think most of us, while we're alive, subscribe to the too-good-to-be-true point of view when it comes to a lot of everyday things.
Eat those love handles away with endless diet fries, the taxman made a mistake in your favour to the tune of $1,000,000, Charlize Theron asks where you've been all her life, Brad Pitt leaves his Queen of cinema for you and a backsplit in Don Mills. All too-good-to-be-true.
The joyful, no traffic, no job to get to, no kid's ass to wipe and FREE lifestyle, however, awaits your death.
Is this not the ethereal equivalent of Floridian swamp land?
Another, rather obvious question is why not skip the sucky life and go directly to the after sucky life?
The off-the-rack answer is you can't possibly enjoy the good without the bad to remind you that the good is, ah, actually good.
The afterlife, as advertised, is nothing but good. How do we know it's all good, when it is, ah, all good? Maybe there's just a tad bad, like a charge for the infinite buffet.
Who were these dead-for-a-while people? It sounds like ALL of them were headed to Heaven, seeing as they all reported finding their G(od) spot. But I'm thinking when you take a random sampling of the population, chances are there will be a pedophile or two in the mix.
Why didn't we hear a story of a guy having his scrotum slowly cut off with a dull blade and fed to him through one of those cake decoration tubes, as all pedophiles deserve? The bad with the good, right?
I find something even more disturbing in this afterlife sales job. Suppose you (a good person) are at a soccer game in Pakistan and a disgruntled religious fanatic sits down beside you and detonates his backpack.
Great, now you're both dead. Except you can't die, remember? As you both float into the afterlife, will you be beside each other, like you were at the soccer game?
Now that's awkward. Should the terrorist apologize? "Ya, about that explosion. Hey how 'bout a year's worth of free infinite buffet?
Should you demand an apology and some kind of compensation? Why, when we've "scientifically" established you're in for a much better time than lousy seats at a sporting event. Maybe a thank you is in order.
Is there really an afterlife? Sooner or later we're all experts on the subject.
The bed sheets were being washed. That's what gave me the break in my busy napping schedule to read. Sleeping on a bare mattress? NO. Sounds like Guantanamo Bay.
The "scientific" study involved a bunch of scientists researching near death experiences, or more accurately, dead for just a short while experiences.
I'll précis the article. I have to, actually, because I didn't read most of it. Just the headline and the conclusion. Okay, a bit in the middle too. The bed sheets were now dry so I had to finish up reading quickly and get back to my scheduled activities.
These "scientists" looked at various studies of people who died (as in their heart stopped beating) for 20 minutes to half an hour. I could use a good solid nap like that.
They found that a healthy portion of these dead "temps" reported wonderful afterlife experiences while they were dead, and the experiences were all very similar.
From this they confidently concluded that there is no death as many traditionally view it – rotting corpse, no taxes and nothingness.
We can all expect an afterlife, and a pleasant one at that. A bold and brash conclusion, for sure.
Well, I have a few questions, thank you.
I think most of us, while we're alive, subscribe to the too-good-to-be-true point of view when it comes to a lot of everyday things.
Eat those love handles away with endless diet fries, the taxman made a mistake in your favour to the tune of $1,000,000, Charlize Theron asks where you've been all her life, Brad Pitt leaves his Queen of cinema for you and a backsplit in Don Mills. All too-good-to-be-true.
The joyful, no traffic, no job to get to, no kid's ass to wipe and FREE lifestyle, however, awaits your death.
Is this not the ethereal equivalent of Floridian swamp land?
Another, rather obvious question is why not skip the sucky life and go directly to the after sucky life?
The off-the-rack answer is you can't possibly enjoy the good without the bad to remind you that the good is, ah, actually good.
The afterlife, as advertised, is nothing but good. How do we know it's all good, when it is, ah, all good? Maybe there's just a tad bad, like a charge for the infinite buffet.
Who were these dead-for-a-while people? It sounds like ALL of them were headed to Heaven, seeing as they all reported finding their G(od) spot. But I'm thinking when you take a random sampling of the population, chances are there will be a pedophile or two in the mix.
Why didn't we hear a story of a guy having his scrotum slowly cut off with a dull blade and fed to him through one of those cake decoration tubes, as all pedophiles deserve? The bad with the good, right?
I find something even more disturbing in this afterlife sales job. Suppose you (a good person) are at a soccer game in Pakistan and a disgruntled religious fanatic sits down beside you and detonates his backpack.
Great, now you're both dead. Except you can't die, remember? As you both float into the afterlife, will you be beside each other, like you were at the soccer game?
Now that's awkward. Should the terrorist apologize? "Ya, about that explosion. Hey how 'bout a year's worth of free infinite buffet?
Should you demand an apology and some kind of compensation? Why, when we've "scientifically" established you're in for a much better time than lousy seats at a sporting event. Maybe a thank you is in order.
Is there really an afterlife? Sooner or later we're all experts on the subject.
Sunday, 23 November 2014
Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times
Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times: As I was driving along Eglinton Avenue in me car, I saw a strange road sign. The sign read: Left Lane Exists . Really and truthfully, that...
Friday, 21 November 2014
Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times
Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times: As I was driving along Eglinton Avenue in me car, I saw a strange road sign. The sign read: Left Lane Exists . Really and truthfully, that...
Traffic sign of the times
As I was driving along Eglinton Avenue in me car, I saw a strange road sign.
The sign read: Left Lane Exists. Really and truthfully, that is how it read.
I was immediately curious. Having too much curiosity about a road sign, by the way, can be bad for your health. As I studied the sign to make sure of what I was reading, a bus almost rearranged my front hood, along with my face.
Left Lane Exists, you say?
I seem to remember in 1966 Time magazine questioned the existence of the left lane on the cover.
Is the left lane dead? asked the headline.
Oh, wait a minute. That was about God. Is God Dead? Time asked. Sorry, got confused.
The great philosopher Frederich Nietzsche said the left lane was dead. He didn't mean a literal left lane, but a metaphorical left lane, which makes it hard to pass slow cars.
What? Oh, ya. Fred was talking about God too.
Still, I'm not convinced the left lane exists. I didn't actually see it, although some signs were there.
Every once in a while I had the feeling a left lane must exist because I wanted to pass the old lady in front of me. I was sure this deep feeling to pass must signify the presence of a left lane.
I got into an argument with a guy claiming to be a Buddhist. He said there were many left lanes that existed. I questioned whether we have that much asphalt.
A bunch of guys in robes pulled me over and tried to convince me that the left lane did exist and could I give them money. I guess to repave the left lane? To build more?
A Hindu guy I ran into said there were many, many left lanes, and I should be careful not to speed in my carma because it will come back to me.
I guess I haven't decided yet if I believe that a left lane exists or not. There should be a word for people who are sitting in the middle of the road, not sure if there really is a left lane out there.
The sign read: Left Lane Exists. Really and truthfully, that is how it read.
I was immediately curious. Having too much curiosity about a road sign, by the way, can be bad for your health. As I studied the sign to make sure of what I was reading, a bus almost rearranged my front hood, along with my face.
Left Lane Exists, you say?
I seem to remember in 1966 Time magazine questioned the existence of the left lane on the cover.
Is the left lane dead? asked the headline.
Oh, wait a minute. That was about God. Is God Dead? Time asked. Sorry, got confused.
The great philosopher Frederich Nietzsche said the left lane was dead. He didn't mean a literal left lane, but a metaphorical left lane, which makes it hard to pass slow cars.
What? Oh, ya. Fred was talking about God too.
Still, I'm not convinced the left lane exists. I didn't actually see it, although some signs were there.
Every once in a while I had the feeling a left lane must exist because I wanted to pass the old lady in front of me. I was sure this deep feeling to pass must signify the presence of a left lane.
I got into an argument with a guy claiming to be a Buddhist. He said there were many left lanes that existed. I questioned whether we have that much asphalt.
A bunch of guys in robes pulled me over and tried to convince me that the left lane did exist and could I give them money. I guess to repave the left lane? To build more?
A Hindu guy I ran into said there were many, many left lanes, and I should be careful not to speed in my carma because it will come back to me.
