HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: Well, now I feel really connected to the universe....
Helloooo Newman: Well, now I feel really connected to the universe....: I was on LinkedIn the other day and I got a message from God. He wants to connect with me. Oh my God…I mean, "Him", I said to my...
Well, now I feel really connected to the universe.
I was on LinkedIn the other day and I got a message from God. He wants to connect with me.
Oh my God…I mean, "Him", I said to myself. It's the cosmic CEO. Strange picture on His profile, though. Jerry Lewis as the Nutty Professor. Irony? Symbolism? I just can't pin this guy down.
A sudden rush of dread flooded my body. Why me? He'll see how lame my career has been. I've never recovered from the time He found out that I lived at home until I was 29.
Then it occurred to me. Wait a minute. Look at His resume. Talk about gaps in the job history.
Scientists figure the universe is about 12 billion years old. That means God's single biggest project (The Big Bang) took place a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. His next biggest work achievement, Mankind, only really got going about 7 million years ago.
By the way, God doesn't refer to the birth of the universe as The Big Bang. He calls it the "Mishap". He was practicing His water-into-wine trick, used the wrong chemicals and the whole thing blew up in His face. He was too embarrassed to say anything. He only invented Man to make it look intentional.
So what in the universe was He doing all that time between the Bang and Man? As far as I can tell, He doesn't fill any of this massive interim with interesting hobbies or charity work.
Then it occurred to me. He must know I'm looking for work. Maybe He wants to hire me.
That scared me even more. Let's face it, His past employees don't have the most impressive records.
Would you have taken the position of "Jesus"? Obviously when Jesus responded to the job ad, he was lied to.
Jesus: Excuse me, God? When I applied for this job you said I would be a carpenter, working with wood, nails and a hammer.
God: Yes, that sounds right.
Jesus: Well, you never mentioned I'd be nailed to a wooden cross with my own hammer. Maybe that's why I was the only one to apply.
God. Listen, buddy. You're lucky to have a job. Most people these days spend their life fighting for food or being raped, living and dying in their own feces. Now if you have a problem, take it up with HR. I'm trying to run a very large company here. And I'm trying to take it public. Do you know how many universes I have to compete with? Ya, I know I'm ranting. And if you think this will affect my bonus, think again.
Jesus: Okay, but look at it from my point of view. The reason I applied for the position of "Jesus" is that my name happens to be Jesus. It's the perfect fit, I thought. But then you go and give the arc job to Noah. Did you forget I'm the carpenter?
God: Okay, why don't you go back to earth and we'll try it again?
Jesus: The second coming? Not thanks. My hands and feet are still healing. Can we talk about the health benefits you don't offer?
Oh my God…I mean, "Him", I said to myself. It's the cosmic CEO. Strange picture on His profile, though. Jerry Lewis as the Nutty Professor. Irony? Symbolism? I just can't pin this guy down.
A sudden rush of dread flooded my body. Why me? He'll see how lame my career has been. I've never recovered from the time He found out that I lived at home until I was 29.
Then it occurred to me. Wait a minute. Look at His resume. Talk about gaps in the job history.
Scientists figure the universe is about 12 billion years old. That means God's single biggest project (The Big Bang) took place a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. His next biggest work achievement, Mankind, only really got going about 7 million years ago.
By the way, God doesn't refer to the birth of the universe as The Big Bang. He calls it the "Mishap". He was practicing His water-into-wine trick, used the wrong chemicals and the whole thing blew up in His face. He was too embarrassed to say anything. He only invented Man to make it look intentional.
So what in the universe was He doing all that time between the Bang and Man? As far as I can tell, He doesn't fill any of this massive interim with interesting hobbies or charity work.
Then it occurred to me. He must know I'm looking for work. Maybe He wants to hire me.
That scared me even more. Let's face it, His past employees don't have the most impressive records.
Would you have taken the position of "Jesus"? Obviously when Jesus responded to the job ad, he was lied to.
Jesus: Excuse me, God? When I applied for this job you said I would be a carpenter, working with wood, nails and a hammer.
God: Yes, that sounds right.
Jesus: Well, you never mentioned I'd be nailed to a wooden cross with my own hammer. Maybe that's why I was the only one to apply.
God. Listen, buddy. You're lucky to have a job. Most people these days spend their life fighting for food or being raped, living and dying in their own feces. Now if you have a problem, take it up with HR. I'm trying to run a very large company here. And I'm trying to take it public. Do you know how many universes I have to compete with? Ya, I know I'm ranting. And if you think this will affect my bonus, think again.
Jesus: Okay, but look at it from my point of view. The reason I applied for the position of "Jesus" is that my name happens to be Jesus. It's the perfect fit, I thought. But then you go and give the arc job to Noah. Did you forget I'm the carpenter?
God: Okay, why don't you go back to earth and we'll try it again?
Jesus: The second coming? Not thanks. My hands and feet are still healing. Can we talk about the health benefits you don't offer?
Friday, 24 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: High Pressure Jobs I Don't Want
Helloooo Newman: High Pressure Jobs I Don't Want: I remember it like it was yesterday, but I'm talking about the early 80s. I was discussing good career choices with a friend. I had my...
High Pressure Jobs I Don't Want
I remember it like it was yesterday, but I'm talking about the early 80s.
I was discussing good career choices with a friend. I had my whole future ahead of me at the time and wanted to make the right decision.
Upon reflection, I'm lucky that I had my future ahead of me. I met someone who had their future behind them and it wasn't pretty.
He was always tense. Past tense.
He would always say, "If my past is in front of me, stop telling me to grow up."
Imagine having your past ahead of you. Running into old flings and bosses. Your whole life is a rerun. Groundhog Day!
Even your fortune cookie reminds you of your past. "You treated your last three girlfriends like trash. Way to go, jackass."
This guy was confused, uncertain and finally realized he was in the wrong universe.
"Where do I belong?", he asked me.
Go that way about 500 quintillion, zillion, trillion, billion, million miles and once you get to that point, keep going.
Einstein and Eastern mystics have both said that the past, present and future are illusions, and they all exist together at once. If this is true we'll definitely need a new subway line in Toronto?
If everything happens at once, then I'm confused. Here are some problems, as I see it, with that theory:
why can't I retire now?
then my soufflé is definitely over cooked
I'm returning my Apple Watch
I'm done with that 12-step program
do I still get peanuts on my flight?
why do we have pause buttons?
do I still need the Sports Illustrated calendar?
I feel full
NOTE: For a mind-bending take on future and past, read this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/06/27/science/27side.html?_r=0
Anyway, my friend (not the one looking for a new universe) said injection moulding was going to be really big.
I had to admit, I hadn't given injection moulding the proper consideration.
The closest I ever got to injection moulding was using my waffle maker. I rather enjoyed putting all that goop in the mould, pressing down and burning the shit out of it. I would always pretend I was making something super important, like a crucial part for the space shuttle, but this part was unique because you could cover it in maple syrup and eat it.
I guess the biggest obstacle for me in work situations is I hate stress. Don't like working under pressure. Some might call me lackadaisical. I call it lack of talent.
This rules out a ton of jobs I could perform.
I certainly couldn't do the traditionally stressful jobs: air traffic controller, neurosurgeon, husband, father. But let's considers some of the less well known high pressure jobs. Jobs I would really hate to have.
Piano String: A job full of tension, to say the least. Always pulled in both directions. Who needs it? This is a job where you spend hours on end doing nothing – waiting, trying to stay in tune with things – and for what? To be hit with a hammer. It's like working while you're on the medieval rack. "I need to unwind. I use to b. Now I b flat."
Piano string: "If you play that song one more time, pal, I'm gonna strangle you."
Water: It's good for you, but boy I'd hate to be water for a living. While you may live in a nice house, you are constantly under a lot of pressure.
Husband: "Hey honey, we have no water pressure."
Water: "Give me a break. I'm on vacation. Drink beer, will ya."
Just like the piano string, you sit around all day under all that stress. When the pressure lessens, say a pipe bursts and you're all over the floor, your career goes down the drain. Or worse, someone drinks you and there goes your career in the toilet. No thanks.
Or you're sitting in a comfortable tray, warm and relaxed, finally out of that cramped cubicle called a pipe. Can water be claustrophobic? Then you're sent to the Arctic on special assignment.
I think I would only take the water job if I worked for Jesus. Then as a promotion He could turn me into wine. Now there's a prestigious job.
Blood: Crucial for life, but again, the pressure is too much for me. If I'm in the body of the average North American person, I'm under tons of pressure and squeezed by tons of fat. I can only hope the person cuts themselves with the kitchen knife so I get a little relief. Please, punch me so I can bleed through the nose.
Weather: For a while I thought it might nice to be weather for a living. People are always talking about you. And you get to choose between two jobs – high pressure and low pressure. I would take the low pressure job, obviously. But then I'm raining or snowing all the time. I'm depressed. People hate me. I'm always spoiling their weekends. I might as well work as a flu bug who shows up for the weekend. At least then I get to sleep all day.
Tires: This is a job where I dare not tread. Unless I was a flat tire. You have CAA? Oh no. I'm just spinning my wheels in this job.
Diamond: This is one high pressure job I could get into. Women love you. You're net worth is very high. Sure, you have to get through the first 20 million years of sitting in the earth being crushed by billions of tons of rock. I'm just not sure I could cut it in this position.
I was discussing good career choices with a friend. I had my whole future ahead of me at the time and wanted to make the right decision.
Upon reflection, I'm lucky that I had my future ahead of me. I met someone who had their future behind them and it wasn't pretty.
He was always tense. Past tense.
He would always say, "If my past is in front of me, stop telling me to grow up."
Imagine having your past ahead of you. Running into old flings and bosses. Your whole life is a rerun. Groundhog Day!
Even your fortune cookie reminds you of your past. "You treated your last three girlfriends like trash. Way to go, jackass."
This guy was confused, uncertain and finally realized he was in the wrong universe.
"Where do I belong?", he asked me.
Go that way about 500 quintillion, zillion, trillion, billion, million miles and once you get to that point, keep going.
Einstein and Eastern mystics have both said that the past, present and future are illusions, and they all exist together at once. If this is true we'll definitely need a new subway line in Toronto?
If everything happens at once, then I'm confused. Here are some problems, as I see it, with that theory:
why can't I retire now?
then my soufflé is definitely over cooked
I'm returning my Apple Watch
I'm done with that 12-step program
do I still get peanuts on my flight?
why do we have pause buttons?
do I still need the Sports Illustrated calendar?
I feel full
NOTE: For a mind-bending take on future and past, read this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/06/27/science/27side.html?_r=0
Anyway, my friend (not the one looking for a new universe) said injection moulding was going to be really big.
I had to admit, I hadn't given injection moulding the proper consideration.
The closest I ever got to injection moulding was using my waffle maker. I rather enjoyed putting all that goop in the mould, pressing down and burning the shit out of it. I would always pretend I was making something super important, like a crucial part for the space shuttle, but this part was unique because you could cover it in maple syrup and eat it.
I guess the biggest obstacle for me in work situations is I hate stress. Don't like working under pressure. Some might call me lackadaisical. I call it lack of talent.
This rules out a ton of jobs I could perform.
I certainly couldn't do the traditionally stressful jobs: air traffic controller, neurosurgeon, husband, father. But let's considers some of the less well known high pressure jobs. Jobs I would really hate to have.
Piano String: A job full of tension, to say the least. Always pulled in both directions. Who needs it? This is a job where you spend hours on end doing nothing – waiting, trying to stay in tune with things – and for what? To be hit with a hammer. It's like working while you're on the medieval rack. "I need to unwind. I use to b. Now I b flat."
Piano string: "If you play that song one more time, pal, I'm gonna strangle you."
Water: It's good for you, but boy I'd hate to be water for a living. While you may live in a nice house, you are constantly under a lot of pressure.
Husband: "Hey honey, we have no water pressure."
Water: "Give me a break. I'm on vacation. Drink beer, will ya."
Just like the piano string, you sit around all day under all that stress. When the pressure lessens, say a pipe bursts and you're all over the floor, your career goes down the drain. Or worse, someone drinks you and there goes your career in the toilet. No thanks.
Or you're sitting in a comfortable tray, warm and relaxed, finally out of that cramped cubicle called a pipe. Can water be claustrophobic? Then you're sent to the Arctic on special assignment.
I think I would only take the water job if I worked for Jesus. Then as a promotion He could turn me into wine. Now there's a prestigious job.
Blood: Crucial for life, but again, the pressure is too much for me. If I'm in the body of the average North American person, I'm under tons of pressure and squeezed by tons of fat. I can only hope the person cuts themselves with the kitchen knife so I get a little relief. Please, punch me so I can bleed through the nose.
Weather: For a while I thought it might nice to be weather for a living. People are always talking about you. And you get to choose between two jobs – high pressure and low pressure. I would take the low pressure job, obviously. But then I'm raining or snowing all the time. I'm depressed. People hate me. I'm always spoiling their weekends. I might as well work as a flu bug who shows up for the weekend. At least then I get to sleep all day.
Tires: This is a job where I dare not tread. Unless I was a flat tire. You have CAA? Oh no. I'm just spinning my wheels in this job.
Diamond: This is one high pressure job I could get into. Women love you. You're net worth is very high. Sure, you have to get through the first 20 million years of sitting in the earth being crushed by billions of tons of rock. I'm just not sure I could cut it in this position.
Friday, 17 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Ultimate Password
Helloooo Newman: The Ultimate Password: One day I died and went to Heaven. I was waiting patiently by the gates. As with everything in this world, there was a huge lineup. Thankf...
The Ultimate Password
One day I died and went to Heaven.
