Helloooo Newman: Idearrhea

Helloooo Newman: Idearrhea: Idearrhea is a word I am proud to have coined several years ago in a speech I gave at Toastmasters. At least, I know of no other person w...

Idearrhea

Idearrhea is a word I am proud to have coined several years ago in a speech I gave at Toastmasters.

At least, I know of no other person who has claimed such an esteemed achievement. Not even Kim Jong Un.

It is, of course, borrowed from the root word – diarrhea.

It refers to a person who has so many ideas swirling around in their head that when they articulate them, say verbally or on paper, they just pour out all at once in a big mess.

I suppose the celebrity who suffered the most (or more likely benefited) from this condition was Robin Williams. He actually made a career out of Idearrhea.

I occasionally suffer from it too, but not often enough to make a career out of it, and the quality of Idearrhea is certainly not on a par with Mr. Williams.

Oh, I wish I suffered from that Grade A kind of Idearrhea. The kind where there's always a smile on your face and on everyone else's too. I would gladly ingest whatever ideas would cause such glorious Idearrhea. I would also cut out all probiotics from my diet.

I guess you could say Einstein had Idearrhea about the universe and it appeared as a big mess of equations. He managed to clean up his Idearrhea very nicely into the neat package that is E=MC2.

I am aware this is not a very "Christmassy" kind of topic. I apologize for that. I figure you've probably had it with Christmas, and the topic relates very well to my last few days.

Newman has had diarrhea for the last 3 days. The traditional kind. The kind that stains my rugs, floors, sofa, shoes and bedspread. These are the places Newman decided to "express" his diarrhea.

The kind that does not make me smile.

Yesterday I went to the movie The Theory of Everything, about the life of Stephen Hawking. It co-starred a woman named Felicity Jones, an astonishing actress far, far more adorable than diarrhea.

When I got home I had to disinfect the above mentioned objects of diarrhea. I also had to wash a very particular part of Newman's body in the shower.

I'll stop there.

It was kind of a weird feeling, moving rather suddenly from watching the exalted, lofty pursuits of Mr. Hawking trying to figure out why the universe exists, to removing diarrhea from shoe laces and wondering why there is diarrhea in MY universe.

To recover I ingurgitated several beers.

Thankfully, that led to a mild form of Idearrhea, and the birth of this article.

It may be all over the internet, but it's not all over my house.

Helloooo Newman: The Tired Chicken

Helloooo Newman: The Tired Chicken: I still don't understand why meat has to rest after it's been cooked. Every time I cook some meat, I want to tear into it right aw...

Helloooo Newman: The Resting Chicken

Helloooo Newman: Cooking Qs: I still don't understand why meat has to rest after it's been cooked. Every time I cook some meat, I want to tear into it right aw...

The Tired Chicken

You should always let your meat rest after it’s been cooked? Honest, that’s what she said!

Last weekend I pulled a golden brown free range chicken off the bbq for our guests and my wife said “you can’t cut it now. Leave it for a bit, it has to rest.”

Every time I cook some meat, I want to tear into it right away. Preferably the way my ancestors did. Fingernails and teeth, not knives and forks.

Isn't it me that should get some rest? I'm the one turning on the bbq, flipping the chicken, watching for excessive flame, poking with a meat thermometer, lifting the beer bottle. The hopes and dreams of several dinner guests in my tongs.

And I haven't even started chewing.

The meat just lies there.

Does the chicken really need to rest after complete inactivity for two hours? Isn't being dead rest enough?

I think there's another term for resting your cooked chicken. It's called getting cold.

What about the dinner guests? They're starving, you've prepared the plates with potatoes and veggies and the meat is still missing.

"Where's the chicken?"

"It'll be out in a minute, it's just napping."

"Okay. How often does it nap? Will it need another one before I finish eating it? Maybe I should eat it really fast before it gets drowsy. I hate when my chicken nods off during the meal."

"Pay attention, I'm eating you."

What if my chicken has narcolepsy? I guess a good poke with a fork should wake it up.

My chicken tastes bland. Is that because it's asleep? Is the flavour asleep too?

Compare a chicken before and after it's cooked.

If you ask me the chicken needs a rest before it's cooked. If you looked in the mirror and saw a raw chicken wouldn't you feel the need for a day off? Hey, did you go to Michael Jackson's doctor for that complexion? You need more like a full blown vacation, I would say.

And that's pretty much what a chicken gets when you prepare and cook it. It's a spa vacation for meat.

It starts off with a relaxing rub down of scented oils and herbs. There's probably some nice music in the background and the liquor is flowing.

After marinating (aka, resting) for a few hours while reading an exciting set of cooking instructions, it's time for the tanning booth. Two hours of relaxing warmth in your own private tanning pan with a nice window view? I'll take that.

Don't open the oven door, my chicken is on vacation. It needs the rest.

Then the chicken gets a free medical checkup – insert the thermometer, I hope this chicken isn't getting the flu.

Take it out of the oven and the chicken looks like George Hamilton – a tan that people pay thousands for.