I guess I haven't decided yet if I believe that a left lane exists or not. There should be a word for people who are sitting in the middle of the road, not sure if there really is a left lane out there.
Tuesday, 18 November 2014
Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?
Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?: Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to customers as "boss"? I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me bo...
Thursday, 13 November 2014
Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more
Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep always goes on top. And she doesn&...
Wednesday, 12 November 2014
Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza
Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza: Glory be to Dr. Oetker. God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza. He must be readin...
Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul
Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul: I few weeks ago we went to a wedding. I don't attend a lot of weddings. If people celebrated divorces, I would be very busy with that....
Friday, 7 November 2014
Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul
Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul: I few weeks ago we went to a wedding. I don't attend a lot of weddings. If people celebrated divorces, I would be very busy with that....
Shoeless Paul
I few weeks ago we went to a wedding.
I don't attend a lot of weddings. If people celebrated divorces, I would be very busy with that.
My first reaction to the wedding was, well, at least it's not a funeral.
My second reaction? Oh God, how do I break the news to the moths that I need my suit for an evening?
The moths that survived took it well.
I wished we lived in a world where one could wear very comfortable running shoes with a suit and tie. People look at me like I'm from another planet, or they think I have the reverse aging disease.
So off I went to look for my dress shoes. I opened our front hall closet thinking they must be in there. Shoes poured out of what seemed like a black hole belonging to Fendi.
Fifteen minutes later, when I regained consciousness, I called TeleHealth and got a woman on the line. She insisted she needed to know the make and model of the shoes before she could treat me properly. Were they pumps or flats? Stilettos are very bad for the eyes. Did you pay retail? I hung up and covered my cuts with brown shoe polish. Weird tan, Paul.
Screaming in pain, I also almost swallowed my tongue. Quick work with a shoe horn saved me.
Subsequent forensic analysis revealed there were 1200 pairs of shoes, 1100 belonging to my wife and 100 to my daughter.
No sign of my shoes.
Long and sad story short. My shoes were buried away in the basement, obviously in a place that would survive a nuclear blast so we could enjoy a nice dinner out after the fallout.
I asked my wife, like, seriously, why were my shoes buried in Hell?
"Oh dear, it's so obvious. There was no room in the closet."
I don't attend a lot of weddings. If people celebrated divorces, I would be very busy with that.
My first reaction to the wedding was, well, at least it's not a funeral.
My second reaction? Oh God, how do I break the news to the moths that I need my suit for an evening?
The moths that survived took it well.
I wished we lived in a world where one could wear very comfortable running shoes with a suit and tie. People look at me like I'm from another planet, or they think I have the reverse aging disease.
So off I went to look for my dress shoes. I opened our front hall closet thinking they must be in there. Shoes poured out of what seemed like a black hole belonging to Fendi.
Fifteen minutes later, when I regained consciousness, I called TeleHealth and got a woman on the line. She insisted she needed to know the make and model of the shoes before she could treat me properly. Were they pumps or flats? Stilettos are very bad for the eyes. Did you pay retail? I hung up and covered my cuts with brown shoe polish. Weird tan, Paul.
Screaming in pain, I also almost swallowed my tongue. Quick work with a shoe horn saved me.
Subsequent forensic analysis revealed there were 1200 pairs of shoes, 1100 belonging to my wife and 100 to my daughter.
No sign of my shoes.
Long and sad story short. My shoes were buried away in the basement, obviously in a place that would survive a nuclear blast so we could enjoy a nice dinner out after the fallout.
I asked my wife, like, seriously, why were my shoes buried in Hell?
"Oh dear, it's so obvious. There was no room in the closet."
Thursday, 6 November 2014
Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?
Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?: Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to the customer as "boss"? I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me...
Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?
Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?: Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to the customer as "boss"? I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me...
Who's the Boss?
Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to customers as "boss"?
I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me boss. "Your car is ready, boss." He had to say it three times because my name is not boss and I didn't know he was talking to me. I was busy lying on the floor checking the differentials on various trucks. They were all…um…the same?
I suppose he is right, though. At least temporarily, I am his boss in that I have "hired" him for a short time to attend to my needs.
He was a nice guy so I wanted to give him a raise, maybe an extra week of vacation or up his pee breaks to four a day. Technically I could have, since I was his boss, but he would only enjoy that for about an hour. Then I resign as his boss (a.k.a. leaving the store) and he starts all over with a new boss. Imagine breaking in a new boss every hour.
That last sentence reminds me of the time my brother and I broke into a vibrating bed machine at a motel. We cracked open this little metal case and kept re-feeding it quarters every hour so the bed shook all night. I guess bosses are like perpetually vibrating beds. Fun for a while, you don't get much sleep, and then you want to smash the metal case with a blunt instrument.
So why don't other professionals I use call me boss?
Why have I not heard my surgeon say: "Okay, boss, I changed up your spleen, aligned your joints, cleared your manifold veins, changed your speech filter, purged your heart valves and oiled your love handles. You should really get a new timing belt. It's choking your ball joints."
"All under warranty, boss."
That'll do, employee.
What about your priest. "Hey boss, I don't blame you for layin' a little pipe with the neighbour. She comes to this church and she's a hot one."
This would never happen, obviously, because the priest knows who's the REAL boss.
Imagine how confused I was when I overheard another customer complaining about the service. "I WANT TO SEE YOUR BOSS!"
He must mean me, I thought. I'm the boss. Or is the other customer? Are they calling him boss too?
Does this mean he's my boss? Where am I in the organizational chart?
Who's the boss here? I have to pee.
I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me boss. "Your car is ready, boss." He had to say it three times because my name is not boss and I didn't know he was talking to me. I was busy lying on the floor checking the differentials on various trucks. They were all…um…the same?
I suppose he is right, though. At least temporarily, I am his boss in that I have "hired" him for a short time to attend to my needs.
He was a nice guy so I wanted to give him a raise, maybe an extra week of vacation or up his pee breaks to four a day. Technically I could have, since I was his boss, but he would only enjoy that for about an hour. Then I resign as his boss (a.k.a. leaving the store) and he starts all over with a new boss. Imagine breaking in a new boss every hour.
That last sentence reminds me of the time my brother and I broke into a vibrating bed machine at a motel. We cracked open this little metal case and kept re-feeding it quarters every hour so the bed shook all night. I guess bosses are like perpetually vibrating beds. Fun for a while, you don't get much sleep, and then you want to smash the metal case with a blunt instrument.
So why don't other professionals I use call me boss?
Why have I not heard my surgeon say: "Okay, boss, I changed up your spleen, aligned your joints, cleared your manifold veins, changed your speech filter, purged your heart valves and oiled your love handles. You should really get a new timing belt. It's choking your ball joints."
"All under warranty, boss."
That'll do, employee.
What about your priest. "Hey boss, I don't blame you for layin' a little pipe with the neighbour. She comes to this church and she's a hot one."
This would never happen, obviously, because the priest knows who's the REAL boss.
Imagine how confused I was when I overheard another customer complaining about the service. "I WANT TO SEE YOUR BOSS!"
He must mean me, I thought. I'm the boss. Or is the other customer? Are they calling him boss too?
Does this mean he's my boss? Where am I in the organizational chart?
Who's the boss here? I have to pee.
Tuesday, 4 November 2014
Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet
Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet: I guess now is a good time to admit to my loyal readers a secret I've been shouldering for a while now. Actually, forget my shoulders....
Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet
Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet: I guess now is a good time to admit to my loyal readers a secret I've been shouldering for a while now. Actually, forget my shoulders....
My head is coming out of the closet
I guess now is a good time to admit to my loyal readers a secret I've been shouldering for a while now.
Actually, forget my shoulders. It's about my head. I'm coming out of the closet about my head.
Yes, I use Product on my hair. With a capital "P". That rhymes with "G". G, that's expensive Product. Is there Cocaine in it?
The secret, really, is that my hair is thinning and the Product is suppose to thicken things up.
I know, the thinning part isn't so much a secret. Only to my self-esteem.
The Product comes in three varieties.
1: Helps just-starting-to-thin hair
2: For noticeably thinning hair
3: Helps grow a penis on your head so people don't notice the absence of hair. A Hair Distraction System.