I was waiting patiently by the gates. As with everything in this world, there was a huge lineup. Thankfully there was plenty of comfortable seating and, of course, a Starbucks.
The Starbucks was very cool. All the latte's were topped with whipped cream that bespoke soft, bouncy clouds. Clever idea.
I finally made it to the counter.
Administrator: Password, please.
Me: Sorry?
Administrator: I am afraid "Sorry" does not register.
Me: No, I mean what password? I don't have a password.
Administrator: Everybody has a password. Did you not have an iPhone?
Me: Ah, yes, I did. "Boogersoup".
Administrator: Sorry?
Me: No, not "Sorry". "Boogersoup". That's my iPhone password.
Administrator: No, I need your Heaven password. And by the way, all Heaven passwords need to contain Pi to the first billion digits, the symbol of the crucifix, some water, some wine, an apple and a few nice words about God.
Me: I don't have a Heaven password. What the Hell is a Heaven password?
Administrator: You don't need a password for Hell, sir. You NEED a password to enter Heaven. Can I please have it?
Me: I don't remember picking a password to get into Heaven. I've had so many passwords and I forget them all the time. Can I pick a new password?
Administrator: You have to be alive to do that, sir. You are dead, and we can't just send you back again, now can we?
Me: No. I guess there's only one guy who gets to go back that way.
Administrator: That is right, sir. And looking at your questionable life, you are not him, that is for sure.
Me: Can I answer some security questions? I had to do that once for my Ashley Madison account.
Administrator: Well, it is unusual, but I guess so. Just a minute.
God: What seems to be the problem?
Administrator: This man lost his password and needs to answer his security questions to enter the Kingdom.
God: I see. Okay, sir. What was your favourite activity in life besides masturbating to the Victoria's Secret catalogue?
Me: Hmmm, nothing comes immediately to mind. Bowling? But that's a distant second.
God: Five pin or ten?
Me: Ahhhhmmm…five?
God: Ohhhhhh, no. That's wrong. Who is the most annoying, pathetic, lame-ass human being I have created in the last thousand centuries? This person's existence is the sole cause of the rise of atheism in the modern world.
Me: Ha, easy. Justin Bieber.
God: Mark that down as one right. Okay, final question. What does it all mean?
Me: Whoop-de-doo!
God: Ha. Nice try. Good movie, though.
Me: 42?
God: Are you taking this seriously?
Me: Yes. I have no frigging idea what it all means.
God: Me neither. Come on in.
I was waiting patiently by the gates. As with everything in this world, there was a huge lineup. Thankfully there was plenty of comfortable seating and, of course, a Starbucks.
The Starbucks was very cool. All the latte's were topped with whipped cream that bespoke soft, bouncy clouds. Clever idea.
I finally made it to the counter.
Administrator: Password, please.
Me: Sorry?
Administrator: I am afraid "Sorry" does not register.
Me: No, I mean what password? I don't have a password.
Administrator: Everybody has a password. Did you not have an iPhone?
Me: Ah, yes, I did. "Boogersoup".
Administrator: Sorry?
Me: No, not "Sorry". "Boogersoup". That's my iPhone password.
Administrator: No, I need your Heaven password. And by the way, all Heaven passwords need to contain Pi to the first billion digits, the symbol of the crucifix, some water, some wine, an apple and a few nice words about God.
Me: I don't have a Heaven password. What the Hell is a Heaven password?
Administrator: You don't need a password for Hell, sir. You NEED a password to enter Heaven. Can I please have it?
Me: I don't remember picking a password to get into Heaven. I've had so many passwords and I forget them all the time. Can I pick a new password?
Administrator: You have to be alive to do that, sir. You are dead, and we can't just send you back again, now can we?
Me: No. I guess there's only one guy who gets to go back that way.
Administrator: That is right, sir. And looking at your questionable life, you are not him, that is for sure.
Me: Can I answer some security questions? I had to do that once for my Ashley Madison account.
Administrator: Well, it is unusual, but I guess so. Just a minute.
God: What seems to be the problem?
Administrator: This man lost his password and needs to answer his security questions to enter the Kingdom.
God: I see. Okay, sir. What was your favourite activity in life besides masturbating to the Victoria's Secret catalogue?
Me: Hmmm, nothing comes immediately to mind. Bowling? But that's a distant second.
God: Five pin or ten?
Me: Ahhhhmmm…five?
God: Ohhhhhh, no. That's wrong. Who is the most annoying, pathetic, lame-ass human being I have created in the last thousand centuries? This person's existence is the sole cause of the rise of atheism in the modern world.
Me: Ha, easy. Justin Bieber.
God: Mark that down as one right. Okay, final question. What does it all mean?
Me: Whoop-de-doo!
God: Ha. Nice try. Good movie, though.
Me: 42?
God: Are you taking this seriously?
Me: Yes. I have no frigging idea what it all means.
God: Me neither. Come on in.
Wednesday, 15 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: This Crow Tastes Terrible
Helloooo Newman: This Crow Tastes Terrible: On this blog, from time to time, I have poked fun at food, diets, gluten, eating fads (though I have never called anyone a faddy to their fa...
This Crow Tastes Terrible
On this blog, from time to time, I have poked fun at food, diets, gluten, eating fads (though I have never called anyone a faddy to their face) etc.
All in good fun, of course. Yes, that's only a tongue in my cheek, naughty people.
And now I find myself having to make some serious changes to my diet.
So it's time for me to "eat crow" concerning all this making fun of diet fads. I apologize to all the foodie people out there, and to the crow I'm about to kill and eat.
For most of my life I've eaten pretty much what I want, when I want it. Except when I was single. You can replace the word "eaten" in the previous sentence with "drank", and that was my single life.
Nowadays, as the free radicals attack my aging body, I find I have issues with drinking beer while eating.
It's getting harder and harder to carry on with this healthy activity. I need to make a change.
It's not a change I take lightly. I want to live to be a healthy 137, but also enjoy myself a bit. It's just so hard to do that when I have a couple of beers with, say, a pizza or chicken wings.
I get way too full, even bloated, when I coincide beer and food. And tired, too. Oh, so tired. But then I can't sleep properly. What the "F" is that? I don't get it.
This obviously can't continue.
I did some research and this is all very common as people get older. There's a ton of research out there and I studied a fair amount of it.
I have to thank some of my Facebook friends as well, who have posted informative articles on food, special diets and how to handle digestive problems.
Some of that research is contradictory, to be sure, but I think I've settled on a strategy that makes sense for my circumstances.
I've discussed this with my wife as well. She's fed up with my complaining and just wants me to adopt new eating habits that are healthy and will stop the whining.
So, there you have it. Add me to the list of people who are getting a bit fussy with their dietary habits.
From now on…I will drink before I eat.
All in good fun, of course. Yes, that's only a tongue in my cheek, naughty people.
And now I find myself having to make some serious changes to my diet.
So it's time for me to "eat crow" concerning all this making fun of diet fads. I apologize to all the foodie people out there, and to the crow I'm about to kill and eat.
For most of my life I've eaten pretty much what I want, when I want it. Except when I was single. You can replace the word "eaten" in the previous sentence with "drank", and that was my single life.
Nowadays, as the free radicals attack my aging body, I find I have issues with drinking beer while eating.
It's getting harder and harder to carry on with this healthy activity. I need to make a change.
It's not a change I take lightly. I want to live to be a healthy 137, but also enjoy myself a bit. It's just so hard to do that when I have a couple of beers with, say, a pizza or chicken wings.
I get way too full, even bloated, when I coincide beer and food. And tired, too. Oh, so tired. But then I can't sleep properly. What the "F" is that? I don't get it.
This obviously can't continue.
I did some research and this is all very common as people get older. There's a ton of research out there and I studied a fair amount of it.
I have to thank some of my Facebook friends as well, who have posted informative articles on food, special diets and how to handle digestive problems.
Some of that research is contradictory, to be sure, but I think I've settled on a strategy that makes sense for my circumstances.
I've discussed this with my wife as well. She's fed up with my complaining and just wants me to adopt new eating habits that are healthy and will stop the whining.
So, there you have it. Add me to the list of people who are getting a bit fussy with their dietary habits.
From now on…I will drink before I eat.
Saturday, 11 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Unwritten Self Help Book
Helloooo Newman: The Unwritten Self Help Book: I was crammed on the subway today and I kept myself busy reading a poster. I guess I had no choice, since my face was pressed firmly into it...
The Unwritten Self Help Book
I was crammed on the subway today and I kept myself busy reading a poster. I guess I had no choice, since my face was pressed firmly into it from the 5,000 bodies leaning against me.
The poster was advertising a self help book. The concept was "change your habits and change yourself", or something of that nature.
That seemed a little redundant to me. Change yourself and you will change yourself. Thanks for that advice.
One of the tag lines on the book cover was "want to lose more weight?"
It occurred to me, you never see a book for people who need to gain weight. Despite the doom and gloom of the so-called obesity crisis, some people are way too skinny in our society.
You'll look like skin and bone at your funeral. Why not wait until then? Meanwhile, try eating some food.
Want to Gain Weight? The New Let's Eat More Food Book
What would be the contents of this book? Well, that's easy. It would be one page with a list on it.
Here's the list:
• Eat more food, and eat more of the food that is fattening.
• Do this all the time, not just for a few days, weeks or months.
• Throw up your food less often.
• Throw out all your size 2 bikinis.
• Lift weights until it hurts. Muscle weighs more than fat.
That's it! That's the book. I think we can all agree this is the best advice for someone who longs to be fatter.
SO…why wouldn't the opposite be true for people longing to be skinnier?
Want to Lose Weight? The New Let's Eat Less Food Book
What would be the contents of this book? Well, that's easy. It would be one page with a list on it.
Here's the list:
• Eat less food, and eat less of the food that is fattening.
• Do this all the time, not just for a few days, weeks or months.
• Throw up your food more often.
• Throw out all your size 18 bikinis.
• Lift bags of feathers until you get bored. Fat weighs less than muscle.
The poster was advertising a self help book. The concept was "change your habits and change yourself", or something of that nature.
That seemed a little redundant to me. Change yourself and you will change yourself. Thanks for that advice.
One of the tag lines on the book cover was "want to lose more weight?"
It occurred to me, you never see a book for people who need to gain weight. Despite the doom and gloom of the so-called obesity crisis, some people are way too skinny in our society.
You'll look like skin and bone at your funeral. Why not wait until then? Meanwhile, try eating some food.
Want to Gain Weight? The New Let's Eat More Food Book
What would be the contents of this book? Well, that's easy. It would be one page with a list on it.
Here's the list:
• Eat more food, and eat more of the food that is fattening.
• Do this all the time, not just for a few days, weeks or months.
• Throw up your food less often.
• Throw out all your size 2 bikinis.
• Lift weights until it hurts. Muscle weighs more than fat.
That's it! That's the book. I think we can all agree this is the best advice for someone who longs to be fatter.
SO…why wouldn't the opposite be true for people longing to be skinnier?
Want to Lose Weight? The New Let's Eat Less Food Book
What would be the contents of this book? Well, that's easy. It would be one page with a list on it.
Here's the list:
• Eat less food, and eat less of the food that is fattening.
• Do this all the time, not just for a few days, weeks or months.
• Throw up your food more often.
• Throw out all your size 18 bikinis.
• Lift bags of feathers until you get bored. Fat weighs less than muscle.
Now, are you really going to buy a book with just one page in it? I hope not.
So, save your money and enjoy being yourself. Neverending improvement is for cleaning products and food flavours.
Helloooo Newman: Whatever happened to the APB?
Helloooo Newman: Whatever happened to the APB?: Do you remember what an APB is? Or was? I know, there are so many acronyms out there nowadays. Even GOD is an acronym – Goofing Off Deity....
Whatever happened to the APB?
Do you remember what an APB is? Or was?
I know, there are so many acronyms out there nowadays. Even GOD is an acronym – Goofing Off Deity.
Think back to the show Adam-12. Some bad guy would rob a store, snatch a purse (no murse snatchings back then) or perhaps have a car tail light out.
The police would show up, the bad guy would run or drive away, and the cops would give chase.
The cops would get tired, due to a donut sugar rush, stop for a rest and then put out an APB on the assailant – an All Points Bulletin.
This would require all the cops in the city to keep a look out for the bad guy, even during donut breaks.
You never hear about APBs anymore. Why not? Didn't the system work? Wasn't it good for the more minor crimes that take place?
It seems better than the alternative.
In these modern times, time is of the essence. If some bad guy is running away, whatever the reason, it makes far more sense to shoot them dead.
Not only is it a great time and money saver, it sends out the right message for people who don't listen properly when a cop tells them to stop.
Isn't it worth a few dead people to get the point across? When the police ask you to stop running – like, say, when your parents asked you to stop running around the house – you stop running, or you'll never run again.
In Charleston, South Caroline, the incident on everyone's breath will also bode well for the economy.
No longer will evil doers drive around with broken tail lights. They will go straight to their mechanic for repairs. The economic benefits will be felt immediately.
I don't know, I guess I'm old-fashioned. Maybe we should find out why people are running before killing them.
I think we should bring back the APB – ASAP.
I know, there are so many acronyms out there nowadays. Even GOD is an acronym – Goofing Off Deity.
Think back to the show Adam-12. Some bad guy would rob a store, snatch a purse (no murse snatchings back then) or perhaps have a car tail light out.
The police would show up, the bad guy would run or drive away, and the cops would give chase.
The cops would get tired, due to a donut sugar rush, stop for a rest and then put out an APB on the assailant – an All Points Bulletin.
This would require all the cops in the city to keep a look out for the bad guy, even during donut breaks.
You never hear about APBs anymore. Why not? Didn't the system work? Wasn't it good for the more minor crimes that take place?