The mashed potatoes are jealous. "Hey man, you just back from Barbados? Nice tan. We never tan. Sometimes they'll add a yam or two but we end up with one of those fake orange tans."

The chicken is moved to a cutting board, but really it's like a pilates mat for meat. You bend the chicken in all kinds of twisted ways to make sure it's cooked.

Time for the chiropractor to give the chicken a bone adjustment. All included.

By this time the chicken is so relaxed the meat just falls off the bone. Have you ever been that relaxed?

When the chicken is served, people go out of their way to gather around and fuss about it. This is no time for a nap.

Please, give me some of that treatment.

I wish I were a nice piece of meat.

Helloooo Newman: The I Don't Know List

Helloooo Newman: The I Don't Know List: Yesterday I set out to make a list of all the things I don't know. As my friends can attest to, there's a lot I don't know. So...

The "I Don't Know" List

Yesterday I set out to make a list of all the things I don't know.

As my friends can attest to, there's a lot I don't know. So I was prepared for a long list.

But still, I figured that list would be just short of infinite. Because clearly I do know some things.

Here are some things I know:

• I know to use the inside-my-head voice when comparing my daughter's application of makeup to a popular 70s rock band.

• I know that counting each stair every time I'm on a set of them is slightly OCD. And I'm currently at 4,576,342 stairs in my lifetime.

• I know that in the special case of escalators, it counts as one step, for obvious reasons.

• I know that when I enter a men's public washroom and there is only one guy at the urinals, I choose the urinal furthest away from him. No, I don't enter ladies washrooms.

• I know that the fleshlight is not a product of my imagination, but a real product and it will not be under my tree this year.

• I know that thickly-cut maple bacon is the best replacement for regular sex you'll ever find.

• I know that if a man eats maple bacon on a tablecloth with candlelight and soft music, his tongue will become erect.

But there's a problem.

I don't even know what know means. Is knowing myself the same as knowing that the $1,000 brass tap system we have in our bathroom has no available parts on this planet?

I am, you see, far more complicated than a plumbing part. Paul seems depressed – get the drano.

From this observation we can surmise that know doesn't always mean know.

During my single life, know always meant no. As in, I know the girl's answer would be no.

So I never refer to girls that have known me, but girls that have no'd me. This even applies to girls that don't know me, but know a girl that has said no to me in the past. God knows there's plenty of those.

Does know ever mean yes? I thought it did. Whenever I looked at a girl and she was playing with her hair, I would know that yes, she wants me.

What I didn't know is that earlier in the day she got some bubble gum stuck in her hair from groping her boyfriend and she didn't know I was looking at her.

Does no ever mean know? I learned that it did. After a while, as girls kept saying no, I began to know what was going on. I know – time to get married, get a fleshlight or die early from eating way too much maple bacon.

Suddenly there was something else I know. The list of things I don't know must be blank.

Obvious, because it's a list of things I don't know. How can I put them on a list?

Unless we get into the things I know I don't know and the things I don't know that I don't know.

I'd rather not do that at this time because I know that I (and probably you too) have a fucking headache.

Helloooo Newman: God Is Going On Vacation, But Where?

Helloooo Newman: God Is Going On Vacation, But Where?: God appeared on Fox-TV yesterday. Asked why He chose that vehicle for His interview, He stated that He likes to appear on His major compet...

Helloooo Newman: God Is Going On Vacation, But Where?

Helloooo Newman: God Is Going On Vacation, But Where?: God appeared on Fox-TV yesterday. Asked why He chose that vehicle for His interview, He stated that He likes to appear on His major compet...

God Is Going On Vacation, But Where?

God appeared on Fox-TV yesterday.

Asked why He chose that vehicle for His interview, He stated that He likes to appear on His major competitor's programs to show who's in charge – His major competitor being, of course, the Devil.

God said, in the sometimes combative interview, that He is going on vacation "for a while."

After being around for infinity, He explained, and suffering the blowback from creating people like Rush Limbaugh and Justin Bieber (jokingly calling him bobblehead), He "needs a break."

Asked how long He would be gone, God answered, "longer than that lousy seventh day I took off a while ago."

He was actually packing a bag during the interview.

God became hostile at the suggestion that things would fall apart without His guidance.

"Listen. I've put some good people in charge. They have extensive training in doling out pleasure and pain, are paid handsomely and have a benefits package that covers full dental, including ortho – I say again, including ortho! – for the next 5 billion years."

"And it's not like you people can't put a little more effort into making this fucking disaster of a planet a little nicer to visit." The last part was bleeped out and substituted with the helpful sponsor's message "it ain't gun control we need; it's sin control."

God became more contemplative when asked where He would go? As far as everyone knew, He was everywhere at once. The clever interviewer used the Biblical term "omnipresent". He had to define this for the Fox-TV viewers as they thought it meant a gun in every room.