Oh, look at that gentleman. So old and not balding. What an attractive penis on his head.
Actually, I use number two. I'm not sure if it works yet, but last week as I was massaging some into my scalp, a drop fell onto my lips and I had to shave them the next morning. Glad I wasn't using number three! I'm, um, not into that.
Actually, forget my shoulders. It's about my head. I'm coming out of the closet about my head.
Yes, I use Product on my hair. With a capital "P". That rhymes with "G". G, that's expensive Product. Is there Cocaine in it?
The secret, really, is that my hair is thinning and the Product is suppose to thicken things up.
I know, the thinning part isn't so much a secret. Only to my self-esteem.
The Product comes in three varieties.
1: Helps just-starting-to-thin hair
2: For noticeably thinning hair
3: Helps grow a penis on your head so people don't notice the absence of hair. A Hair Distraction System.
Oh, look at that gentleman. So old and not balding. What an attractive penis on his head.
Actually, I use number two. I'm not sure if it works yet, but last week as I was massaging some into my scalp, a drop fell onto my lips and I had to shave them the next morning. Glad I wasn't using number three! I'm, um, not into that.
Wednesday, 29 October 2014
Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza
Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza: Glory be to Dr. Oetker. God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza. He is reading my ...
Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza
Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza: Glory be to Dr. Oetker. God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza. He is reading my ...
The Shroud of Pizza
Glory be to Dr. Oetker.
God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza.
He must be reading my blog after all.
This holy piece of parchment above came with my Dr. Oetker pizza. I followed the instructions carefully: Place pizza and parchment tray in oven at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. Genuflect. Pray.
And look what appeared. The face of Jesus in a pizza. Well, on the under-wrapping anyway.
It's a lucky bonus that this showed up in a "healthy" Dr. Oetker pizza, with only 15,000 calories (even after I added the maple bacon) instead of the normal 35,000
Oh, I get it. You think it's a fake? You want to carbon date it?
I really thought after all these years we had built up more trust.
I realize this image can be interpreted in many ways. Some of them occurred to me as well:
• Maybe the Fathers at the Vatican were a little distracted while the hosts baked too long in the oven. Boys will do that to you.
• Maybe the Vatican ovens broke down so they were forced to order hosts from the Waffle House down the street.
• Looks a bit like my underwear after I finish ironing it.
• Reminds me of a Timbit run over by a bus.
• Perhaps it's Al Jolson's cleansing pad (wow, you're aging yourself there, Paul)
• More currently, I might guess it's the resulting hickey from a date with Jian Ghomeshi
Nope, this is the one AND ONLY shroud of pizza, which means the J man (not Jian) was there in the oven while it was cooking.
If you zoom in about one million percent, His lips seem to be whispering my name. I don't know, maybe He's just saying, "more maple bacon."
I know for sure He's saying "Thank God there isn't any broccoli on this pizza," because that's the devil's work.
I've always known at the core of my spiritual self that Jesus is a meat lover.
Maybe it works like this: God is love. But Jesus, who has actually taken the time to come down here and try our food, loves meat the best.
Where's the proof? Notice how a bit of the edge is crumbled away? I think Jesus got a bit hungry and nibbled at what He thought was the pizza. I'm sure after eating hosts and all He's use to that flavour.
What do you see?
Monday, 27 October 2014
Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more
Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep always goes on top. And she doesn&...
Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more
Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep always goes on top. And she doesn&...
Sunday, 26 October 2014
Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more
Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep always goes on top. And she doesn&...
Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more
Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep always goes on top. And she doesn&...
To sleep, perchance to sleep some more
I love sleep.
I'm also in love with sleep.
So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep always goes on top.
And she doesn't mind if I fall asleep after.
I eat, breath and sleep sleep.
Shakespeare inspired the name of this blog because there's nothing like his writing to put me to sleep. Even when he's translated into English, I get snoozy.
Actually, all reading puts me to sleep. So does talking. Moving, eating…
I guess the only thing that doesn't make me sleepy is actually sleeping.
When I heard they have sleep studies I was amazed. I've been studying for that my whole life. I did the exam in my sleep.
The best part of sleeping, other than not being awake, is dreaming.
I'm just so successful in my dreams. It's where all my dreams come true.
My favourite dreams are the ones where I'm sleeping. I'll admit, though, some dreams are hard to decipher. One time I fell asleep skydiving (I can sleep anywhere) and dreamt that I was falling.
What does that mean? Just plain weird.
People warn me. Paul, if you sleep so much you'll never get any exercise. Are you kidding me? Have they not heard of the sleep cycle? I ride it all the time. That's why I sweat so much when I sleep.
I don't just sleep alone, either. I've slept with a lot of women in my days. A lot. After we woke up, I would ask every one of them, listen, are we going to have sex or not?
Sleep is many things to me but it's especially my grade 9 math teacher. Just like my sleep, you never interrupt my grade 9 math teacher. If you did you suffered the 4 piece pencil trick.
He was a scary dude – he looked like Norman Schwarzkopf and had the demeanor of Norman Bates.
I aways wanted to show him the 4 piece collar bone trick. I've read collar bone fractures are quite painful.
You do not want to deprive me of sleep. Once I was in line to buy clothes. The line would just not move. The lady in front of me didn't move an inch and I couldn't believe how quiet she was about it. I was fuming under my breath. Then I realized I had lined up behind a mannequin.
Some of the things we buy to sleep are strange. Memory foam mattresses? Do I need my mattress to remember me? Will it soon talk to me?
Mattress: You Bill?
Me: No, Paul
Mattress: You look like a Bill.
Me: You look like a Matt-get it? Mattress?
Mattress: Clever! Where's Bill? Wait, don't answer that. I remember Bill. He tried me at the store. Nice guy. Small dick.
Me: How many people do you know?
Mattress: Thousands.
Me. I own you now.
Mattress: Can I see the Bill? Get it? Bill? Alrighty, hop in and let's get to know each other.
When I was a kid I played sleepy in a grade school production of Snow White. I was so excited to finally show my acting skills and this role was, of course, type casting.
I was so committed I gain 20 pounds for the role. I figured heavy people probably sleep more because they get tired of lugging around all that weight. I guess all the excitement and celebrity got to me because I was having great difficulty finding my character, even though I'm a natural sleeper.
I had to do something so I took some Nyquil before my big performance. I drank five ounces – because it comes with that little shot glass. I got the sleepy part perfect. I missed some of my lines – okay all of them. Hey, I was asleep. I guess the upsetting part for many people was the school having to remove me from the stage and put me in an ambulance. This kind of behaviour is what we now call performance art.
I've fallen asleep in many strange places. I worked at Sunoco for a time and would nap on the toilet. One time I accidentally hit the little handle and down the toilet went all my dreams.
People say sleeping is easy, takes no skill. Really? How come so many people have trouble achieving it? What about insomniacs? Losers. Now it's not looking so easy, eh?
Oh, another thing makes me sleepy. Writing…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
I'm also in love with sleep.
So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep always goes on top.
And she doesn't mind if I fall asleep after.
I eat, breath and sleep sleep.
Shakespeare inspired the name of this blog because there's nothing like his writing to put me to sleep. Even when he's translated into English, I get snoozy.
Actually, all reading puts me to sleep. So does talking. Moving, eating…
I guess the only thing that doesn't make me sleepy is actually sleeping.
When I heard they have sleep studies I was amazed. I've been studying for that my whole life. I did the exam in my sleep.
The best part of sleeping, other than not being awake, is dreaming.
I'm just so successful in my dreams. It's where all my dreams come true.
My favourite dreams are the ones where I'm sleeping. I'll admit, though, some dreams are hard to decipher. One time I fell asleep skydiving (I can sleep anywhere) and dreamt that I was falling.
What does that mean? Just plain weird.
People warn me. Paul, if you sleep so much you'll never get any exercise. Are you kidding me? Have they not heard of the sleep cycle? I ride it all the time. That's why I sweat so much when I sleep.
I don't just sleep alone, either. I've slept with a lot of women in my days. A lot. After we woke up, I would ask every one of them, listen, are we going to have sex or not?