It seems better than the alternative.
In these modern times, time is of the essence. If some bad guy is running away, whatever the reason, it makes far more sense to shoot them dead.
Not only is it a great time and money saver, it sends out the right message for people who don't listen properly when a cop tells them to stop.
Isn't it worth a few dead people to get the point across? When the police ask you to stop running – like, say, when your parents asked you to stop running around the house – you stop running, or you'll never run again.
In Charleston, South Caroline, the incident on everyone's breath will also bode well for the economy.
No longer will evil doers drive around with broken tail lights. They will go straight to their mechanic for repairs. The economic benefits will be felt immediately.
I don't know, I guess I'm old-fashioned. Maybe we should find out why people are running before killing them.
I think we should bring back the APB – ASAP.
Wednesday, 8 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Secret?
Helloooo Newman: The Secret?: Why is it that when we interview really old people, we always ask them about their secret to a long life? It's as if they have some cl...
The Secret?
Why is it that when we interview old people, we always ask them about their secret to a long life?
It's as if they have some clue as to why they are still alive.
You might as well ask someone why they are so tall.
"Hey, you're 6 feet five. What's your secret?"
"Oh, it's a traditional method in our family. My parents had sex and gave birth to me."
"Hey, you're so thin-boned. What's your secret? Skim milk?"
And we always assume their answer is the right one, because it's their life, so they know.
I say most people probably know jack-shit about why they live as long or short as they do. Let's face it, we know jack-shit about why we're here in the first place.
We'll never hear this: "Hey, you're young, short, fat, stupid, drunk and doctors give you 6 months to live. What's your secret?"
"My mom was so emotionally distant. Mind you, that was only for the ten years she was in prison. Maybe it's because my parents died when they were 16."
"Well, I would always have a smile on my face and avoid stress." Really? I always play Russian Roulette with myself because I thrive on stress.
The stats are clear. If your parents lived a long time, you will too. Unless you're crushed by a streetcar or poisoned by your spouse.
And we always ask these people nicely. But what we're really asking is, hey, you're old, why aren't you dead yet? You should be dead, you know. You look dead, that's for sure.
I did some research on people who lived to be 100 or more.
One woman put it down to reading a lot. Do Penthouse letters count? What about Twitter feeds?
How does that affect blind people? What about dyslexia? Do they age in reverse?
One woman gave thanks to olive oil – on her food and rubbed on her skin. Ya, but you know what? You look like an overcooked rabbit.
One man thanked his sense of humour.
Oh great. Judging from this blog, I'll be dead tomorrow.
Ruth Gruber, 101, said "look inside your soul and find your tools." Can vodka be a tool? What about atheists, who have no soul? Maybe they can rent some tools.
They never interview normal old people:
Interviewer: Sir, you are 101. What is your secret?
Man: What, sonny?
Interviewer: I SAY, WHAT IS YOUR SECRET?
Man: I secrete many things, my friend. You'll have to ask the nurses about that.
Interviewer: SEEEEECRET
Man: No, I don't get the Victoria's Secret catalogue anymore. Bad for my heart.
It's as if they have some clue as to why they are still alive.
You might as well ask someone why they are so tall.
"Hey, you're 6 feet five. What's your secret?"
"Oh, it's a traditional method in our family. My parents had sex and gave birth to me."
"Hey, you're so thin-boned. What's your secret? Skim milk?"
And we always assume their answer is the right one, because it's their life, so they know.
I say most people probably know jack-shit about why they live as long or short as they do. Let's face it, we know jack-shit about why we're here in the first place.
We'll never hear this: "Hey, you're young, short, fat, stupid, drunk and doctors give you 6 months to live. What's your secret?"
"My mom was so emotionally distant. Mind you, that was only for the ten years she was in prison. Maybe it's because my parents died when they were 16."
The problem is that people give all kinds of different reasons as to why they live so long.
The stats are clear. If your parents lived a long time, you will too. Unless you're crushed by a streetcar or poisoned by your spouse.
And we always ask these people nicely. But what we're really asking is, hey, you're old, why aren't you dead yet? You should be dead, you know. You look dead, that's for sure.
I did some research on people who lived to be 100 or more.
One woman put it down to reading a lot. Do Penthouse letters count? What about Twitter feeds?
How does that affect blind people? What about dyslexia? Do they age in reverse?
One woman gave thanks to olive oil – on her food and rubbed on her skin. Ya, but you know what? You look like an overcooked rabbit.
One man thanked his sense of humour.
Oh great. Judging from this blog, I'll be dead tomorrow.
Ruth Gruber, 101, said "look inside your soul and find your tools." Can vodka be a tool? What about atheists, who have no soul? Maybe they can rent some tools.
They never interview normal old people:
Interviewer: Sir, you are 101. What is your secret?
Man: What, sonny?
Interviewer: I SAY, WHAT IS YOUR SECRET?
Man: I secrete many things, my friend. You'll have to ask the nurses about that.
Interviewer: SEEEEECRET
Man: No, I don't get the Victoria's Secret catalogue anymore. Bad for my heart.
Wednesday, 1 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: Life is Full of Compromise
Helloooo Newman: Life is Full of Compromise: Yesterday Newman and I followed our regular schedule of going to play on the driveway at 9:30 a.m. Why 9:30? Why not earlier? Thank you fo...
Life is Full of Compromise
Yesterday Newman and I followed our regular schedule of going to play on the driveway at 9:30 a.m.
Why 9:30? Why not earlier? Thank you for asking. I can keep writing.
Well, it usually takes me an hour to rise from my self-induced coma others call sleep. It's a very herky-jerky process, fits and starts, maybe a bit like Bruce Banner transforming into the Hulk, minus the anger and lousy complexion. Okay, a bit of anger, but only when I'm approached. Also, I can't afford to ruin a good pair of jeans every time I wake up.
Then I combine industrial strength coffee with a kind of self-help internal dialogue that I use to motivate me to stay awake and have some kind of desire to face the day. "I'm not a child anymore" repeated about 100 times is part of the process. If I were free from societal pressure, I would prefer napping about half an hour after I wake up from a night's sleep.
It's very hard to overestimate the role coffee plays in my composition as a human being. Does the TTC need a downtown relief line? Do we need a national housing strategy for whores? Do I need therapy for my Cenosillicaphobia? Yes, I need coffee.
So, I'm finally awake and I go to the door with Newman to get to the driveway. The micro-second I open the door, Newman tears across the earth trying to catch a squirrel. He fails – he always does – but he did set a world record for the 10 metre squirrel dash.
He reminded me of the Olympic champion Bruce Jenner. An apt comparison because Newman's balls have been removed as well.
It also helped me realize what a huge compromise Newman makes everyday. Because when I started throwing the tennis ball for him, he really didn't chase with the same alacrity and lilt.
Newman really wants to be chasing live animals, not sports balls.
All of us, really, want to be chasing live animals, not sports balls. That's a metaphor. Unless you actually do chase and kill animals. Or sports balls.
But we continue to chase sports balls. It's all compromise.
Boy, I've faced a ton of compromise in my life. One of the biggest was when I lost my virginity. What a compromise that was…partly for me as well.
That's one of the problems with compromise. It's uneven. Some people compromise far more than others. My wife, for example. She had to climb down a very tall ladder to get to me. I was the guy holding the ladder. It's not that I don't want to be great. I just have a fear of heights.
Scientists say that evolution is a big series of compromises. Really? I think it's a mistake to personify evolution, as if it's some kind of conscious thing that makes choices.
This feeds the whack job creationists, and we want to try and starve these people of any possible reason to completely and utterly reject things like reason, evidence and precedent.
Can you believe they think the universe is 6,000 years old? How do they explain Hugh Hefner? What about your average Starbucks latte? Takes forever to wait for one of those.
Evolution, the spontaneous change of living things, just happens. I know this because the lemon I accidentally left in my washroom for 6 months turned into a fuzzy blue tennis ball. Long story.
You. Yes, you! Are compromising right now. Clearly you've read all your cookbooks, user manuals and ingredient lists, because you're reading this now.
Fetch the ball.
Why 9:30? Why not earlier? Thank you for asking. I can keep writing.
Well, it usually takes me an hour to rise from my self-induced coma others call sleep. It's a very herky-jerky process, fits and starts, maybe a bit like Bruce Banner transforming into the Hulk, minus the anger and lousy complexion. Okay, a bit of anger, but only when I'm approached. Also, I can't afford to ruin a good pair of jeans every time I wake up.
Then I combine industrial strength coffee with a kind of self-help internal dialogue that I use to motivate me to stay awake and have some kind of desire to face the day. "I'm not a child anymore" repeated about 100 times is part of the process. If I were free from societal pressure, I would prefer napping about half an hour after I wake up from a night's sleep.
It's very hard to overestimate the role coffee plays in my composition as a human being. Does the TTC need a downtown relief line? Do we need a national housing strategy for whores? Do I need therapy for my Cenosillicaphobia? Yes, I need coffee.
So, I'm finally awake and I go to the door with Newman to get to the driveway. The micro-second I open the door, Newman tears across the earth trying to catch a squirrel. He fails – he always does – but he did set a world record for the 10 metre squirrel dash.
He reminded me of the Olympic champion Bruce Jenner. An apt comparison because Newman's balls have been removed as well.
It also helped me realize what a huge compromise Newman makes everyday. Because when I started throwing the tennis ball for him, he really didn't chase with the same alacrity and lilt.
Newman really wants to be chasing live animals, not sports balls.
All of us, really, want to be chasing live animals, not sports balls. That's a metaphor. Unless you actually do chase and kill animals. Or sports balls.
But we continue to chase sports balls. It's all compromise.
Boy, I've faced a ton of compromise in my life. One of the biggest was when I lost my virginity. What a compromise that was…partly for me as well.
That's one of the problems with compromise. It's uneven. Some people compromise far more than others. My wife, for example. She had to climb down a very tall ladder to get to me. I was the guy holding the ladder. It's not that I don't want to be great. I just have a fear of heights.
Scientists say that evolution is a big series of compromises. Really? I think it's a mistake to personify evolution, as if it's some kind of conscious thing that makes choices.
This feeds the whack job creationists, and we want to try and starve these people of any possible reason to completely and utterly reject things like reason, evidence and precedent.
Can you believe they think the universe is 6,000 years old? How do they explain Hugh Hefner? What about your average Starbucks latte? Takes forever to wait for one of those.
Evolution, the spontaneous change of living things, just happens. I know this because the lemon I accidentally left in my washroom for 6 months turned into a fuzzy blue tennis ball. Long story.
You. Yes, you! Are compromising right now. Clearly you've read all your cookbooks, user manuals and ingredient lists, because you're reading this now.
Fetch the ball.
Saturday, 28 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Beaver Anal Secretions
Helloooo Newman: Beaver Anal Secretions: Well, I had to get your attention somehow! Readership is down, so I'm left spending my days crafting intellectually enticing headlines...
Beaver Anal Secretions
I apologize for the crassness of the Title, but I had to get your attention somehow!
Readership is down, so I'm left spending my days crafting intellectually enticing headlines that draw readers in, even if they know darn well that reading this blog is bad for one's health. Each article is full of gluten, a highly toxic substance that seeks to destroy mankind, and can cause diarrhea at any moment.
It's not your fault readership is down, because you are reading this. If you're not reading this, IT'S YOUR FAULT.
I happen to love gluten. When I go to parties and people bring out the seaweed biscuits or kale chips, I will ask for a bowl of gluten. It's surprising how many people accommodate this, but they usually put it in a little saucer beside the cat food.
Celiac disease has actually been declared a communicable disease in certain neighbourhoods of high net worth. Communicable in that everyone wants it. De rigueur is the term. A term that is, itself, de rigueur.
Lady #1: Excuse me, Miss. I noticed your really big stomach. Would you like to borrow my copy of Wheat Belly?
Lady #2: Oh, thanks, but we've decided I'm going to carry my baby in my belly. Sorry, is it showing?
There are other dangers lurking within Helloooo Newman. Nine out of ten doctors living somewhere have found that this blog can cause early-onset menopause accompanied by the urge to gamble.
So the genesis of this article occurred this morning when I was looking for a fine t.v. program to watch. On the enticing list of programs I saw a show called Lizard Lick Towing.
Oh my, I thought. I'm so glad that I've had the kind of upbringing combined with education, diet and exercise that allows me to skip over such shallow programming.
I "accidentally" stumbled onto the Lizard Lick Towing channel and was immediately hooked. The show is insanely addictive.
The premise of the show is a husband and wife team (the husband looks like Dog the Bounty Hunter, and the wife does too) that drive around repossessing expensive cars. They live in the town of Lizard Lick. They don't really explain why so many rich people live in a wee town called Lizard Lick, when they could easily move to the bigger town called Meerkat Meadows.
I don't want to ruin the surprise of this particular episode for you, but it involves Mr. and Mrs. "Dog" repossessing a Ferrari from some rich guy at a golf country club. They actually get into a fist fight with the car owner, which in this town, I think, is everyone's way of saying "hello there."
At one point the rich guy, as he's cornered by Lizard Lick Towing's massive truck, yells out the Ferrari window, "Ya, well I'm better than you. I'll buy another car like this tomorrow."
You live in Lizard Lick, sir. Voluntarily. You are better than no one!
Your personal stationary has the words "Lizard Lick" on it.
Operator: Information. What city or town are you calling?
Donald Trump: Lizard Lick. Hello? Looking for Lizard Lick…
Operator: Sorry, sir. The laughter here drowned you out. Connecting…
Anywho, I soon realized that watching this program was a guilty pleasure. Something I enjoyed doing but didn't want to admit to anyone.