"That is a particular problem for me, being everywhere at once. While it cuts down on travel expenses and the hassle of putting my shoes in a sad little grey box at the airport, it also limits my choices for novel places to go. Keep in mind there is only the tiniest part of me in all places. All of me can't be everywhere. I mean, let's get serious, that's impossible, even for me. I might take all of me to the Alberta Tar Sands, just to see what all the fuss is about."

"Ha ha, that's a joke. I can't say for security reasons. Some people just don't like my work. Some even think I've been on vacation from the beginning. No sympathy for me. Only for the Devil. Damn Rolling Stones. That's exactly why I made Jagger and Richards look like a Shar Pei's behind."

God then broke into a rap version of the song All of Me.

The more awkward parts of the interview were edited out for more gun commercials. At one point the interviewer asked why evil exists. God shot back, "why does good exist?"

The interviewer responded, "um, because it's…good?"

God answered, "That's what she said."

God wished everyone well, and as a parting gift to humanity, wiped Fox-TV out of existence.


Writer's Note: I can write rings around The Onion, can't I?

Helloooo Newman: Does Every Dog Really Have His Day?

Helloooo Newman: Does Every Dog Really Have His Day?: They say – the humans do – that every dog has his day. Where is my day? Or maybe my hour. How about a few measly seconds? I’m waiting. ...

Does Every Dog Really Have His Day?

They say – the humans do – that every dog has his day.

Where is my day? Or maybe my hour. How about a few measly seconds? I’m waiting. 

My dog days began at the adoption.

I was a valuable dog. A perfect mix of Aussie Shepherd and Standard Poodle. Pretty and smart. Then my breeders went Costco on me and put me on sale so they could “move the merchandise.” Will I be part of a family-pak? Fourteen puppies squirming inside plastic wrap with a 4-ton bag of sequoia-sized cheeses thrown in?

My soon-to-be owners entered the “store”. The sale price on my head was $950.00. The male was flummoxed. He kept hmmm-ing. I thought the kennel smell was getting to him but apparently he was thinking.

He pointed out that $950.00 is so close to the price point of a…Macbook Air. Should he get something that increases his productivity by 1000%, he wondered, or something that eats shoes? Could this be Gandhi reincarnated, I thought?

The Macbook Air has many benefits, he informed everyone. Update its operating system and it gets smarter. 

To contrast that, he brought up a touchy subject for me. When he got on his hands and knees to test me as a playmate, he accused me of wanting to start a family with him. Listen. I am a prisoner to some of my ancestral urges just like humans are.

The female, the smarter of the two, made the decision, wrote the cheque and off we were.

Then came my name. Newman. Obviously. We have ourselves here a slender, sophisticated and playful puppy so let’s name him after an abrasive, competitive and pudgy mailman.

The drive home afforded me the opportunity to have some fun with the malevolent male. Luck had it that the breeder fed me before we left. Do you know what bumpy car rides can do to volatile puppy tummies? Put my dinner all over the male’s jeans, is what. My sad and apologetic expression, mastered at such a young age, made punishing me impossible.

My male owner, Ralph (calls himself Alpha Ralph), thinks he’s top dog, and top human. He introduces me to friends as the “son” he never had. This way he can brag that it’s mostly his DNA in me. Look at the cute face, he says. Pay attention to the intelligent expression, denoting a high IQ. All true, of course, but all from his lineage.

Oh sure, he does acknowledge at least some genetic participation from the female. My tendency to growl at strangers and my love of shoes.

Fast forward a year. Alpha Ralph keeps complaining that I have to poop everyday. As far as I know he does too. And I’m not the one who encourages him to collect the stuff in bags.

One snowy day in December he sat me down and asked me, straight face and all, to stop pooping in the backyard for three short months. January to March. He’ll keep feeding me but I need to put a plug in it.

He carefully explained the urgency of the situation. Winter conditions interfere with his delicate metabolism and so he can’t get out to walk me or pick up poop as much as he’d like to. “Who the hell wants to freeze their ass off”, is how he put it. He drew a diagram for me. As I poop throughout the winter, it gets “frozen in time” in successive layers of ice and snow.

In Spring, he’s faced with cleaning up a mile high archaeological site of poop. Out come the tools. Chip, chip – this poop froze on Jan 3rd, he would note. Chip, chip – here’s a large one from Feb 18th.

I am not an archaeologist, he reminded me.

I frantically let him know I get it. Then I hatched a plan. With careful attention (and my high I.Q.) I formed one of my poops into the distinct shape of an arrowhead.

His mouth hung open for days when he found it. Is Newman evolving, he kept asking himself? Is it only a matter of time before he reaches the Bronze age? “Pretty soon I’ll be the one drinking from the toilet”, I heard him say. “Who is the master here?”, he cried.

He is still crying and I'm still pooping.

So you see, my glory days haven't arrived yet. But I keep things in perspective. At least my name isn’t Mulva.

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.

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...

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.

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...

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: 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....

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."

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.

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.

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?

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&...

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

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.

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.

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...

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?

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.

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.

Helloooo Newman: Introducing Miss Cellaneous

Helloooo Newman: Introducing Miss Cellaneous: I was going to be an artist…but there were too many drawbacks.