Sleep is many things to me but it's especially my grade 9 math teacher. Just like my sleep, you never interrupt my grade 9 math teacher. If you did you suffered the 4 piece pencil trick.
He was a scary dude – he looked like Norman Schwarzkopf and had the demeanor of Norman Bates.
I aways wanted to show him the 4 piece collar bone trick. I've read collar bone fractures are quite painful.
You do not want to deprive me of sleep. Once I was in line to buy clothes. The line would just not move. The lady in front of me didn't move an inch and I couldn't believe how quiet she was about it. I was fuming under my breath. Then I realized I had lined up behind a mannequin.
Some of the things we buy to sleep are strange. Memory foam mattresses? Do I need my mattress to remember me? Will it soon talk to me?
Mattress: You Bill?
Me: No, Paul
Mattress: You look like a Bill.
Me: You look like a Matt-get it? Mattress?
Mattress: Clever! Where's Bill? Wait, don't answer that. I remember Bill. He tried me at the store. Nice guy. Small dick.
Me: How many people do you know?
Mattress: Thousands.
Me. I own you now.
Mattress: Can I see the Bill? Get it? Bill? Alrighty, hop in and let's get to know each other.
When I was a kid I played sleepy in a grade school production of Snow White. I was so excited to finally show my acting skills and this role was, of course, type casting.
I was so committed I gain 20 pounds for the role. I figured heavy people probably sleep more because they get tired of lugging around all that weight. I guess all the excitement and celebrity got to me because I was having great difficulty finding my character, even though I'm a natural sleeper.
I had to do something so I took some Nyquil before my big performance. I drank five ounces – because it comes with that little shot glass. I got the sleepy part perfect. I missed some of my lines – okay all of them. Hey, I was asleep. I guess the upsetting part for many people was the school having to remove me from the stage and put me in an ambulance. This kind of behaviour is what we now call performance art.
I've fallen asleep in many strange places. I worked at Sunoco for a time and would nap on the toilet. One time I accidentally hit the little handle and down the toilet went all my dreams.
People say sleeping is easy, takes no skill. Really? How come so many people have trouble achieving it? What about insomniacs? Losers. Now it's not looking so easy, eh?
Oh, another thing makes me sleepy. Writing…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Saturday, 25 October 2014
Helloooo Newman: Bobble Dog Challenge
Helloooo Newman: Bobble Dog Challenge: Hi, I'm a dog bobble head. Former, actually. Those were the days, ridin' up there at the front of the car, screaming "I&#...
Helloooo Newman: Bobble Dog Challenge
Helloooo Newman: Bobble Dog Challenge: Hi, I'm a dog bobble head. Former, actually. Those were the days, ridin' up there at the front of the car, screaming "I&#...
Bobble Dog Challenge
Hi, I'm a dog bobble head. Former, actually.
Those were the days, ridin' up there at the front of the car, screaming "I'm the king of the world."
Then came the neck injuries. Headaches. All that bouncing around. No insurance.
I sued for damages, won and bought these two real legs. Very cool, but hard to balance.
I've stuck my neck out. Now it's your turn.
I beg you to take the Bobble Dog Challenge, a fundraiser to help me get a body and a second set of legs. Tail too.
It's so easy: the next time you're driving a car, stick your head out the window, bobble it around and yell "body and some legs for bobble."
Then keep driving to my place and give me money.
Pleeeeeeeeze. I beg you. I'll come to your house and stare at you if you don't do it.
You can follow me on my Headbook page and my Litter feed (#dogtag:Newman).
Bobble on over!
PS: Please, no bacon strips. Cash only.
Monday, 20 October 2014
Helloooo Newman: God
Helloooo Newman: God: As I get older I think a lot about God. He doesn't think much about me, but that's okay. He must be awfully busy these days – what...
God
As I get older I think a lot about God.
He doesn't think much about me, but that's okay. He must be awfully busy these days – what with ISIS and Ebola on the run and the bloody TTC being closed every weekend for repairs.
I'm often reminded of that song, which asked the question, "what if God was one of us?"
What would it look like if God were a regular dude, like you and me?
Take the universe, for example. He owns it, right? I wonder if there's a mortgage on it? I figure there must be and all His money is going to pay it off, amortized over infinity, of course.
That's why He has no money to fix things up. Not only are perfectly good stars exploding all over the place, but my George Foreman grill broke its leg the first time I cooked bacon on it. Shoddy work if you ask me.
It's possible He didn't create the universe, but rather bought it as a fixer-upper. DIY universe. No wonder we can't find any other life around. Would you buy here voluntarily? I'm just renting, thank you.
Hey God, you can start the reno anytime now. We won't mind the dust.
This might explain global warming. Poor humans – we think we're responsible for it. It's all God's work. A kind of neighbourhood improvement plan. To make the universe more pleasant for seadoos and tanning. You know, for resale.
I know God inspired the Apostles to write the Bible, but did He ever read it before going to press?
It says no man shall ever lie beside another. Does that include camping? It can get pretty tight in those popup tents. I faced that dilemma once with bunk beds. Clearly I was on top of a man. That must be worse!
Maybe He meant no man shall lie to another man – about the size of his penis.
He also makes greed a sin. Oh, really? Did He ever have a daughter in braces? I think a little greed is gonna help me eat today.
What would God's personal life be like? Does He vacation? If so, where? He's already everywhere. That limits your options for a good time.
As you can see, the more I think about God the more confused I get.
But at least I do know with certainty that He exists, thanks to Apple. Every time I type in "god" on my iphone, the spelling guy automatically capitalizes the "G". So I guess I'll go with – Dude.
Very respectful, indeed.
He doesn't think much about me, but that's okay. He must be awfully busy these days – what with ISIS and Ebola on the run and the bloody TTC being closed every weekend for repairs.
I'm often reminded of that song, which asked the question, "what if God was one of us?"
What would it look like if God were a regular dude, like you and me?
Take the universe, for example. He owns it, right? I wonder if there's a mortgage on it? I figure there must be and all His money is going to pay it off, amortized over infinity, of course.
That's why He has no money to fix things up. Not only are perfectly good stars exploding all over the place, but my George Foreman grill broke its leg the first time I cooked bacon on it. Shoddy work if you ask me.
It's possible He didn't create the universe, but rather bought it as a fixer-upper. DIY universe. No wonder we can't find any other life around. Would you buy here voluntarily? I'm just renting, thank you.
Hey God, you can start the reno anytime now. We won't mind the dust.
This might explain global warming. Poor humans – we think we're responsible for it. It's all God's work. A kind of neighbourhood improvement plan. To make the universe more pleasant for seadoos and tanning. You know, for resale.
I know God inspired the Apostles to write the Bible, but did He ever read it before going to press?
It says no man shall ever lie beside another. Does that include camping? It can get pretty tight in those popup tents. I faced that dilemma once with bunk beds. Clearly I was on top of a man. That must be worse!
Maybe He meant no man shall lie to another man – about the size of his penis.
He also makes greed a sin. Oh, really? Did He ever have a daughter in braces? I think a little greed is gonna help me eat today.
What would God's personal life be like? Does He vacation? If so, where? He's already everywhere. That limits your options for a good time.
As you can see, the more I think about God the more confused I get.
But at least I do know with certainty that He exists, thanks to Apple. Every time I type in "god" on my iphone, the spelling guy automatically capitalizes the "G". So I guess I'll go with – Dude.
Very respectful, indeed.
Sunday, 19 October 2014
Helloooo Newman: I'm lousy at math but I do add up the little thing...
Helloooo Newman: I'm lousy at math but I do add up the little thing...: Life is full of stressors, big and small. I think it's the small stressors that add up to make our lives more difficult. One small t...
Saturday, 18 October 2014
Helloooo Newman: I'm lousy at math but I do add up the little thing...
Helloooo Newman: I'm lousy at math but I do add up the little thing...: Life is full of stressors, big and small. I think it's the small stressors that add up to make our lives more difficult. One small t...
I'm lousy at math but I do add up the little things
Life is full of stressors, big and small.
I think it's the small stressors that add up to make our lives more difficult.
One small thing that really stresses me out – okay it's very tiny, minuscule, impossible to see without an electron microscope.