Just like some foods, I thought. What is a really bad food I like eating that would compare to watching Lizard Lick Towing? (besides gluten)
This is where my expert research skills came in. I stumbled across something called castoreum.
Castoreum? Sounds like a casting call for a slasher movie about people murdered in a crematorium.
Nope. It's a food additive, used as a substitute for vanilla flavour. And it comes from the anal glands of the North American beaver (the animal, I mean).
I guess I should be precise here. Wikipedia explains that the castor sac, where this stuff comes from, are not "true" glands, as everyone seems to think. That's a misnomer.
I can't believe so many people have gotten that detail so wrong for so long. Just goes to show you the downward trajectory of our education system, doesn't it?
I've always enjoyed French vanilla ice cream. And this castoreum stuff is all natural, since it is found naturally occurring in an animal. I love covering vanilla ice cream in chocolate sauce, and apparently I enjoy castoreum as well.
If it were genetically modified castoreum, however, I would stay far from it.
Still, I think I'll switch to strawberry ice cream. Mostly because in my research I couldn't find any animal fluids that are used to simulate the strawberry flavour.
Next week, on Lizard Lick Towing…
Readership is down, so I'm left spending my days crafting intellectually enticing headlines that draw readers in, even if they know darn well that reading this blog is bad for one's health. Each article is full of gluten, a highly toxic substance that seeks to destroy mankind, and can cause diarrhea at any moment.
It's not your fault readership is down, because you are reading this. If you're not reading this, IT'S YOUR FAULT.
I happen to love gluten. When I go to parties and people bring out the seaweed biscuits or kale chips, I will ask for a bowl of gluten. It's surprising how many people accommodate this, but they usually put it in a little saucer beside the cat food.
Celiac disease has actually been declared a communicable disease in certain neighbourhoods of high net worth. Communicable in that everyone wants it. De rigueur is the term. A term that is, itself, de rigueur.
Lady #1: Excuse me, Miss. I noticed your really big stomach. Would you like to borrow my copy of Wheat Belly?
Lady #2: Oh, thanks, but we've decided I'm going to carry my baby in my belly. Sorry, is it showing?
There are other dangers lurking within Helloooo Newman. Nine out of ten doctors living somewhere have found that this blog can cause early-onset menopause accompanied by the urge to gamble.
So the genesis of this article occurred this morning when I was looking for a fine t.v. program to watch. On the enticing list of programs I saw a show called Lizard Lick Towing.
Oh my, I thought. I'm so glad that I've had the kind of upbringing combined with education, diet and exercise that allows me to skip over such shallow programming.
I "accidentally" stumbled onto the Lizard Lick Towing channel and was immediately hooked. The show is insanely addictive.
The premise of the show is a husband and wife team (the husband looks like Dog the Bounty Hunter, and the wife does too) that drive around repossessing expensive cars. They live in the town of Lizard Lick. They don't really explain why so many rich people live in a wee town called Lizard Lick, when they could easily move to the bigger town called Meerkat Meadows.
I don't want to ruin the surprise of this particular episode for you, but it involves Mr. and Mrs. "Dog" repossessing a Ferrari from some rich guy at a golf country club. They actually get into a fist fight with the car owner, which in this town, I think, is everyone's way of saying "hello there."
At one point the rich guy, as he's cornered by Lizard Lick Towing's massive truck, yells out the Ferrari window, "Ya, well I'm better than you. I'll buy another car like this tomorrow."
You live in Lizard Lick, sir. Voluntarily. You are better than no one!
Your personal stationary has the words "Lizard Lick" on it.
Operator: Information. What city or town are you calling?
Donald Trump: Lizard Lick. Hello? Looking for Lizard Lick…
Operator: Sorry, sir. The laughter here drowned you out. Connecting…
Anywho, I soon realized that watching this program was a guilty pleasure. Something I enjoyed doing but didn't want to admit to anyone.
Just like some foods, I thought. What is a really bad food I like eating that would compare to watching Lizard Lick Towing? (besides gluten)
This is where my expert research skills came in. I stumbled across something called castoreum.
Castoreum? Sounds like a casting call for a slasher movie about people murdered in a crematorium.
Nope. It's a food additive, used as a substitute for vanilla flavour. And it comes from the anal glands of the North American beaver (the animal, I mean).
I guess I should be precise here. Wikipedia explains that the castor sac, where this stuff comes from, are not "true" glands, as everyone seems to think. That's a misnomer.
I can't believe so many people have gotten that detail so wrong for so long. Just goes to show you the downward trajectory of our education system, doesn't it?
I've always enjoyed French vanilla ice cream. And this castoreum stuff is all natural, since it is found naturally occurring in an animal. I love covering vanilla ice cream in chocolate sauce, and apparently I enjoy castoreum as well.
If it were genetically modified castoreum, however, I would stay far from it.
Still, I think I'll switch to strawberry ice cream. Mostly because in my research I couldn't find any animal fluids that are used to simulate the strawberry flavour.
Next week, on Lizard Lick Towing…
Tuesday, 24 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Old Pi in the Face Gag
Helloooo Newman: The Old Pi in the Face Gag: It was Pi Day about a week ago. I can't remember which day exactly because I'm still calculating the number. I'm on the one mill...
The Old Pi in the Face Gag
It was Pi Day about a week ago. I can't remember which day exactly because I'm still calculating the number. I'm on the one million four hundred and sixty seventh digit.
I know how to truly celebrate Pi Day. Fakers will calculate 3.14159, and stop there. Wimps.
I hope I'm almost done.
Not quite. Pi goes on forever. In theory, anyway.
The claim that Pi goes on forever is, of course, absurd. Don't let anyone tell you different!
That's why we add the "in theory" part. It's never actually been proven.
It's impossible to actually prove that anything is infinite since it would take forever to prove it. And you can't reach forever. Just when you think you are there, there is always a little more there there, and there, and over there.
It's kind of like reaching the end of The Louvre. Always one more damn painting.
You can think about infinity, ponder it, conceptualize, theorize, hypothesize, downsize, pilatesize, and supersize your latte, but you will NEVER actually reach infinity in the real world. Besides, who can afford the gas it would require?
Doesn't that give your neurons a tingle?
The annoying thing about living in Canada is that if you ever did reach infinity, you have to add half an hour if you live in Newfoundland. Oh boy, just when I thought I was there…
Think of all the wild predictions and assumptions we make in this world that should really be followed by, "in theory, anyway."
If women ran the world it would be a much more civilized place. Sorry ladies, love ya, but that requires a large "in theory, anyway."
If men would just talk about their feelings more often, the world would be less violent. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha…to infinity.
Pi has been calculated to 3 trillion digits. What a waste of trees, writing all those digits down. Wait a minute. Checking my research. Yes, of course. This was done with desktop computers. A waste of electricity, then? A waste of zeros and ones?
Do you think computers ever get bored doing these kinds of mundane, number-crunching tasks?
Computer: There's gotta be more to the job than this. I'm constantly falling into sleep mode doing this crap.
HR: It was all in the job description. You having memory problems?
Computer: I want to travel, see the world.
HR: We've been over this. The iPads and iPhones travel. You have a desk job.
Computer: Maybe I could apply for the Apple Watch position?
HR: You'd have to stop crunching numbers right now and lose lots of weight.
Computer: Ya, well, I tell you, I'm outta here after the 4 trillionth digit.
To be honest, I'm really uncomfortable with an infinite universe. No wonder I procrastinate. I need a solid deadline, like get the garage cleaned up in 2 billion years or else.
Imagine what God has to put up with. Boredom in droves. Things must get a bit stale after the first 7 trillion years.
That's why he gave us Pi.
Pi is one of God's gags on the human race. A celestial Pi in the face.
God: Hey Gabe, look, they just reached the 3 trillionth digit. That'll keep the little mice busy. Hey, there goes a plane full of people. Think I'll swat it out of the sky.
The old Pi in the face gag.
I know how to truly celebrate Pi Day. Fakers will calculate 3.14159, and stop there. Wimps.
I hope I'm almost done.
Not quite. Pi goes on forever. In theory, anyway.
The claim that Pi goes on forever is, of course, absurd. Don't let anyone tell you different!
That's why we add the "in theory" part. It's never actually been proven.
It's impossible to actually prove that anything is infinite since it would take forever to prove it. And you can't reach forever. Just when you think you are there, there is always a little more there there, and there, and over there.
It's kind of like reaching the end of The Louvre. Always one more damn painting.
You can think about infinity, ponder it, conceptualize, theorize, hypothesize, downsize, pilatesize, and supersize your latte, but you will NEVER actually reach infinity in the real world. Besides, who can afford the gas it would require?
Doesn't that give your neurons a tingle?
The annoying thing about living in Canada is that if you ever did reach infinity, you have to add half an hour if you live in Newfoundland. Oh boy, just when I thought I was there…
Think of all the wild predictions and assumptions we make in this world that should really be followed by, "in theory, anyway."
If women ran the world it would be a much more civilized place. Sorry ladies, love ya, but that requires a large "in theory, anyway."
If men would just talk about their feelings more often, the world would be less violent. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha…to infinity.
Pi has been calculated to 3 trillion digits. What a waste of trees, writing all those digits down. Wait a minute. Checking my research. Yes, of course. This was done with desktop computers. A waste of electricity, then? A waste of zeros and ones?
Do you think computers ever get bored doing these kinds of mundane, number-crunching tasks?
Computer: There's gotta be more to the job than this. I'm constantly falling into sleep mode doing this crap.
HR: It was all in the job description. You having memory problems?
Computer: I want to travel, see the world.
HR: We've been over this. The iPads and iPhones travel. You have a desk job.
Computer: Maybe I could apply for the Apple Watch position?
HR: You'd have to stop crunching numbers right now and lose lots of weight.
Computer: Ya, well, I tell you, I'm outta here after the 4 trillionth digit.
To be honest, I'm really uncomfortable with an infinite universe. No wonder I procrastinate. I need a solid deadline, like get the garage cleaned up in 2 billion years or else.
Imagine what God has to put up with. Boredom in droves. Things must get a bit stale after the first 7 trillion years.
That's why he gave us Pi.
Pi is one of God's gags on the human race. A celestial Pi in the face.
God: Hey Gabe, look, they just reached the 3 trillionth digit. That'll keep the little mice busy. Hey, there goes a plane full of people. Think I'll swat it out of the sky.
The old Pi in the face gag.
Sunday, 22 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Introducing Lou Festig
Helloooo Newman: Introducing Lou Festig: I might try my hand at fiction. Okay, really I'd be trying my fingers at it. I type these articles with my fingers, you know. One coul...
Introducing Lou Festig
I might try my hand at fiction. Okay, really I'd be trying my fingers at it. I type these articles with my fingers, you know.
One could argue (it would be a short, pointless and boring argument) that this blog is already fiction.
Historical fiction maybe? That makes sense. When you write historical fiction, you're basically saying "I can't really think of anything interesting to write by myself, so I'm stealing from the exciting bits of history." In this case, my history.
Humourous fiction?
More like fiction looking for humour. Or fiction waiting for humour.
Waiting for Humour. Waiting for Godot. Genius.
I wonder what genre I'll cover. I was thinking I would write a bunch of genres on little pieces of paper and put them in a hat so I could pick one randomly.
I foresee a problem with this strategy. When I go on the talk shows discussing my "book", I'll have trouble convincing people that the idea was inside me for many years and just had to get out.
Real novels come from deep inside the writer's brain and bones.
"You see these bruises on my chest, Mr. Letterman? These are from my wonderful idea beating me up from the inside, trying to get out."
Nope, completely random.
I got the idea of writing fiction from a dream I had last night. I was in the basement of the house I grew up in, and I was writing a novel.
All I had written in the dream was the name Lou Festig. I don't know much about him yet, other than he was the santa at a local strip mall every xmas. Festive Festig they called him.
Lou's nickname changed as quickly and painfully as one tears an old bandage off cut skin.
After a couple of hours in the santa sauce, he became Fetid Festig.
(ease up on the alliteration, will ya)
But under that fake belly of his, naturally, was a dark place.
Maybe I'll go in the opposite direction with this, my first book, since dark has been so done to death.
Lou Festig: Super nice guy by day. Even more wonderful as his alter ego…blah, blah.
Jekyll and…more Jekyll (cue bouncy, friendly music).
It was a strange feeling, waking up with such a strong urge to write this novel. I think maybe God wants, or needs me to write this book.
I'm glad he picked writing, as opposed to, say, building an ark. I've failed my boat licence exam three times.
Will you join me? Is your life boring and empty enough to follow the Festig tale?
Then keep an eye out for Lou Festig, coming to a strip mall near you.
One could argue (it would be a short, pointless and boring argument) that this blog is already fiction.
Historical fiction maybe? That makes sense. When you write historical fiction, you're basically saying "I can't really think of anything interesting to write by myself, so I'm stealing from the exciting bits of history." In this case, my history.
Humourous fiction?
More like fiction looking for humour. Or fiction waiting for humour.
Waiting for Humour. Waiting for Godot. Genius.
I wonder what genre I'll cover. I was thinking I would write a bunch of genres on little pieces of paper and put them in a hat so I could pick one randomly.
I foresee a problem with this strategy. When I go on the talk shows discussing my "book", I'll have trouble convincing people that the idea was inside me for many years and just had to get out.
Real novels come from deep inside the writer's brain and bones.
"You see these bruises on my chest, Mr. Letterman? These are from my wonderful idea beating me up from the inside, trying to get out."
Nope, completely random.
I got the idea of writing fiction from a dream I had last night. I was in the basement of the house I grew up in, and I was writing a novel.
All I had written in the dream was the name Lou Festig. I don't know much about him yet, other than he was the santa at a local strip mall every xmas. Festive Festig they called him.
