HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Sunday, 27 September 2015
Helloooo Newman: I'm in a Newman State of Mind
Helloooo Newman: I'm in a Newman State of Mind: Production is fast and furious on Newman's new vlog, coming to Youtube very soon. There have been some budgeting hurdles, but nothing ...
I'm in a Newman State of Mind
Production is fast and furious on Newman's new vlog, coming to Youtube very soon.
There have been some budgeting hurdles, but nothing we can't handle. The bar bills have been completely out of control and WTF, the production company, refused to believe we employ a man named Mr. Crantini.
We at Helloooo Newman realized something very important – we need a theme song.
And so was born "I'm in a Newman State of Mind".
This is based on the melody of Billy Joel's "I'm in a New York State of Mind". Okay, we stole it.
Please don't tell Mr. Joel about this. He wouldn't return our phone calls.
Newman's lyrics are as follows (to the tune of "I'm in a New York State of Mind")
Some dads like to get away
Take a holiday from the wife and kid
Hop a bus to the downtown core
Or just take a shit
But I'm eating some mouldy bread and a chicken's spine
I'm in a Newman State of Mind
Just log onto Youtube for the tune and replace Mr. Joel's lyrics with these much better lyrics.
Please also memorize this tune as we can't afford to pay anyone to play it at the beginning of each episode.
There have been some budgeting hurdles, but nothing we can't handle. The bar bills have been completely out of control and WTF, the production company, refused to believe we employ a man named Mr. Crantini.
We at Helloooo Newman realized something very important – we need a theme song.
And so was born "I'm in a Newman State of Mind".
This is based on the melody of Billy Joel's "I'm in a New York State of Mind". Okay, we stole it.
Please don't tell Mr. Joel about this. He wouldn't return our phone calls.
Newman's lyrics are as follows (to the tune of "I'm in a New York State of Mind")
Some dads like to get away
Take a holiday from the wife and kid
Hop a bus to the downtown core
Or just take a shit
But I'm eating some mouldy bread and a chicken's spine
I'm in a Newman State of Mind
Just log onto Youtube for the tune and replace Mr. Joel's lyrics with these much better lyrics.
Please also memorize this tune as we can't afford to pay anyone to play it at the beginning of each episode.
Friday, 25 September 2015
Helloooo Newman: Forrest trump
Helloooo Newman: Forrest trump: Wisdom from Forrest Trump: Mama always said life is like a box car full of Mexicans. You never know which one you'll squeeze and sen...
Forrest trump
Wisdom from Forrest Trump:
Mama always said life is like a box car full of Mexicans.
You never know which one you'll squeeze and send back.
Mama always said life is like a box car full of Mexicans.
You never know which one you'll squeeze and send back.
Thursday, 24 September 2015
Helloooo Newman: In Poor Taste
Helloooo Newman: In Poor Taste: TRIGGER WARNING: IF YOU THINK THE POPE HAS THE DOPE ON GOOD LIVING, I SUGGEST READING ONE OF THE OTHER 500 TRILLION ARTICLES ON THE WEB. ...
In Poor Taste
TRIGGER WARNING: IF YOU THINK THE POPE HAS THE DOPE ON GOOD LIVING, I SUGGEST READING ONE OF THE OTHER 500 TRILLION ARTICLES ON THE WEB.
A new Pope is on a new world tour.
No one is bigger than the Pope. Not even the Beatles. The Pope is bigger than Jesus, but only because Jesus is a constant no show.
I was struck by one of the Pope's many pithy sayings.
"Let poverty be your mother."
Really? Do we get to eat food, or is it just breast milk every day? Breast milk is too sweet for me, although I sure like the "bottle" it comes in.
Lord knows my mom (dad too) wasn't perfect, but she decided we should live in a house, go to school and get a job. All things said, wise choices.
I don't know. I think I'd rather have Mommy Dearest's Joan Crawford as a mom.
The Pope has a taste for being poor. Tastes kind of bland to me.
It's curious that this advice was only given to Cubans. I hope he doesn't mind if I aspire to be dirt poor as well.
"May the Lord give us these graces: poverty and mercy…*"
Yup, that's the Pope speaking again.
I added the asterix.
Don't worry, everyone can still be poor. The Pope just forgot to mention the $50 million spent to keep him safe.
Hmmm, what kind of cookie goes with breast milk?
A new Pope is on a new world tour.