It happens when I approach an intersection on foot to cross the street.
The light is green and those numbers telling you how much time you have to cross are counting down. That's it. That's what gives my nervous system a little nudge. Over and over again. Each time taking a few seconds off my lifespan due to stress.
As soon as I look up and see the numbers crunching, 8-7-6, my brain automatically tries to calculate how many steps I walk per second, how many seconds are left and will I make it. Since my brain is distracted with the math, and not doing a good job, I lose focus and trip. Another 2 seconds lost.
Will I cross in time? Or will I get a free ride on the hood of a TTC bus? Worse still, will I be 1/27th of the way through the intersection and have to pull back, looking silly and awkward (and lousy at math).
Don't we get enough information in this world?
I watched the surgery channel the other day. A doctor was delicately routing his way through a man's brain who had a stroke.
What I didn't see was a little clock counting each and every second he had left to dig around in the brain before he caused another stroke, or erased the man's personality, or before the brain caught a cold.
Imagine if everything we did was counted by the second. You now have 15 seconds before you get diarrhea from eating at Red Lobster. 14-13-12.…I guess that's good to know, but not in the car. Maybe you could have held it a little longer, but the clock says no.
You are having sex. You now have 12 seconds before you lose your erection. Of course, once a man is told that pressure-filled information, the erection deflates immediately, looking much like the Hindenburg's ill-fated trip. No need to continue the count down, thank you.
See what I mean?
Then it occurred to me. Perhaps a pedometer would help. Maybe I could pair it via bluetooth with the lights and it would tell me the size and number of steps needed to safely cross.
I could pick an intersection and cross continuously until I got the numbers right. Would that look silly?
Writing this post has erased 3 minutes from my lifetime. See what I give up to entertain the world?
I think it's the small stressors that add up to make our lives more difficult.
One small thing that really stresses me out – okay it's very tiny, minuscule, impossible to see without an electron microscope.
It happens when I approach an intersection on foot to cross the street.
The light is green and those numbers telling you how much time you have to cross are counting down. That's it. That's what gives my nervous system a little nudge. Over and over again. Each time taking a few seconds off my lifespan due to stress.
As soon as I look up and see the numbers crunching, 8-7-6, my brain automatically tries to calculate how many steps I walk per second, how many seconds are left and will I make it. Since my brain is distracted with the math, and not doing a good job, I lose focus and trip. Another 2 seconds lost.
Will I cross in time? Or will I get a free ride on the hood of a TTC bus? Worse still, will I be 1/27th of the way through the intersection and have to pull back, looking silly and awkward (and lousy at math).
Don't we get enough information in this world?
I watched the surgery channel the other day. A doctor was delicately routing his way through a man's brain who had a stroke.
What I didn't see was a little clock counting each and every second he had left to dig around in the brain before he caused another stroke, or erased the man's personality, or before the brain caught a cold.
Imagine if everything we did was counted by the second. You now have 15 seconds before you get diarrhea from eating at Red Lobster. 14-13-12.…I guess that's good to know, but not in the car. Maybe you could have held it a little longer, but the clock says no.
You are having sex. You now have 12 seconds before you lose your erection. Of course, once a man is told that pressure-filled information, the erection deflates immediately, looking much like the Hindenburg's ill-fated trip. No need to continue the count down, thank you.
See what I mean?
Then it occurred to me. Perhaps a pedometer would help. Maybe I could pair it via bluetooth with the lights and it would tell me the size and number of steps needed to safely cross.
I could pick an intersection and cross continuously until I got the numbers right. Would that look silly?
Writing this post has erased 3 minutes from my lifetime. See what I give up to entertain the world?
Friday, 17 October 2014
Helloooo Newman: It's the Most Saddiest Time of the Year
Helloooo Newman: It's the Most Saddiest Time of the Year: Come Fall, this is Newman's song. He howls it every day – to the tune of It's the Hap-Happiest Time of the Year. There is no tradi...
It's the Most Saddiest Time of the Year
Come Fall, this is Newman's song. He howls it every day – to the tune of It's the Hap-Happiest Time of the Year.
There is no traditional carolling for Newman as we approach the festive season. Taking its place is SAD, as in Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Dogs call this the Seasonal "I'm gonna crap on the shaggiest carpet I can find, I will eat rotten eggs and slow-release dog farts throughout the house, I will provide a safe and warm home to thousands of wayward ticks and fleas until you meet my one and only demand" Disorder.
And that demand is – take me back to that huge expanse where I can do anything I want.
We call it the cottage.
He calls it his happy green acres. For reasons he will never understand, access to his happy place is cutoff from October to April.
What's really amusing is the excuses he comes up with to try and get me to take him there.
Oh Paul, he asks, have you seen my monkey chew toy? You know, the one that I slowly eat over months and months, causing you to occasionally have to remove long threads from my anus as a result – and usually while I poop on Davisville Avenue as hundreds of cars stuck in traffic watch you tug away.
Oh Newman, no I haven't. Perhaps it's under the pile of dirty underwear you collect.
No, checked there. I think I left it at the cottage. Could we just nip up for a weekend and fetch it?
Well, Newman, math has never been your strong suit. Monkey toy equals $2. Gas to cottage equals $40. 40-2 equals NO.
What about the dog food we left up there? It's gonna go stale.
And you're still gonna eat it.
I left my favourite book up there.
I memorized it: See Spot Run – away from my hand!
I left my pacemaker up there?
Thousands of dollars in vet bills says your heart is as good as it's gonna get.
I'll eat your shoes.
If the shoe fits – in your colon – have fun with that.
There is no traditional carolling for Newman as we approach the festive season. Taking its place is SAD, as in Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Dogs call this the Seasonal "I'm gonna crap on the shaggiest carpet I can find, I will eat rotten eggs and slow-release dog farts throughout the house, I will provide a safe and warm home to thousands of wayward ticks and fleas until you meet my one and only demand" Disorder.
And that demand is – take me back to that huge expanse where I can do anything I want.
We call it the cottage.
He calls it his happy green acres. For reasons he will never understand, access to his happy place is cutoff from October to April.
What's really amusing is the excuses he comes up with to try and get me to take him there.
Oh Paul, he asks, have you seen my monkey chew toy? You know, the one that I slowly eat over months and months, causing you to occasionally have to remove long threads from my anus as a result – and usually while I poop on Davisville Avenue as hundreds of cars stuck in traffic watch you tug away.
Oh Newman, no I haven't. Perhaps it's under the pile of dirty underwear you collect.
No, checked there. I think I left it at the cottage. Could we just nip up for a weekend and fetch it?
Well, Newman, math has never been your strong suit. Monkey toy equals $2. Gas to cottage equals $40. 40-2 equals NO.
What about the dog food we left up there? It's gonna go stale.
And you're still gonna eat it.
I left my favourite book up there.
I memorized it: See Spot Run – away from my hand!
I left my pacemaker up there?
Thousands of dollars in vet bills says your heart is as good as it's gonna get.
I'll eat your shoes.
If the shoe fits – in your colon – have fun with that.
Friday, 10 October 2014
Helloooo Newman: I don't know, but if you hum a few bars…
Helloooo Newman: I don't know, but if you hum a few bars…: Sometimes I feel I should do as the hummingbird does. Every 6 months or so the thumb-sized bird migrates to southern climes to survive. ...
I don't know, but if you hum a few bars…
Sometimes I feel I should do as the hummingbird does.
Every 6 months or so the thumb-sized bird migrates to southern climes to survive.
Likewise, every 6 months or so I feel the urge to migrate to the crowded climes of downtown Toronto – in search of a real job.
The comparison with the hummingbird is apt. Whenever I'm downtown I feel like a puny extra in an old Japanese movie, flitting around, screaming out-of-sync as the Godzilla-like buildings disappear me.
It's not just my voice that's out of sync. I think I'm out of sync with reality.
As I walked among the suits and subway grates a few weeks ago, it came upon me that maybe I wouldn't fit in. One clue: I was bouncing along King Street whistling the tune Chic-Chic-Chicken from the nursery school where I play piano every day.
Would the CEO of Royal Bank know that song? I guess his version would be Chicken Cordon Blue.