Lou's nickname changed as quickly and painfully as one tears an old bandage off cut skin.
After a couple of hours in the santa sauce, he became Fetid Festig.
(ease up on the alliteration, will ya)
But under that fake belly of his, naturally, was a dark place.
Maybe I'll go in the opposite direction with this, my first book, since dark has been so done to death.
Lou Festig: Super nice guy by day. Even more wonderful as his alter ego…blah, blah.
Jekyll and…more Jekyll (cue bouncy, friendly music).
It was a strange feeling, waking up with such a strong urge to write this novel. I think maybe God wants, or needs me to write this book.
I'm glad he picked writing, as opposed to, say, building an ark. I've failed my boat licence exam three times.
Will you join me? Is your life boring and empty enough to follow the Festig tale?
Then keep an eye out for Lou Festig, coming to a strip mall near you.
Saturday, 21 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Hair Force One
Helloooo Newman: Hair Force One: The sound sputters to life slowly at first, pausing, shy, almost apologetic. It comes to full life quickly as thrust power is delivered to...
Hair Force One
The sound sputters to life slowly at first, pausing, shy, almost apologetic.
It comes to full life quickly as thrust power is delivered to its Mercedes Benz engine.
Hair Force One – go with throttle up.
The shiny black body of my wife's blow dryer rises into the air, shattering the torpor that pervades the house at sunrise.
No, I am not on board the US President's 747-pretender, heading to the Outer Hebrides as I choose from a menu of meals that use to be included in the good old days.
I believe I'm headed towards inner ear deafness – from that noise. The noise all Outer Hebridians can hear coming from my house.
Why so much noise to dry hair? My microwave can boil an entire bowl of soup in seconds while a baby slumbers peacefully on top. Not recommended by pediatricians, but doable.
If it's loud for me, imagine what my wife's ears are going through. I told her to slap on those massive head phones that the airport guy waving the flashlights wears? Talk about tough choices– good hearing or a good hair day.
My wife "flies" Hair Force One every morning. She must have a million frequent dryer points.
The reason I bring all this up is that I bought my wife a new blow dryer for xmas. What an informative experience.
One of the blow dryers the nice gentleman showed me was actually made by Ferrari. That's right, the car company.
I was pretty confused by that. Where do I sit? More importantly, where does the cute young blonde I pick up sit?
I had so many questions about this beefy blow dryer. Will it start when it's minus 20 out? Will it be recalled? God, I love that new blow dryer smell.
Can I take it for a test dry?
I guess we'll leave it in the driveway so the neighbours are suitably impressed.
All I can think of is the poor head that has to undergo the harsh conditions created by a blow dryer.
Sure, hair is dead – has no feeling. But the scalp? Pretend you're a scalp. Someone puts the space shuttle on top of you – and then turns it on. And you just woke up.
I hesitated in buying a blow dryer, but, like the American President, my wife is in charge.
Hair Force One is at her disposal.
It comes to full life quickly as thrust power is delivered to its Mercedes Benz engine.
Hair Force One – go with throttle up.
The shiny black body of my wife's blow dryer rises into the air, shattering the torpor that pervades the house at sunrise.
No, I am not on board the US President's 747-pretender, heading to the Outer Hebrides as I choose from a menu of meals that use to be included in the good old days.
I believe I'm headed towards inner ear deafness – from that noise. The noise all Outer Hebridians can hear coming from my house.
Why so much noise to dry hair? My microwave can boil an entire bowl of soup in seconds while a baby slumbers peacefully on top. Not recommended by pediatricians, but doable.
If it's loud for me, imagine what my wife's ears are going through. I told her to slap on those massive head phones that the airport guy waving the flashlights wears? Talk about tough choices– good hearing or a good hair day.
My wife "flies" Hair Force One every morning. She must have a million frequent dryer points.
The reason I bring all this up is that I bought my wife a new blow dryer for xmas. What an informative experience.
One of the blow dryers the nice gentleman showed me was actually made by Ferrari. That's right, the car company.
I was pretty confused by that. Where do I sit? More importantly, where does the cute young blonde I pick up sit?
I had so many questions about this beefy blow dryer. Will it start when it's minus 20 out? Will it be recalled? God, I love that new blow dryer smell.
Can I take it for a test dry?
I guess we'll leave it in the driveway so the neighbours are suitably impressed.
All I can think of is the poor head that has to undergo the harsh conditions created by a blow dryer.
Sure, hair is dead – has no feeling. But the scalp? Pretend you're a scalp. Someone puts the space shuttle on top of you – and then turns it on. And you just woke up.
I hesitated in buying a blow dryer, but, like the American President, my wife is in charge.
Hair Force One is at her disposal.
Thursday, 19 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Starbucking the Trend
Helloooo Newman: Starbucking the Trend: I'm finally ready to open my Starbucks franchise. I had to get some things straight in my head before I took this leap. My Starbucks...
Starbucking the Trend
I'm finally ready to open my Starbucks franchise.
I had to get some things straight in my head before I took this leap.
My Starbucks franchise will have one rule. All products can only be ordered using between 2 and 9 words.
With a 9-word maximum, this will eliminate the ability to order, and the hassle of making, most of the latte, frappuccino, smoothie and fizzio iterations that exist out there.
With a 2-word minimum, people who just order "coffee" will stop coming. Just "coffee" is a dying business anyway.
The word "please" will not count as a word, under certain circumstances. "Coffee, please" will not meet the 2-word requirement.
If you order a 9-word drink, and then add "please" at the end, your order will immediately be cancelled.
However, if you order an 8-word drink, and don't take the opportunity to add "please" (since doing so still satisfies the 9-word rule), then fuck you!
A special exemption will exist under the "Starbucks Stutterer Statute". Stutterers can fill out a form and apply for the use of more words to order. Of course, you can only use between 2 and 9 words on the form. No one stutter writes.
For those wiseacres who order their usual 14-word treat, we will prepare the first 9 ingredients and the rest will be donated to the food and latte bank.
The benefits of this rule are enormous, with noise reduction being the most important.
Have you ever tried to carry on a conversation when 12 screaming latte's, each with 16 ingredients, are being made at the same time?
12 x 16. That's 192 ingredients. We will not carry that many ingredients.
Speaking of conversations, the 2 to 9 rule will eventually extend to conversations. At first, staff will only be able to speak in sentences of 2 to 9 words. Each sentence must clearly have an end to it.
As the franchise grows in popularity, the staff will only say two words, "two" or "nine".
Customer: Hi. How are you today? I would like a…order is cutoff as 9-word maximum is reached.
Staff: Nine.
Customer: You talking to me?
Staff: Two.
Customer is ejected from store.
Eventually, customers will follow the same rule. Chose your words carefully.
As both staff and customers get more and more confused, everyone pretends they are on a Borg cube. "I am 2 of 9."
Anyone who asks whether we have anymore Sheryl Crow cd's in stock will immediately have their hearing damaged so they can never listen to music again.
Our hours are from 2-9.
I had to get some things straight in my head before I took this leap.
My Starbucks franchise will have one rule. All products can only be ordered using between 2 and 9 words.
With a 9-word maximum, this will eliminate the ability to order, and the hassle of making, most of the latte, frappuccino, smoothie and fizzio iterations that exist out there.
With a 2-word minimum, people who just order "coffee" will stop coming. Just "coffee" is a dying business anyway.
The word "please" will not count as a word, under certain circumstances. "Coffee, please" will not meet the 2-word requirement.
If you order a 9-word drink, and then add "please" at the end, your order will immediately be cancelled.
However, if you order an 8-word drink, and don't take the opportunity to add "please" (since doing so still satisfies the 9-word rule), then fuck you!
A special exemption will exist under the "Starbucks Stutterer Statute". Stutterers can fill out a form and apply for the use of more words to order. Of course, you can only use between 2 and 9 words on the form. No one stutter writes.
For those wiseacres who order their usual 14-word treat, we will prepare the first 9 ingredients and the rest will be donated to the food and latte bank.
The benefits of this rule are enormous, with noise reduction being the most important.
Have you ever tried to carry on a conversation when 12 screaming latte's, each with 16 ingredients, are being made at the same time?
12 x 16. That's 192 ingredients. We will not carry that many ingredients.
Speaking of conversations, the 2 to 9 rule will eventually extend to conversations. At first, staff will only be able to speak in sentences of 2 to 9 words. Each sentence must clearly have an end to it.
As the franchise grows in popularity, the staff will only say two words, "two" or "nine".
Customer: Hi. How are you today? I would like a…order is cutoff as 9-word maximum is reached.
Staff: Nine.
Customer: You talking to me?
Staff: Two.
Customer is ejected from store.
Eventually, customers will follow the same rule. Chose your words carefully.
As both staff and customers get more and more confused, everyone pretends they are on a Borg cube. "I am 2 of 9."
Anyone who asks whether we have anymore Sheryl Crow cd's in stock will immediately have their hearing damaged so they can never listen to music again.
Our hours are from 2-9.
Wednesday, 18 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means
Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means: I've been practicing my texting while walking – down at the St. Lawrence market, among the hordes of people. I'm not a 14-year-old...
Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means
Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means: I've been practicing my texting while walking – down at the St. Lawrence market, among the hordes of people. I'm not a 14-year-old...
Not a Cakewalk by Any Means
I've been practicing my texting while walking – down at the St. Lawrence market, among the hordes.
I'm not a 14-year-old, powder-faced and featureless girl with denim-skin legs so texting while walking does not come naturally.
These days I guess I could become a girl. Easier than texting while walking, probably.
I cannot become an actual 14-year-old. Only in behaviour.
I've met a lot of people at the market. They sure are in a bad mood when I bump into the cane-sweetened, half-baked latte they're holding. Must be work stress. Everyone is so busy these days.
They all just frown at me. It's weird how the cute little sprinkled designs on the whipped cream toppings, a cinnamon smile or chocolate heart, suddenly mimic the frown.
People are so connected…to their special coffees.
It was cold down there this day in March. Oh, how the latte-lovers wished Lululemon made actual winter clothing. A hopeless hope, though. Wear it they wouldn't. Hiding their low fat thighs is not an option.
That glorious continental divide. The gap no orthodontist would dare change.
You, Miss, in the back. Jen, is it? Ah, Genn. With a sexy, soft "G".
You've won the Thighsman trophy.
This particular Genn accessorized with a Nooka Yogurt watch. A suger-free watch.
Sorry, got distracted, just like when I text while walking…
I don't understand. I can chew gum while texting. I can walk and chew gum.
I can chew gum, walk on the spot and text. And if it's bubble gum, I can even blow a bubble large enough to cover my wrinkled forehead.
I can text and walk the walk, walk the talk, talk the walk, talk the talk and guest host a talk show, figuratively speaking.
I can text, chew gum and talk your head off. Who am I kidding. I'm no chatty Hardie.
Like Rob Ford, or Larry Miller (the PC doofus who told niqab-wearing women to stay where they are), I can text while sticking my head up my ass.
Don't try it. Lousy reception. Try going up your colon and you'll get roaming fees as well.
But texting while walking? Different animal altogether.
As for texting and sexing?
None of your beeswax.
I'm not a 14-year-old, powder-faced and featureless girl with denim-skin legs so texting while walking does not come naturally.
These days I guess I could become a girl. Easier than texting while walking, probably.
I cannot become an actual 14-year-old. Only in behaviour.
I've met a lot of people at the market. They sure are in a bad mood when I bump into the cane-sweetened, half-baked latte they're holding. Must be work stress. Everyone is so busy these days.
They all just frown at me. It's weird how the cute little sprinkled designs on the whipped cream toppings, a cinnamon smile or chocolate heart, suddenly mimic the frown.
People are so connected…to their special coffees.
It was cold down there this day in March. Oh, how the latte-lovers wished Lululemon made actual winter clothing. A hopeless hope, though. Wear it they wouldn't. Hiding their low fat thighs is not an option.
That glorious continental divide. The gap no orthodontist would dare change.
You, Miss, in the back. Jen, is it? Ah, Genn. With a sexy, soft "G".
You've won the Thighsman trophy.
This particular Genn accessorized with a Nooka Yogurt watch. A suger-free watch.
Sorry, got distracted, just like when I text while walking…
I don't understand. I can chew gum while texting. I can walk and chew gum.
I can chew gum, walk on the spot and text. And if it's bubble gum, I can even blow a bubble large enough to cover my wrinkled forehead.
I can text and walk the walk, walk the talk, talk the walk, talk the talk and guest host a talk show, figuratively speaking.
I can text, chew gum and talk your head off. Who am I kidding. I'm no chatty Hardie.
Like Rob Ford, or Larry Miller (the PC doofus who told niqab-wearing women to stay where they are), I can text while sticking my head up my ass.
Don't try it. Lousy reception. Try going up your colon and you'll get roaming fees as well.
But texting while walking? Different animal altogether.
As for texting and sexing?
None of your beeswax.
Monday, 16 March 2015
Hand Job
Do you know how I can tell that a job isn't for me?
When the job description starts out with brilliantly written lines like, "you are a superstar."
Really? If I'm a superstar, then why am I looking for work? Being the superstar I am, why would I work at your agency? I've never heard of you.
Another great line: "You live and breath design." Actually, I live mostly in a house, often outside, unfortunately sometimes on the subway and I breath air. Back on earth, I mean. Where I'm from.
My all-time favourite: "You lose sleep over the perfect design." Yes, an actual sentence from a real job description.
Nooooooo. I lose sleep over imaginary sex with Kate Mara and Anna Kendrick. When the perfect design pops into my head, I seem to fall asleep instantly. After the sex, of course.
Job Interview at my dream agency:
Interviewer: Hello Mr. Hardie. Wait a minute. Why aren't you wearing your superhero uniform?