The real version is this:
Chic, Chic, Chic, Chic, Chicken
Lay a little egg for me.
Now, after playing that song until my ears bleed, I need to change it up a bit to survive.
Now I sing:
Swiss Chalet Chicken
Lay a double leg for me
That's pretty harmless for the children. With another song I might have gone a bit too far.
The Apple Tree Song. It goes like this:
Way up high in the apple tree
Two little apples smiled at me
I shook that tree as hard as I could
And down came the apples
Mmm were they good
Can you imagine giving a child an apple directly from the tree, with its invisible skin of insecticide? I wonder how many honey bees had to die to keep that apple shiny and red. Were they stealing the apples from an orchard? Did they put a hard working farmer out of business?
I prefer my version:
Way up high in the apple tree
I slung a rope to hang me
I tightened that noose as hard as I could
And down came my body
Mmm, it felt good
The kids loved it. The child care inspector needed some convincing.
I am not allowed in the Royal Bank tower anymore.
Every 6 months or so the thumb-sized bird migrates to southern climes to survive.
Likewise, every 6 months or so I feel the urge to migrate to the crowded climes of downtown Toronto – in search of a real job.
The comparison with the hummingbird is apt. Whenever I'm downtown I feel like a puny extra in an old Japanese movie, flitting around, screaming out-of-sync as the Godzilla-like buildings disappear me.
It's not just my voice that's out of sync. I think I'm out of sync with reality.
As I walked among the suits and subway grates a few weeks ago, it came upon me that maybe I wouldn't fit in. One clue: I was bouncing along King Street whistling the tune Chic-Chic-Chicken from the nursery school where I play piano every day.
Would the CEO of Royal Bank know that song? I guess his version would be Chicken Cordon Blue.
The real version is this:
Chic, Chic, Chic, Chic, Chicken
Lay a little egg for me.
Now, after playing that song until my ears bleed, I need to change it up a bit to survive.
Now I sing:
Swiss Chalet Chicken
Lay a double leg for me
That's pretty harmless for the children. With another song I might have gone a bit too far.
The Apple Tree Song. It goes like this:
Way up high in the apple tree
Two little apples smiled at me
I shook that tree as hard as I could
And down came the apples
Mmm were they good
Can you imagine giving a child an apple directly from the tree, with its invisible skin of insecticide? I wonder how many honey bees had to die to keep that apple shiny and red. Were they stealing the apples from an orchard? Did they put a hard working farmer out of business?
I prefer my version:
Way up high in the apple tree
I slung a rope to hang me
I tightened that noose as hard as I could
And down came my body
Mmm, it felt good
The kids loved it. The child care inspector needed some convincing.
I am not allowed in the Royal Bank tower anymore.
Thursday, 9 October 2014
Helloooo Newman: Introducing Miss Cellaneous
Helloooo Newman: Introducing Miss Cellaneous: I was going to be an artist…but there were too many drawbacks.
Helloooo Newman: Sleeping with the entrails of a dead walrus
Helloooo Newman: Sleeping with the entrails of a dead walrus: They say that smell is the oldest and most powerful of the human senses. That's really unfortunate when you own a dog. Especially a do...
Sleeping with the entrails of a dead walrus
They say that smell is the oldest and most powerful of the human senses.
That's really unfortunate when you own a dog. Especially a dog that sleeps on your bed. Especially a dog that likes to sleep on you, on your bed.
The smell on Newman built up over weeks. I guess it was like storm clouds off in the distance. Fun to watch. Oh they creep along so slowly. I have nothing to worry about. Today is a perfect day to golf.
Suddenly the clouds are above you, the lightning hits and you're a piece of Denny's breakfast toast.
So went Newman, who is the storm, the smell is the lightning and my olfactory (the toast) lays everyone off and shuts down for good. (Danger: mixed metaphor)
I've never smelled the entrails of a dead walrus. But somehow I sensed Newman smelled like that. Plus I had to find an interesting comparison, since I'm a successful, high-priced writer.
I've smelled some bad things. Things that certainly qualify as entrails. One summer, right near our cottage, a dead moose carcass rotted away over several hot months in the summer. It was so much fun watching Satan play around in the evil aroma.
I once visited the Harvey's bathroom on Jarvis Street. I was waiting for a hooker. No, wait a minute. For a burger. I couldn't approach the hookers, on account of their spending lots of time in the bathroom, and thus becoming a walking Harvey's bathroom with high heels and thongs.
I don't think Harvey's calls it a "bath" room. Vomit shit hole room I believe the sign said.
Newman loves to roll around on the ground. Yippee yee, what a fun dog. Isn't that cute?
I'm sure he's aware that's deer shit and he will wash and exfoliate soon enough.
Newman doesn't come with the washing app. Newman is not the new iDog.
That's really unfortunate when you own a dog. Especially a dog that sleeps on your bed. Especially a dog that likes to sleep on you, on your bed.
The smell on Newman built up over weeks. I guess it was like storm clouds off in the distance. Fun to watch. Oh they creep along so slowly. I have nothing to worry about. Today is a perfect day to golf.
Suddenly the clouds are above you, the lightning hits and you're a piece of Denny's breakfast toast.
So went Newman, who is the storm, the smell is the lightning and my olfactory (the toast) lays everyone off and shuts down for good. (Danger: mixed metaphor)
I've never smelled the entrails of a dead walrus. But somehow I sensed Newman smelled like that. Plus I had to find an interesting comparison, since I'm a successful, high-priced writer.
I've smelled some bad things. Things that certainly qualify as entrails. One summer, right near our cottage, a dead moose carcass rotted away over several hot months in the summer. It was so much fun watching Satan play around in the evil aroma.
I once visited the Harvey's bathroom on Jarvis Street. I was waiting for a hooker. No, wait a minute. For a burger. I couldn't approach the hookers, on account of their spending lots of time in the bathroom, and thus becoming a walking Harvey's bathroom with high heels and thongs.
I don't think Harvey's calls it a "bath" room. Vomit shit hole room I believe the sign said.
Newman loves to roll around on the ground. Yippee yee, what a fun dog. Isn't that cute?
I'm sure he's aware that's deer shit and he will wash and exfoliate soon enough.
Newman doesn't come with the washing app. Newman is not the new iDog.
Thursday, 2 October 2014
Helloooo Newman: You have no business evolving
Helloooo Newman: You have no business evolving: The inconvenient thing about dogs, and I believe I've covered this is an earlier blog, is that they poop. Even throughout the winter. ...
You have no business evolving
The inconvenient thing about dogs, and I believe I've covered this in an earlier blog, is that they poop.
Even throughout the winter. I've tried to get Newman to hold off on pooping from about January 15 until April 10th. I tried to stop feeding him but then he just eats shoes.
The problem with Newman pooping (in our backyard) throughout the winter is that the poop freezes in successive layers until it's time for me to clean up all that crap using 5 or 6 wheelbarrows in April.
Why don't I pick the poop up throughout the winter so it doesn't build up, you ask? So you're suggesting I pick up poop, freeze my ass off, get covered in ice AND have large trees fall on me? Balls!
I'd rather get my haircut by ISIS. Just a little off the top, please. No, that's not a yarmulke, it's a cloth hairpiece.
Anywho, when I start the cleanup in April, my backyard very much resembles an archaeological site.
I get out the hammer and chisel and very carefully chip out a piece of poop that froze low in the ice, meaning it froze sometime between Dec 15-28, early in the freezing cycle.
I put a little flag in the ice, marking this important find.
One time, and this scared me immensely, I found a piece of poop in the distinct shape an arrow head.
Quite disturbing. Is Newman evolving? Is he hunting wild animals in the backyard and feeding himself?
It's only a matter of time before he reaches the bronze age. Before you know it, I'll be the one sitting and shaking a paw, drinking from the toilet.
I'm the master of the house, not Newman.
I know Newman has a lot of my genes in him because he's so damn cute.
But this is ridiculous.
Stay tuned to find out who the real master is.
Even throughout the winter. I've tried to get Newman to hold off on pooping from about January 15 until April 10th. I tried to stop feeding him but then he just eats shoes.
The problem with Newman pooping (in our backyard) throughout the winter is that the poop freezes in successive layers until it's time for me to clean up all that crap using 5 or 6 wheelbarrows in April.
Why don't I pick the poop up throughout the winter so it doesn't build up, you ask? So you're suggesting I pick up poop, freeze my ass off, get covered in ice AND have large trees fall on me? Balls!
I'd rather get my haircut by ISIS. Just a little off the top, please. No, that's not a yarmulke, it's a cloth hairpiece.
Anywho, when I start the cleanup in April, my backyard very much resembles an archaeological site.
I get out the hammer and chisel and very carefully chip out a piece of poop that froze low in the ice, meaning it froze sometime between Dec 15-28, early in the freezing cycle.
I put a little flag in the ice, marking this important find.
One time, and this scared me immensely, I found a piece of poop in the distinct shape an arrow head.
Quite disturbing. Is Newman evolving? Is he hunting wild animals in the backyard and feeding himself?
It's only a matter of time before he reaches the bronze age. Before you know it, I'll be the one sitting and shaking a paw, drinking from the toilet.
I'm the master of the house, not Newman.
I know Newman has a lot of my genes in him because he's so damn cute.
But this is ridiculous.
Stay tuned to find out who the real master is.
Friday, 26 September 2014
Helloooo Newman: You're that guy from…
Helloooo Newman: You're that guy from…: Newman, and the blog that we started together, has changed my life. I can't count the number of people who stop me on the street and s...
You're that guy from…
Newman, and the blog that we started together, has changed my life.
I can't count the number of people who stop me on the street and croon, "Hey Newman, love your blog."
I don't have the heart to tell them my name isn't Newman.
Wonderful people yelling out of car windows, down from the concrete shells of burgeoning condos rising up to the diminishing ozone layer, the doorman at Holt's.
Sometimes they approach me in crowds of one or two. It's all, like, a dream.
I was at a Belly Buster submarine shop last week and they gave me the best seat in the house, even though it was extremely crowded. It coincided very nicely with the fact that I had to pee during my fine meal.
I get a lot of fan email too, although much of it asks me if I want to achieve a better sex life through a larger penis. Not sure what that has to do with my blog, but at least they enjoy the stories.
Many of these people, who have wonderful taste in reading, ask me, "Newman, how do you come up with your hilarious ideas?"
I tell them the truth. I don't come up with the ideas, Jesus does. I'd like to think they come directly from God herself, but I don't get enough hits for her to even be bothered. She sends her underling – directly into my brain.
The idea starts rather like a tumor. I get headaches, my nose starts to bleed. I clean the blood off the keyboard.
As the great idea grows it crowds out the rest of my brain and I lose all motor control, except the ability to type. I relent. The idea is in charge now. Soon there will be extremely funny, gripping articles.
The secret is ignoring these symptoms. Soon enough it metastasises into a very, very funny blog.
The idea takes over me, much like ISIS gobbling up prime Middle Eastern real estate. Luckily, I don't lose my head over things.
I could very easily lose my head over this fame. But I'm just like you, a regular guy, only with heaps of talent.
I admit my head swells a lot when I'm writing, but that's just the tumor idea expanding in my skull. It is NOT my ego.
One time, upon seeing the initial symptoms of my burgeoning great ideas, my wife called an ambulance. I refused to go. Plus my head was so large I couldn't fit in the back.
Also, OHIP doesn't cover brain swelling due to genius.
I've achieved such notoriety that the rumour I heard yesterday is, in fact, true.
Anson Williams, of Happy Days fame, is directing an updated version of Annie Hall, starring Jessica Biel and Zac Efron.
Do you recall that scene where Woody is in line for a movie and gets into an argument with the guy behind him? Woody cleverly calls upon Marshall McLuhan for an enlightened opinion.
Well, I'll be the new "Marshall McLuhan" in the new, improved Annie Hall.
Please, when you see me on the street, don't be afraid to come up and say hi. And if my head starts to grow, please stand back. There's funny writin' to do.
I can't count the number of people who stop me on the street and croon, "Hey Newman, love your blog."
I don't have the heart to tell them my name isn't Newman.
Wonderful people yelling out of car windows, down from the concrete shells of burgeoning condos rising up to the diminishing ozone layer, the doorman at Holt's.
Sometimes they approach me in crowds of one or two. It's all, like, a dream.
I was at a Belly Buster submarine shop last week and they gave me the best seat in the house, even though it was extremely crowded. It coincided very nicely with the fact that I had to pee during my fine meal.
I get a lot of fan email too, although much of it asks me if I want to achieve a better sex life through a larger penis. Not sure what that has to do with my blog, but at least they enjoy the stories.
Many of these people, who have wonderful taste in reading, ask me, "Newman, how do you come up with your hilarious ideas?"
I tell them the truth. I don't come up with the ideas, Jesus does. I'd like to think they come directly from God herself, but I don't get enough hits for her to even be bothered. She sends her underling – directly into my brain.
The idea starts rather like a tumor. I get headaches, my nose starts to bleed. I clean the blood off the keyboard.
As the great idea grows it crowds out the rest of my brain and I lose all motor control, except the ability to type. I relent. The idea is in charge now. Soon there will be extremely funny, gripping articles.
The secret is ignoring these symptoms. Soon enough it metastasises into a very, very funny blog.
The idea takes over me, much like ISIS gobbling up prime Middle Eastern real estate. Luckily, I don't lose my head over things.
I could very easily lose my head over this fame. But I'm just like you, a regular guy, only with heaps of talent.
I admit my head swells a lot when I'm writing, but that's just the tumor idea expanding in my skull. It is NOT my ego.
One time, upon seeing the initial symptoms of my burgeoning great ideas, my wife called an ambulance. I refused to go. Plus my head was so large I couldn't fit in the back.
Also, OHIP doesn't cover brain swelling due to genius.
I've achieved such notoriety that the rumour I heard yesterday is, in fact, true.
Anson Williams, of Happy Days fame, is directing an updated version of Annie Hall, starring Jessica Biel and Zac Efron.
Do you recall that scene where Woody is in line for a movie and gets into an argument with the guy behind him? Woody cleverly calls upon Marshall McLuhan for an enlightened opinion.
Well, I'll be the new "Marshall McLuhan" in the new, improved Annie Hall.
Please, when you see me on the street, don't be afraid to come up and say hi. And if my head starts to grow, please stand back. There's funny writin' to do.
Thursday, 25 September 2014
Helloooo Newman: Weapons of Mass Distraction
Helloooo Newman: Weapons of Mass Distraction: I believe I'm starting to understand what life is all about. It's a series of distractions. Your life, every second of it, is a lo...
Weapons of Mass Distraction
I believe I'm starting to understand what life is all about. It's a series of distractions.
Your life, every second of it, is a long (hopefully) jumble of distractions to keep your attention off the result – death, decomposition, nonexistence.
God's real objective is two things – He gets off on creating things and destroying things. Life is just what happens in between His two favourite activities.
When God first created life, He realized, "Guess I better keep these creatures busy until I'm ready to stamp them out of existence." Thus He created distractions like Ebola, sex, t.v., Rob Ford. His weapons of mass distraction.
And then there's my weapon of mass distraction – peanut butter. (From God to peanut butter - that's reader's whiplash)
There really doesn't exist a more astounding substance.
Oh sure, there's some good competition. Silly putty. I remember longingly gazing at Farah Fawcett's smudged face as I lifted the impression from my sister's celeb mag, scurried to my bedroom and locked the door.
Dynamite is a boy's dream, especially when it was packaged in a child's favourite "toy" during the seventies – lady fingers. Tiny fire crackers you could fit in the smallest of spaces. As the inventor must have wondered, "Why is it so hard for kids to blow things up? Let me take care of that."
And blow things up I did. With my best friend I led the assault on my neighbour's rock garden, striking over 70% of the rare and beautiful flora with precision explosions. Were we the early inspiration for Al Qaeda and ISIS?
As I got a bit older, other substances become more important – spermicidal gels, alcohol. Currently my second favourite substance is the memory foam that makes up my mattress.
But alas, peanut butter still holds first place. It staves off hunger far more effectively than beer ever will.