Me: Darn, sorry. I had too many magic brownies at my daughter's birthday and I just completely soiled myself while I was working on the ideal design.
Interviewer: You do realize the job requires you to wear your superhero uniform at all times?
Me: Yes, of course. It's off to get cleaned. Consistent with my dedication to sustainability, a group of women from Pitcairn Island are rowing here to retrieve the costume, row it back to their factory, beat it with whale bones, and return it good as new.
Interviewer: Behold this wonderful looking ad. Isn't it beautiful? I can say confidently that over 50 people who simply looked at this ad were instantly cured of cancer. This is what we expect of you.
Me: Wow. So you're not just designing stuff at insane fees to sell stupid products. You really are curing cancer here?
Interviewer: Absolutely. All our employees are required to create a beautiful design that cures a major disease. You are on probation for 6 months. If one of your designs doesn't cure at least three people of a major disease, we will have to let you go. We require a doctor's note as proof.
Me: You know, I feel a mild case of syphilis coming on. Do you have an ad I can look at to cure that?
I was also diagnosed with thumb cancer two months ago. From drawing so many thumbnail designs. Do you have an ad to cure that?
Interviewer: Oh, Mr. Hardie, please. You'll be far too busy to worry about such trivialities.
Me: I think it's spreading to my middle finger. Take a look. What do you think?
Maybe my hand just needs a job. Can I get a hand job here?
Oh no. Do I have a bad attitude? Maybe I have cancer of the attitude.
One agency in Toronto goes by the name of The Collective. It's been my dream to work at a place called The Collective. One makes their individual mark there.
Hi, this is Captain Picard. My work experience includes living and breathing for the "real" Collective. Can I get a one-on-one with Counsellor Troy? Me like Counsellor Troy.
Oh, the wonderful job opportunities out there. Resistance is so, like, futile.
When the job description starts out with brilliantly written lines like, "you are a superstar."
Really? If I'm a superstar, then why am I looking for work? Being the superstar I am, why would I work at your agency? I've never heard of you.
Another great line: "You live and breath design." Actually, I live mostly in a house, often outside, unfortunately sometimes on the subway and I breath air. Back on earth, I mean. Where I'm from.
My all-time favourite: "You lose sleep over the perfect design." Yes, an actual sentence from a real job description.
Nooooooo. I lose sleep over imaginary sex with Kate Mara and Anna Kendrick. When the perfect design pops into my head, I seem to fall asleep instantly. After the sex, of course.
Job Interview at my dream agency:
Interviewer: Hello Mr. Hardie. Wait a minute. Why aren't you wearing your superhero uniform?
Me: Darn, sorry. I had too many magic brownies at my daughter's birthday and I just completely soiled myself while I was working on the ideal design.
Interviewer: You do realize the job requires you to wear your superhero uniform at all times?
Me: Yes, of course. It's off to get cleaned. Consistent with my dedication to sustainability, a group of women from Pitcairn Island are rowing here to retrieve the costume, row it back to their factory, beat it with whale bones, and return it good as new.
Interviewer: Behold this wonderful looking ad. Isn't it beautiful? I can say confidently that over 50 people who simply looked at this ad were instantly cured of cancer. This is what we expect of you.
Me: Wow. So you're not just designing stuff at insane fees to sell stupid products. You really are curing cancer here?
Interviewer: Absolutely. All our employees are required to create a beautiful design that cures a major disease. You are on probation for 6 months. If one of your designs doesn't cure at least three people of a major disease, we will have to let you go. We require a doctor's note as proof.
Me: You know, I feel a mild case of syphilis coming on. Do you have an ad I can look at to cure that?
I was also diagnosed with thumb cancer two months ago. From drawing so many thumbnail designs. Do you have an ad to cure that?
Interviewer: Oh, Mr. Hardie, please. You'll be far too busy to worry about such trivialities.
Me: I think it's spreading to my middle finger. Take a look. What do you think?
Maybe my hand just needs a job. Can I get a hand job here?
Oh no. Do I have a bad attitude? Maybe I have cancer of the attitude.
One agency in Toronto goes by the name of The Collective. It's been my dream to work at a place called The Collective. One makes their individual mark there.
Hi, this is Captain Picard. My work experience includes living and breathing for the "real" Collective. Can I get a one-on-one with Counsellor Troy? Me like Counsellor Troy.
Oh, the wonderful job opportunities out there. Resistance is so, like, futile.
Saturday, 14 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE
Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE: In my never-ending quest for fame and riches as a writer, I came across something odd, maybe quaint, definitely annoying, as I was searching...
Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE
Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE: In my never-ending quest for fame and riches as a writer, I came across something odd, maybe quaint, definitely annoying, as I was searching...
Pushing the Envelope: The SASE
In my never-ending quest for fame and riches as a writer, I came across something odd, maybe quaint, definitely annoying, as I was searching for a publication that might publish one of my fabulously-written, heart-felt articles.
Every publication has a "how-to" section on submitting articles. This section serves to weed out morons who submit moronic humourous articles about, say, cute dogs or deeper issues like whether God puts the lid down after going pee. Um, anyway…
This one publication site – I emphasize the word "site" because I was searching on the internet – asks that you mail your article to them.
Like, on a piece of paper. This requires you to actually type out your article and print it.
And get this. You also have to send a SASE (self addressed stamped envelope, for those under 40) so they can mail back their acceptance or rejection letter.
That is so, ah, charming. They actually call themselves old school. Hence the SASE.
I call it inner-city, broken down, drug-riddled school.
Or stupid school.
Duh, of course we have an "old school" website. But getting our web designer to add something that allows you to attach, or maybe email, your article?
That's waaaayyyy to 21st century for us. After all, our publication is printed on birch bark.
Did I say printed? Sorry. I meant scrawled with the blood of a bison.
I guess I'll submit a timely article to their publication on how to renovate your cave, or the latest in cave drawings, or how to tenderize mastodon meat.
Obviously these people have stock in the post office. And their stock ain't doing so well these days. Let's get some biz going for the posties, don't you know.
I sent them a self addressed stamped memory stick. Oh, this is gonna be fun.
These people need to stop pushing the envelope!
Every publication has a "how-to" section on submitting articles. This section serves to weed out morons who submit moronic humourous articles about, say, cute dogs or deeper issues like whether God puts the lid down after going pee. Um, anyway…
This one publication site – I emphasize the word "site" because I was searching on the internet – asks that you mail your article to them.
Like, on a piece of paper. This requires you to actually type out your article and print it.
And get this. You also have to send a SASE (self addressed stamped envelope, for those under 40) so they can mail back their acceptance or rejection letter.
That is so, ah, charming. They actually call themselves old school. Hence the SASE.
I call it inner-city, broken down, drug-riddled school.
Or stupid school.
Duh, of course we have an "old school" website. But getting our web designer to add something that allows you to attach, or maybe email, your article?
That's waaaayyyy to 21st century for us. After all, our publication is printed on birch bark.
Did I say printed? Sorry. I meant scrawled with the blood of a bison.
I guess I'll submit a timely article to their publication on how to renovate your cave, or the latest in cave drawings, or how to tenderize mastodon meat.
Obviously these people have stock in the post office. And their stock ain't doing so well these days. Let's get some biz going for the posties, don't you know.
I sent them a self addressed stamped memory stick. Oh, this is gonna be fun.
These people need to stop pushing the envelope!
Friday, 13 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Golf
Helloooo Newman: Golf: I don't understand golf. I know, I'm male, so all my DNA should be pushing me towards lowering my golf score. Salmon go upstream, ...
Thursday, 12 March 2015
Helloooo Newman: Golf
Helloooo Newman: Golf: I don't understand golf. I know, I'm male, so all my DNA should be pushing me towards lowering my golf score. Salmon go upstream, ...
Golf
I don't understand golf.
I know, I'm male, so all my DNA should be pushing me towards lowering my golf score. Salmon go upstream, my golf score goes downstream.
Plus I'm self-employed. Even more reason to get that club membership so I can do some deals over "tee" and crumpets.
I guess I'm just not into the kind of simian bonding that goes on while driving around someone's lawn stroking your balls and catching birdies (or hopefully the endangered Eagle).
What I really don't understand is the concept of the handicap in golf. The handicap idea also appears in very challenging, intellectual sports, like chess, basketball and bowling(?).
Is it just me? I really don't want to play a sport where, before I'm even out of the gate, I'm basically labelled a retard. Or a cripple.
I didn't know I have a handicap. I feel pretty normal. Does it show?
Oh that Paul, he isn't quite right. Let's give him a head start. Is this a race between 6-year-olds?
Hey Paul, your crutches are gouging the green. Replace your divots, you moron, or we'll add 6 strokes.
I think golf was invented by kids:
Billy: Ah Teddy, this is no fair. You're so much better at this than me.
Teddy: Now Billy, show me who the big six year old is. Come on, I'll give you 10 strokes.
Billy: But why is the hole so far away? I prefer Billiards. The hole is much closer. Can we take the golf ball and play Billiards with it? Plus we've already crashed the golf cart 6 times. Shouldn't you have that compound fracture looked at? Can we play against girls? That'll be easier.
Teddy: NO GIRLS, Billy. Girls are yucky. If girls insist on playing, they can have a later tee time, after we're drunk.
I take that back. The above is a conversation between grown men.
Think about it. The more you suck, the bigger the handicap and the more strokes you can deduct.
What if I can't play at all? Do I automatically win? That was easy. I'm going back to the club house for my beer and trophy.
Is this a way to achieve excellence in society?
What if we use this system for other professions? Well, I guess we already do for politics. But for medicine? Twelve of your patients died? That's okay. Factoring in your handicap, we'll call it, um, let's see… three people. Not bad for a beginner.
Maybe it's the name. Who on earth picked "handicap"? Did the inventors of golf pride themselves on their honesty? "Gentlemen, I don't see why we should hide the fact that these particular players are idiots. Incapable. In a word, handicapped. But as long as they are men, they can play. They need our help. We need a foursome."
Maybe it's time to pick a more positive, life-affirming and honest name. How about sucky strokes? Bogus balls?
Wait a minute. If my handicap is large enough, do I get handicap parking? Awesome.
Do you think Jesus golfed? I do. First of all, men really don't like women messing in "their" golf game. What a perfect atmosphere for starting a religion.
Secondly, think of how easy it is to spread your message. Hushed crowds waiting on Jesus' every stroke, watching him sink that 100 foot putt. What a great time to work in a few words about not messing with your neighbour's donkey.
And do you know who His caddy was? Moses.
Jesus: Hey Moses, looks like the green is on the other side of that water trap. What do you recommend?
Moses: J.C. Just take the shot, I'll part the water when it's time.
Of course, back in Jesus' day, there were no golf handicaps because Jesus healed all the handicapped. I believe the chief reason Jesus is coming back is to heal all those current golf handicaps out there.
The sports handicap: we know you suck, and we have a name for that.
I know, I'm male, so all my DNA should be pushing me towards lowering my golf score. Salmon go upstream, my golf score goes downstream.
Plus I'm self-employed. Even more reason to get that club membership so I can do some deals over "tee" and crumpets.
I guess I'm just not into the kind of simian bonding that goes on while driving around someone's lawn stroking your balls and catching birdies (or hopefully the endangered Eagle).
What I really don't understand is the concept of the handicap in golf. The handicap idea also appears in very challenging, intellectual sports, like chess, basketball and bowling(?).
Is it just me? I really don't want to play a sport where, before I'm even out of the gate, I'm basically labelled a retard. Or a cripple.
I didn't know I have a handicap. I feel pretty normal. Does it show?
Oh that Paul, he isn't quite right. Let's give him a head start. Is this a race between 6-year-olds?
Hey Paul, your crutches are gouging the green. Replace your divots, you moron, or we'll add 6 strokes.
I think golf was invented by kids:
Billy: Ah Teddy, this is no fair. You're so much better at this than me.
Teddy: Now Billy, show me who the big six year old is. Come on, I'll give you 10 strokes.
Billy: But why is the hole so far away? I prefer Billiards. The hole is much closer. Can we take the golf ball and play Billiards with it? Plus we've already crashed the golf cart 6 times. Shouldn't you have that compound fracture looked at? Can we play against girls? That'll be easier.
Teddy: NO GIRLS, Billy. Girls are yucky. If girls insist on playing, they can have a later tee time, after we're drunk.
I take that back. The above is a conversation between grown men.
Think about it. The more you suck, the bigger the handicap and the more strokes you can deduct.
What if I can't play at all? Do I automatically win? That was easy. I'm going back to the club house for my beer and trophy.
Is this a way to achieve excellence in society?
What if we use this system for other professions? Well, I guess we already do for politics. But for medicine? Twelve of your patients died? That's okay. Factoring in your handicap, we'll call it, um, let's see… three people. Not bad for a beginner.
Maybe it's the name. Who on earth picked "handicap"? Did the inventors of golf pride themselves on their honesty? "Gentlemen, I don't see why we should hide the fact that these particular players are idiots. Incapable. In a word, handicapped. But as long as they are men, they can play. They need our help. We need a foursome."
Maybe it's time to pick a more positive, life-affirming and honest name. How about sucky strokes? Bogus balls?
Wait a minute. If my handicap is large enough, do I get handicap parking? Awesome.
Do you think Jesus golfed? I do. First of all, men really don't like women messing in "their" golf game. What a perfect atmosphere for starting a religion.
Secondly, think of how easy it is to spread your message. Hushed crowds waiting on Jesus' every stroke, watching him sink that 100 foot putt. What a great time to work in a few words about not messing with your neighbour's donkey.
And do you know who His caddy was? Moses.
Jesus: Hey Moses, looks like the green is on the other side of that water trap. What do you recommend?
Moses: J.C. Just take the shot, I'll part the water when it's time.
Of course, back in Jesus' day, there were no golf handicaps because Jesus healed all the handicapped. I believe the chief reason Jesus is coming back is to heal all those current golf handicaps out there.
The sports handicap: we know you suck, and we have a name for that.
Wednesday, 25 February 2015
I knew him when…
Dear Reader.
Yes, I revere you far more than North Koreans revere their "Dear Leader", Kim Jong Un-human.
I am all wet today. Why? Everything is frozen.
Oh, I know why.
I am bathing in stardom.
My first article, my first birth, has been published. As a writer I've gone from fetus to meet us!
Here is the link: http://www.pointsincase.com/articles/is-your-chicken-tired
Thank you all for your adoring eyes.
You like me now. You really like me.
Yes, I revere you far more than North Koreans revere their "Dear Leader", Kim Jong Un-human.
I am all wet today. Why? Everything is frozen.
Oh, I know why.
I am bathing in stardom.
My first article, my first birth, has been published. As a writer I've gone from fetus to meet us!
Here is the link: http://www.pointsincase.com/articles/is-your-chicken-tired
Thank you all for your adoring eyes.
You like me now. You really like me.
Monday, 23 February 2015
Helloooo Newman: Minding your Pees and Cues
Helloooo Newman: Minding your Pees and Cues: Entering a public washroom is always full of terror and tough decisions. 11:30 a.m. and it was time to pee. "NOW, PLEASE!", if m...
Minding My Pees and Cues
Entering a public washroom is always fraught with terror and tough decisions.
11:30 a.m. and it was time to pee. "NOW, PLEASE!", if my bladder had vocal chords, gurgled though they would be under water.
My poor bladder: aka the Titanic's hull, its various emergency compartments quickly bubbling up with sea water, sloshing over the safety walls into yet more compartments, and me frantically searching for a lifeboat.
I'M THE KING OF THE WASHROOM!
Gotta find one first. Sail around the corner at 5 kph. Thar she blows…a men's room.
Business people swam through the downtown tower, looking at me in awe, figuring I had an incredibly urgent meeting to attend with millions of dollars at stake.
Nope. Drank too much coffee.
I entered the men's room quicker than Bill Clinton said yes to the dress.
Now the real stress. So many important decisions needed to be made in a flash…as I got ready to flash the urinal.
Minding your pees and cues is of udder importance in the male public washroom.
First challenge – quick math. I counted 6 urinals. Five open, the far right one occupied.
First quick decision – I took the far left urinal, furthest away from the other occupier. That's the golden rule of the golden shower – always furthest away.
The occupier started to whistle a tune. The Titanic theme? No, no, no. Not cool. I had no idea if he's so happy peeing because he got a raise that day, enjoyed holding his dick in his hands, or wanted to dance with me on the upper deck.
Judging from his ill-fitted suit, TSX haircut and a certain cockiness in his stance, so to speak, I figured this guy for a broker. But why the whistling?
Perhaps his penis had a blue tooth connection and he's getting live stock quotes. Viagra is up 20%. Did he get a good stock tip on his, ah, tip?
I'd had enough of this man whistling dixie. Egressing the washroom quickly was now task number one.
I made a difficult decision – Three quick shakes and I pulled in. My little big man shrunk back slinky-style, rather upset to go back in his little box so soon.
On a normal day I would shake at least 10 times. One sacrifices in emergencies.
I couldn't leave without a good hand wash. I was not Poppie from Seinfeld.
The soap dispenser got romantic. As I pressed down on its extension, a barely perceptible piece of dried soap on its tip caused it to misfire and "ejaculate" milky-white goo all over my coat.
Monica Lewinsky's dress popped into my mind. I did not have sexual relations with that dispenser.
The damn tap! The hand sensor gave me three seconds of water and stopped.
The whistling pee-er was approaching.
I bent down towards the floor and then popped back up, hoping to convince the tap that I was, indeed, a new person. Please sir, can I have some more water? The tap Nazi did not deliver.
The towel dispenser did not respond to my frantically waving hand. The towels and the tap were working together.
I scurried out of the washroom, trying not to look like I just left a Roman bath.
The whole logic of the modern day public washroom is deeply disturbing to me. Very, VERY few people in this world have seen my penis, and yet there I was displaying it, in the open, not directly to, but beside a complete stranger.
From now on it's only private peeing for me.
11:30 a.m. and it was time to pee. "NOW, PLEASE!", if my bladder had vocal chords, gurgled though they would be under water.
My poor bladder: aka the Titanic's hull, its various emergency compartments quickly bubbling up with sea water, sloshing over the safety walls into yet more compartments, and me frantically searching for a lifeboat.
I'M THE KING OF THE WASHROOM!
Gotta find one first. Sail around the corner at 5 kph. Thar she blows…a men's room.
Business people swam through the downtown tower, looking at me in awe, figuring I had an incredibly urgent meeting to attend with millions of dollars at stake.
Nope. Drank too much coffee.
I entered the men's room quicker than Bill Clinton said yes to the dress.
Now the real stress. So many important decisions needed to be made in a flash…as I got ready to flash the urinal.
Minding your pees and cues is of udder importance in the male public washroom.
First challenge – quick math. I counted 6 urinals. Five open, the far right one occupied.
First quick decision – I took the far left urinal, furthest away from the other occupier. That's the golden rule of the golden shower – always furthest away.
The occupier started to whistle a tune. The Titanic theme? No, no, no. Not cool. I had no idea if he's so happy peeing because he got a raise that day, enjoyed holding his dick in his hands, or wanted to dance with me on the upper deck.
Judging from his ill-fitted suit, TSX haircut and a certain cockiness in his stance, so to speak, I figured this guy for a broker. But why the whistling?
Perhaps his penis had a blue tooth connection and he's getting live stock quotes. Viagra is up 20%. Did he get a good stock tip on his, ah, tip?
I'd had enough of this man whistling dixie. Egressing the washroom quickly was now task number one.
I made a difficult decision – Three quick shakes and I pulled in. My little big man shrunk back slinky-style, rather upset to go back in his little box so soon.
On a normal day I would shake at least 10 times. One sacrifices in emergencies.
I couldn't leave without a good hand wash. I was not Poppie from Seinfeld.
The soap dispenser got romantic. As I pressed down on its extension, a barely perceptible piece of dried soap on its tip caused it to misfire and "ejaculate" milky-white goo all over my coat.
Monica Lewinsky's dress popped into my mind. I did not have sexual relations with that dispenser.
The damn tap! The hand sensor gave me three seconds of water and stopped.
The whistling pee-er was approaching.
I bent down towards the floor and then popped back up, hoping to convince the tap that I was, indeed, a new person. Please sir, can I have some more water? The tap Nazi did not deliver.
The towel dispenser did not respond to my frantically waving hand. The towels and the tap were working together.
I scurried out of the washroom, trying not to look like I just left a Roman bath.
The whole logic of the modern day public washroom is deeply disturbing to me. Very, VERY few people in this world have seen my penis, and yet there I was displaying it, in the open, not directly to, but beside a complete stranger.
The ability of the modern day public washroom to turn Roman bath is profoundly easy. One simple 45 degree turn and presto, say hello to my Augustus Flacidus.
From now on it's only private peeing for me.
Wednesday, 18 February 2015
Helloooo Newman: A Real Paul Buster
Helloooo Newman: A Real Paul Buster: Do you know the hardest thing about being a famous writer? Is it the demands of my editors? Hey Paul, only a small group of people were of...
A Real Paul Buster
Do you know the hardest thing about being a famous writer?
Is it the demands of my editors? Hey Paul, only a small group of people were offended by your last article. What's the story? Keep this up and you'll be writing for the phone book.
Nope.
Is it the fans camping outside my house trying to get a glimpse of me in the actual writing process? Women offering themselves and mistaking me for Jamie Dornan, the male lead in 50 Shades of Grey?
Sadly, no.
It's me. I'm the hardest on myself.
Truth be told, I'm a real Paul buster.
Demanding, exacting, fastidious, obdurate, intrepid, on the liminel of historical greatness.
I told you my vocab is growing. That last big word, "liminel", isn't even in the pathetic spellcheck my blog service offers.
I think I'm outgrowing this internet thing. I'm too big, too smart. Too perfidious.
I'm the Paul buster.
Is it the demands of my editors? Hey Paul, only a small group of people were offended by your last article. What's the story? Keep this up and you'll be writing for the phone book.
Nope.
Is it the fans camping outside my house trying to get a glimpse of me in the actual writing process? Women offering themselves and mistaking me for Jamie Dornan, the male lead in 50 Shades of Grey?
Sadly, no.
It's me. I'm the hardest on myself.
Truth be told, I'm a real Paul buster.
Demanding, exacting, fastidious, obdurate, intrepid, on the liminel of historical greatness.
I told you my vocab is growing. That last big word, "liminel", isn't even in the pathetic spellcheck my blog service offers.
I think I'm outgrowing this internet thing. I'm too big, too smart. Too perfidious.
I'm the Paul buster.
Helloooo Newman: Ebolarama
Helloooo Newman: Ebolarama: For the last sleepless 48 hours, since I found out one of my articles will be published, I've been braining heavily on my fame – how it ...
Ebolarama
For the last sleepless 48 hours, since I found out one of my articles will be published, I've been braining heavily on my fame – how it will explode and how it will change me.
Taking into account my awesome talents, offset by my egotistical mindset and complete detachment from creative reality (necessary qualities to be famous), I believe my fame will spread in a way that mimes the spread of Ebola and the Bowlerama phenomenon.
Ebolarama. This is the working title of my memoires.
Ebola is a virus. Viruses are spread via the internet. My fame will spread this way too.
Ebola is only caught through contact with the bodily fluids, blood or organs of an infected person. My articles will infect people the same way. Readers will be "touched" by my heart-wrenching prose. They will laugh, cry, wipe their eyes and thus catch and spread my fame. It will be painful. Some will not survive.
You will be infected by my fame only if you come into direct contact with my writing. Hearing about it second hand? – and you definitely will! You are safe. Until you are overcome with the urge to log onto the blog.
Ebola snuck up on the world and spread long before health professionals could get control of it. My fame will circle the globe in similar fashion.
Soon – very soon – people will gather around in large groups, much like they do at Bowlerama, read my articles, get hammered, and discuss the finer points of my deep messaging.
Their minds will roll into the gutter. They will realize the futility of life, much like the futility of knocking over pins with a boulder, only to have them pop up again and again. Thanks to my writing.
As the Bowlerama ads say, you don't really have to know how to bowl to have fun. Likewise, you don't have to know how to read to enjoy my articles. No skill is involved. That's the best part of my blog – you don't really have to know how to read.
Can we really call bowling a sport? I think not. Can we call enjoying my articles reading? Not likely.
And yes, you'll look and feel damn silly.
All the while my fame will spread across the world, and maybe my DNA as well.
I will have no time for FAMILY. I will have my FAME–ILY.
Has all this gone to my head? Unlikely. It usually takes much longer for things to make it to my head.
I. Am. A. Published. Author.
Taking into account my awesome talents, offset by my egotistical mindset and complete detachment from creative reality (necessary qualities to be famous), I believe my fame will spread in a way that mimes the spread of Ebola and the Bowlerama phenomenon.
Ebolarama. This is the working title of my memoires.
Ebola is a virus. Viruses are spread via the internet. My fame will spread this way too.
Ebola is only caught through contact with the bodily fluids, blood or organs of an infected person. My articles will infect people the same way. Readers will be "touched" by my heart-wrenching prose. They will laugh, cry, wipe their eyes and thus catch and spread my fame. It will be painful. Some will not survive.
You will be infected by my fame only if you come into direct contact with my writing. Hearing about it second hand? – and you definitely will! You are safe. Until you are overcome with the urge to log onto the blog.
Ebola snuck up on the world and spread long before health professionals could get control of it. My fame will circle the globe in similar fashion.
Soon – very soon – people will gather around in large groups, much like they do at Bowlerama, read my articles, get hammered, and discuss the finer points of my deep messaging.
Their minds will roll into the gutter. They will realize the futility of life, much like the futility of knocking over pins with a boulder, only to have them pop up again and again. Thanks to my writing.
As the Bowlerama ads say, you don't really have to know how to bowl to have fun. Likewise, you don't have to know how to read to enjoy my articles. No skill is involved. That's the best part of my blog – you don't really have to know how to read.
Can we really call bowling a sport? I think not. Can we call enjoying my articles reading? Not likely.
And yes, you'll look and feel damn silly.
All the while my fame will spread across the world, and maybe my DNA as well.
I will have no time for FAMILY. I will have my FAME–ILY.
Has all this gone to my head? Unlikely. It usually takes much longer for things to make it to my head.
I. Am. A. Published. Author.
Thursday, 12 February 2015
Helloooo Newman: Eating More Slow Food
Helloooo Newman: Eating More Slow Food: As I rapidly age, quickly heading towards THE END , I find that three things in my life are slowing down. My Body. My mind. And my food. ...
Eating More Slow Food
As I rapidly age, quickly heading towards THE END, I find that three things in my life are slowing down.
My Body. My mind. And my food.
Yes, my food is slowing down.
Fast food is a vanishing item on my daily menu.
This is a step forward because slower food is better for my body and mind, in theory anyway.
I have yet to see the benefits of food moving at a reduced speed, but I continue to believe all the studies out there saying I'll feel and look better.
Right now I'm just completely depressed!
Up until about today I have suffered from what scientists term EFG syndrome. Eating Fat and Grease.
Here are the ABCs of EFG.
Do you think my level of EFG affects my EKG? In today's parlance, IDK.