(What does this have to do with Newman?)
Well, Newman adores peanut butter too. Far more than Poodletang. So much so that I use it as a weapon of distraction against him, without him even realizing it. What a dummy.
On days when Newman wakes up and stalks me until I throw a ball for him, as in every day since we've had him, I have to find ways to avoid him. Previously I would lock myself in the dryer and turn it on. Newman is afraid of the dryer.
(You need a new strategy, buddy)
Peanut butter is the new strategy.
I generously apply peanut butter to his little rubber bone toy. He goes ape shit over it! Spends a good part of the morning tonguing it to death.
The toy is so full of minuscule nooks and crannies I'm certain there is peanut butter from 9 months ago drying into something resembling concrete.
I still don't understand how Newman can down a litre of peanut butter and still bark coherently. When I eat peanut butter by itself, I might as well have inserted a no-pest fly strip in my mouth. Things get very sticky.
If I just finish a dollop of peanut butter and then the phone rings, I answer it sounding like I have a life-threatening cold and went overboard on the dextromethorphan. Sir, you need to go right to the hospital if someone cut your tongue out, exclaims the person on the other end. (That's sick)
To my rescue is jam, which serves as a kind of WD40 for my mouth.
Anyway, peanut butter keeps Newman distracted, which keeps me happy and looking for distractions myself. The internet now replaces my silly putty.
Your life, every second of it, is a long (hopefully) jumble of distractions to keep your attention off the result – death, decomposition, nonexistence.
God's real objective is two things – He gets off on creating things and destroying things. Life is just what happens in between His two favourite activities.
When God first created life, He realized, "Guess I better keep these creatures busy until I'm ready to stamp them out of existence." Thus He created distractions like Ebola, sex, t.v., Rob Ford. His weapons of mass distraction.
And then there's my weapon of mass distraction – peanut butter. (From God to peanut butter - that's reader's whiplash)
There really doesn't exist a more astounding substance.
Oh sure, there's some good competition. Silly putty. I remember longingly gazing at Farah Fawcett's smudged face as I lifted the impression from my sister's celeb mag, scurried to my bedroom and locked the door.
Dynamite is a boy's dream, especially when it was packaged in a child's favourite "toy" during the seventies – lady fingers. Tiny fire crackers you could fit in the smallest of spaces. As the inventor must have wondered, "Why is it so hard for kids to blow things up? Let me take care of that."
And blow things up I did. With my best friend I led the assault on my neighbour's rock garden, striking over 70% of the rare and beautiful flora with precision explosions. Were we the early inspiration for Al Qaeda and ISIS?
As I got a bit older, other substances become more important – spermicidal gels, alcohol. Currently my second favourite substance is the memory foam that makes up my mattress.
But alas, peanut butter still holds first place. It staves off hunger far more effectively than beer ever will.
(What does this have to do with Newman?)
Well, Newman adores peanut butter too. Far more than Poodletang. So much so that I use it as a weapon of distraction against him, without him even realizing it. What a dummy.
On days when Newman wakes up and stalks me until I throw a ball for him, as in every day since we've had him, I have to find ways to avoid him. Previously I would lock myself in the dryer and turn it on. Newman is afraid of the dryer.
(You need a new strategy, buddy)
Peanut butter is the new strategy.
I generously apply peanut butter to his little rubber bone toy. He goes ape shit over it! Spends a good part of the morning tonguing it to death.
The toy is so full of minuscule nooks and crannies I'm certain there is peanut butter from 9 months ago drying into something resembling concrete.
I still don't understand how Newman can down a litre of peanut butter and still bark coherently. When I eat peanut butter by itself, I might as well have inserted a no-pest fly strip in my mouth. Things get very sticky.
If I just finish a dollop of peanut butter and then the phone rings, I answer it sounding like I have a life-threatening cold and went overboard on the dextromethorphan. Sir, you need to go right to the hospital if someone cut your tongue out, exclaims the person on the other end. (That's sick)
To my rescue is jam, which serves as a kind of WD40 for my mouth.
Anyway, peanut butter keeps Newman distracted, which keeps me happy and looking for distractions myself. The internet now replaces my silly putty.
Saturday, 13 September 2014
Helloooo Newman: Chew or Chase
Helloooo Newman: Chew or Chase: I've learned with Newman that you have to categorize his toys. To him they're all alike and they all serve the same purpose. Just li...
Chew or Chase
I've learned with Newman that you have to categorize his toys. To him they're all alike and they all serve the same purpose. Just like when I'm drunk – any beer will do, they all taste the same by then, they all serve the greater good of keeping me in good humour.
Two important categories for Newman's toys are chew toys and chase toys. The names are pretty much self-explanatory.
I found out the hard and embarrassing way that a chase toy should not become a chew toy.
Newman loves tennis balls. This is not unique among the canine population. This summer I tortured him by chaining him to the front of the t.v. to watch Wimbledon tennis and laughed at his several million failed attempts at getting the ball.
There is great danger in letting the tennis ball, clearly a chase toy, become a chew toy.
Let me explain. I was walking with Newman along our busy street when he began to assume the position known as Hold Up, I Gotta Crap.
I waited patiently with the retrieval bag around my hand.
Hmmm. It was taking longer than usual. Still waiting. Alright, now I gotta check things out.
I glanced at the magical poop hole and there it was. A little piece of brown dangling from the "area".
It kinda looked like Newman was giving birth to a brown sea monkey who was still attached to its umbilical cord.
From a different angle it looked like a fortune cookie – you will meet a Great Dane who loves walks in the park.
I surmised that Newman had been chewing the tennis ball for weeks and the fur built up in his bowels. Several pieces of fur got together and acted as an umbilical cord for this poor sea monkey, holding it just outside Newman's body and not letting go.
A baby sea monkey, hanging by a thread. My dignity, hanging be a thread.
I am tough. I did what I had to do. I reached over and tugged at the sea monkey, feeling like a brilliant doctor delivering a joyful mother her baby.
The umbilical cord did what umbilical cords do, I guess. It stretched and stretched…and then snapped.
I felt proud. I hope the driver who was beside me on the street stuck in traffic felt the same way. He had a front row seat to the show.
Newman is doing well after the procedure. Can't say the same thing for the sea monkey.
Two important categories for Newman's toys are chew toys and chase toys. The names are pretty much self-explanatory.
I found out the hard and embarrassing way that a chase toy should not become a chew toy.
Newman loves tennis balls. This is not unique among the canine population. This summer I tortured him by chaining him to the front of the t.v. to watch Wimbledon tennis and laughed at his several million failed attempts at getting the ball.
There is great danger in letting the tennis ball, clearly a chase toy, become a chew toy.
Let me explain. I was walking with Newman along our busy street when he began to assume the position known as Hold Up, I Gotta Crap.
I waited patiently with the retrieval bag around my hand.
Hmmm. It was taking longer than usual. Still waiting. Alright, now I gotta check things out.
I glanced at the magical poop hole and there it was. A little piece of brown dangling from the "area".
It kinda looked like Newman was giving birth to a brown sea monkey who was still attached to its umbilical cord.
From a different angle it looked like a fortune cookie – you will meet a Great Dane who loves walks in the park.
I surmised that Newman had been chewing the tennis ball for weeks and the fur built up in his bowels. Several pieces of fur got together and acted as an umbilical cord for this poor sea monkey, holding it just outside Newman's body and not letting go.
A baby sea monkey, hanging by a thread. My dignity, hanging be a thread.
I am tough. I did what I had to do. I reached over and tugged at the sea monkey, feeling like a brilliant doctor delivering a joyful mother her baby.
The umbilical cord did what umbilical cords do, I guess. It stretched and stretched…and then snapped.
I felt proud. I hope the driver who was beside me on the street stuck in traffic felt the same way. He had a front row seat to the show.
Newman is doing well after the procedure. Can't say the same thing for the sea monkey.
Thursday, 11 September 2014
Helloooo Newman: Stop Bed Bugging Me
Helloooo Newman: Stop Bed Bugging Me: In my world the most valuable real estate I own is… My mattress. Sure, a condo overlooking Central Park would be delightful. A beach hou...
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