There is no vaccine against this so stop calling me Jenny McCarthy.
When I tell people I like burgers or steak or ribs or fried chicken, that's really kind of a lie. These foods are merely vehicles for carrying to my body what I really crave – EFG.
My craving for EFG starts around the time I open my eyes from a nice sleep. It only lasts for about 24 hours a day.
Some "experts" out there say that man wasn't meant to eat meat, or fat, or grains, or do anything that people actually enjoy doing.
It's hard to imagine that 4 million years ago, as man ventured out of Africa, battling climate change, mile-high sheets of ice, deadly animals and disease, that he would survive on a diet of tofu and kale salad.
I'm convinced if they search hard enough, archeologists will find the early remnants of the first bacon cheeseburger among the arrowheads and cave drawings.
It might be hard to spot at first – a small pile of sesame seeds from the bun, or a bit of the wrapper it came in. No doubt the skeleton found beside the bacon cheeseburger will have a big, toothy smile on its face. And you're telling me man wasn't meant to eat this crap? Booha!
Even today, we put a positive spin on fat. We all want a fat cheque, a fat chance in life, and we're all waiting for the fat lady to sing. Who's waiting for the skinny singer? Did Celine Dion just pop into your mind?
For the longest time the most popular Broadway show was – Grease! See my point?
I don't know why people are so concerned about being big. Have you read lately about how large the universe is? In human terms the universe is grotesquely obese. And it's getting larger by the second. What the hell is it eating, anyway? Dark matter? Sounds like the pudding at Denny's.
On the other hand, your body is a tiny speck on a speck that sits on the speck of a speck.
Go ahead and eat more. There's room!
The other day I was looking at gorgeous pictures of our galaxy, the Milky Way. Viewed from the side it looks an awful lot like a bacon cheeseburger. Mind you, the bun is too small for the patty. Bun to meat ratio is quite important. Still, there's a message there somewhere.
Think about it. Our galaxy is named after a chocolate bar. I guess the Kale Way was voted down.
Let's be careful. I'm not saying all fast food is the same. There's crap, and there's crap crap. Try eating at a Red Lobster.
There's only two things that always smell the same, no matter what they contain. Garbage and anything from Red Lobster.
While I was eating my steak and lobster, they gave me a lobster-shaped bib. After the meal I was thinking, why not a lobster-shaped diaper for the diarrhea later on.
I got to pick my own lobster. Can I pick the stomach ailment I'll get as well? Can I pick the bill I pay?
Everyone who eats there looks like that first creature that crawled out of the ocean. Something not quite meant to be on land yet.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the skinny on fat
My Body. My mind. And my food.
Yes, my food is slowing down.
Fast food is a vanishing item on my daily menu.
This is a step forward because slower food is better for my body and mind, in theory anyway.
I have yet to see the benefits of food moving at a reduced speed, but I continue to believe all the studies out there saying I'll feel and look better.
Right now I'm just completely depressed!
Up until about today I have suffered from what scientists term EFG syndrome. Eating Fat and Grease.
Here are the ABCs of EFG.
Do you think my level of EFG affects my EKG? In today's parlance, IDK.
There is no vaccine against this so stop calling me Jenny McCarthy.
When I tell people I like burgers or steak or ribs or fried chicken, that's really kind of a lie. These foods are merely vehicles for carrying to my body what I really crave – EFG.
My craving for EFG starts around the time I open my eyes from a nice sleep. It only lasts for about 24 hours a day.
Some "experts" out there say that man wasn't meant to eat meat, or fat, or grains, or do anything that people actually enjoy doing.
It's hard to imagine that 4 million years ago, as man ventured out of Africa, battling climate change, mile-high sheets of ice, deadly animals and disease, that he would survive on a diet of tofu and kale salad.
I'm convinced if they search hard enough, archeologists will find the early remnants of the first bacon cheeseburger among the arrowheads and cave drawings.
It might be hard to spot at first – a small pile of sesame seeds from the bun, or a bit of the wrapper it came in. No doubt the skeleton found beside the bacon cheeseburger will have a big, toothy smile on its face. And you're telling me man wasn't meant to eat this crap? Booha!
Even today, we put a positive spin on fat. We all want a fat cheque, a fat chance in life, and we're all waiting for the fat lady to sing. Who's waiting for the skinny singer? Did Celine Dion just pop into your mind?
For the longest time the most popular Broadway show was – Grease! See my point?
I don't know why people are so concerned about being big. Have you read lately about how large the universe is? In human terms the universe is grotesquely obese. And it's getting larger by the second. What the hell is it eating, anyway? Dark matter? Sounds like the pudding at Denny's.
On the other hand, your body is a tiny speck on a speck that sits on the speck of a speck.
Go ahead and eat more. There's room!
The other day I was looking at gorgeous pictures of our galaxy, the Milky Way. Viewed from the side it looks an awful lot like a bacon cheeseburger. Mind you, the bun is too small for the patty. Bun to meat ratio is quite important. Still, there's a message there somewhere.
Think about it. Our galaxy is named after a chocolate bar. I guess the Kale Way was voted down.
Let's be careful. I'm not saying all fast food is the same. There's crap, and there's crap crap. Try eating at a Red Lobster.
There's only two things that always smell the same, no matter what they contain. Garbage and anything from Red Lobster.
While I was eating my steak and lobster, they gave me a lobster-shaped bib. After the meal I was thinking, why not a lobster-shaped diaper for the diarrhea later on.
I got to pick my own lobster. Can I pick the stomach ailment I'll get as well? Can I pick the bill I pay?
Everyone who eats there looks like that first creature that crawled out of the ocean. Something not quite meant to be on land yet.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the skinny on fat
Monday, 9 February 2015
The Regifted List
Last week I visited my very old high school, which is now a brand new high school, and found out one of my closest friends received a university scholarship after grade 13.
His name is on a plaque. The plaque came alive, reached out and burned into my forehead the words "Hey Paul, look what I got, you loser."
I wanted to burn the school down. It's really hard to set brick on fire, let alone get the high temperature needed to melt a plaque.
I suppose my friend is gifted, like so many other people walking around these days.
I can't stand gifted people. Okay, I don't really mind them. It's more like trying to mix O.J. and milk. Bleueeckkk.
You see, I'm on a rarely-talked about list.
I was born re-gifted.
Yup – I'm like that bottle of wine that no one wants. Hey, here's some wine from the Gobi Desert. Just add water and shake.
It's passed 'round and 'round until finally someone needs to clean their silver with something very acidic.
You can always tell the regifted wine bottles. They're either still in that thin, tall bag or people separate them out from the fine wine.
Same happened to me. If you look at the family photos you'll notice I'm always on the side, a bit away from everyone else.
That's Paul. He's over there because we'll probably regift him soon.
Too bad it's against the law to pass on re-gifted children like they're a wine bottle.
Hey Frank, I brought a little kid with me in case Janice can't get pregnant. Go ahead, keep him. You can always unload him later.
If I were a math symbol I would be the less than symbol (<). Gifted people are, of course the greater than symbol (>). Beats being zero, which means you're dead.
Other symbols that describe me: square root. Whatever you expect of me, take the square root and that's what you'll get.
I walked by an ex-toggery and all the employees came out and cooed – oh, there goes a re-gifted person. They know re-gifts when they see them. Let's put him on the rack, maybe someone will take him.
They don't even offer me gift receipts at the store. Ha ha ha, look at the poor regifted person. Probably buying that for himself.
Maybe calling myself regifted is a little too ambitious. I'm more like a loot bag from a snotty-nosed kid's party.
One thing I never do is buy gifted people Christmas or birthday presents. They've been gifted enough.
Regifteds don't find girlfriends. They are regifted girlfriends. All the single girls I ever met were girls my brother turned down. I assumed those girls learned how to turn me down from my brother.
Why was I born regifted? Most likely because my mom smoked and drank way more during my gestation than for the others. I was the last child of five, and not really wanted or expected. I was a regift from God. Yes, even the Man with everything regifts once in a while.
Know your gestation in life – that's what my mom always said.
I researched some of the qualities of gifted adults and I seem to fit right in.
Some of the qualities are:
Do you have a good long term memory?
Yes, there are several kids from grade school I still want to beat up
Do you have a vivid imagination?
I was single through my 20s and 30 so yes, I developed a very good imagination. In HD, in colour, no commercials, can pause it at any time. It's called Sexflix.
Can you concentrate for long periods of time?
Sometimes at a bar I have to spend a lot of time choosing a beer. That requires focus.
Are you very curious?
Yes. Why do celebrity women want their lips to look like inner tubes from a large truck? Marie Osmond's face looks like an upside down Hummer.
Thankfully, RE-gifted people look very forward to RE-incarnation!
His name is on a plaque. The plaque came alive, reached out and burned into my forehead the words "Hey Paul, look what I got, you loser."
I wanted to burn the school down. It's really hard to set brick on fire, let alone get the high temperature needed to melt a plaque.
I suppose my friend is gifted, like so many other people walking around these days.
I can't stand gifted people. Okay, I don't really mind them. It's more like trying to mix O.J. and milk. Bleueeckkk.
You see, I'm on a rarely-talked about list.
I was born re-gifted.
Yup – I'm like that bottle of wine that no one wants. Hey, here's some wine from the Gobi Desert. Just add water and shake.
It's passed 'round and 'round until finally someone needs to clean their silver with something very acidic.
You can always tell the regifted wine bottles. They're either still in that thin, tall bag or people separate them out from the fine wine.
Same happened to me. If you look at the family photos you'll notice I'm always on the side, a bit away from everyone else.
That's Paul. He's over there because we'll probably regift him soon.
Too bad it's against the law to pass on re-gifted children like they're a wine bottle.
Hey Frank, I brought a little kid with me in case Janice can't get pregnant. Go ahead, keep him. You can always unload him later.
If I were a math symbol I would be the less than symbol (<). Gifted people are, of course the greater than symbol (>). Beats being zero, which means you're dead.
Other symbols that describe me: square root. Whatever you expect of me, take the square root and that's what you'll get.
I walked by an ex-toggery and all the employees came out and cooed – oh, there goes a re-gifted person. They know re-gifts when they see them. Let's put him on the rack, maybe someone will take him.
They don't even offer me gift receipts at the store. Ha ha ha, look at the poor regifted person. Probably buying that for himself.
Maybe calling myself regifted is a little too ambitious. I'm more like a loot bag from a snotty-nosed kid's party.
One thing I never do is buy gifted people Christmas or birthday presents. They've been gifted enough.
Regifteds don't find girlfriends. They are regifted girlfriends. All the single girls I ever met were girls my brother turned down. I assumed those girls learned how to turn me down from my brother.
Why was I born regifted? Most likely because my mom smoked and drank way more during my gestation than for the others. I was the last child of five, and not really wanted or expected. I was a regift from God. Yes, even the Man with everything regifts once in a while.
Know your gestation in life – that's what my mom always said.
I researched some of the qualities of gifted adults and I seem to fit right in.
Some of the qualities are:
Do you have a good long term memory?
Yes, there are several kids from grade school I still want to beat up
Do you have a vivid imagination?
I was single through my 20s and 30 so yes, I developed a very good imagination. In HD, in colour, no commercials, can pause it at any time. It's called Sexflix.
Can you concentrate for long periods of time?
Sometimes at a bar I have to spend a lot of time choosing a beer. That requires focus.
Are you very curious?
Yes. Why do celebrity women want their lips to look like inner tubes from a large truck? Marie Osmond's face looks like an upside down Hummer.
Thankfully, RE-gifted people look very forward to RE-incarnation!
Wednesday, 7 January 2015
Helloooo Newman: Talk To You escaLATER
Helloooo Newman: Talk To You escaLATER: Here's an interesting topic I must confess I've never given much thought. Until this Christmas. When you step onto an escalator, w...
Talk To You escaLATER
Here's an interesting topic I must confess I've never given much thought. Until this Christmas.
When you step onto an escalator, what is the proper stair distance you should keep from the person in front of you?
I was shopping over the holidays and as I stepped onto the escalator stair, a person inserted themselves in a rather pell mell manner onto the step right behind mine. We were the only two people on the escalator.
For a short while it was a tense ride. I did what any clear thinking person would do in this situation. I farted.
Slowly and silently.
For a few seconds I think the entire mall believed the movie The Interview was playing nearby and this was a North Korean gas attack.
Nope. Just me defending my territory.
Perhaps he was a prying proctologist and he was assessing me as a potential client.
Tough day at the orifice, honey? Maybe he felt a little down in the "dumps" and needed some company.
I did the math and concluded you should be one and a half steps from the other person when the escalator is a moving sardine can, and at least 10 steps when there are only two people riding.
You're right, I could have just started walking up the escalator to extricate myself from the awkward ride. Farting was so much more fun, though.
When you step onto an escalator, what is the proper stair distance you should keep from the person in front of you?
I was shopping over the holidays and as I stepped onto the escalator stair, a person inserted themselves in a rather pell mell manner onto the step right behind mine. We were the only two people on the escalator.
For a short while it was a tense ride. I did what any clear thinking person would do in this situation. I farted.
Slowly and silently.
For a few seconds I think the entire mall believed the movie The Interview was playing nearby and this was a North Korean gas attack.
Nope. Just me defending my territory.
Perhaps he was a prying proctologist and he was assessing me as a potential client.
Tough day at the orifice, honey? Maybe he felt a little down in the "dumps" and needed some company.
I did the math and concluded you should be one and a half steps from the other person when the escalator is a moving sardine can, and at least 10 steps when there are only two people riding.
You're right, I could have just started walking up the escalator to extricate myself from the awkward ride. Farting was so much more fun, though.
Tuesday, 30 December 2014
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...
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