No one is bigger than the Pope. Not even the Beatles. The Pope is bigger than Jesus, but only because Jesus is a constant no show.
I was struck by one of the Pope's many pithy sayings.
"Let poverty be your mother."
Really? Do we get to eat food, or is it just breast milk every day? Breast milk is too sweet for me, although I sure like the "bottle" it comes in.
Lord knows my mom (dad too) wasn't perfect, but she decided we should live in a house, go to school and get a job. All things said, wise choices.
I don't know. I think I'd rather have Mommy Dearest's Joan Crawford as a mom.
The Pope has a taste for being poor. Tastes kind of bland to me.
It's curious that this advice was only given to Cubans. I hope he doesn't mind if I aspire to be dirt poor as well.
"May the Lord give us these graces: poverty and mercy…*"
Yup, that's the Pope speaking again.
I added the asterix.
Don't worry, everyone can still be poor. The Pope just forgot to mention the $50 million spent to keep him safe.
Hmmm, what kind of cookie goes with breast milk?
Tuesday, 22 September 2015
Helloooo Newman: Modern Male
Helloooo Newman: Modern Male: Men often come up to me on the street and ask, "Hey Paul, what's your secret?" I'd love to be able to tell them, but the...
Modern Male
Men often come up to me on the street and ask, "Hey Paul, what's your secret?"
I'd love to be able to tell them, but then I wouldn't be superior to them anymore.
A lot of men try to imitate me. I would say Ryan Gosling does the best job, although he lacks many of the subtleties that make me so awesome. Like my ability to fight off bears at the cottage with my bear hands.
I have to admit, though, that Ryan does have that sweet mix of macho, dangerous strength along with a gentle and nurturing demeanour. He can stomp someone's face in and deliver a newborn baby in the same afternoon. For me, The strengthy part always beats up the caring part when it's not looking and leaves it lying in its own tears.
Oh, alright. My secret isn't really that unique. My wife installed the latest male operating system in me and now I'm a smooth running man who behaves perfectly.
There are so many behavioural software modifications today's male has to make to be considered a proper "feminist" man that you have an upgrade to install every week. At $29.99 a pop I can't afford anymore upgrades.
And still, no app that will remove hair from my chest.
This week I just uploaded the Ryan Gosling "brooding" app and it's done wonders.
Women stop me on the street and ask me why I look so upset. "It's just not fair that women are paid 73% of a man's salary in the corporate workplace, and yet the escorts I use are so well compensated", the app answers for me.
I guess we can't go back to the pre-computer age. The "me Tarzan, you Jane" days.
Nowadays, my wife and I split everything. Even our pain. That's why I have a splitting headache all the time.
There are still bugs in my software. For some reason my laundry upgrade doesn't support colours, so everything comes out dishcloth grey. Now I've lost the privilege of doing laundry.
I'd love to be able to tell them, but then I wouldn't be superior to them anymore.
A lot of men try to imitate me. I would say Ryan Gosling does the best job, although he lacks many of the subtleties that make me so awesome. Like my ability to fight off bears at the cottage with my bear hands.
I have to admit, though, that Ryan does have that sweet mix of macho, dangerous strength along with a gentle and nurturing demeanour. He can stomp someone's face in and deliver a newborn baby in the same afternoon. For me, The strengthy part always beats up the caring part when it's not looking and leaves it lying in its own tears.
Oh, alright. My secret isn't really that unique. My wife installed the latest male operating system in me and now I'm a smooth running man who behaves perfectly.
There are so many behavioural software modifications today's male has to make to be considered a proper "feminist" man that you have an upgrade to install every week. At $29.99 a pop I can't afford anymore upgrades.
And still, no app that will remove hair from my chest.
This week I just uploaded the Ryan Gosling "brooding" app and it's done wonders.
Women stop me on the street and ask me why I look so upset. "It's just not fair that women are paid 73% of a man's salary in the corporate workplace, and yet the escorts I use are so well compensated", the app answers for me.
I guess we can't go back to the pre-computer age. The "me Tarzan, you Jane" days.
Nowadays, my wife and I split everything. Even our pain. That's why I have a splitting headache all the time.
There are still bugs in my software. For some reason my laundry upgrade doesn't support colours, so everything comes out dishcloth grey. Now I've lost the privilege of doing laundry.
Monday, 21 September 2015
Helloooo Newman: Things Ultra-Lazy People Do Differently
Helloooo Newman: Things Ultra-Lazy People Do Differently: When it comes to laziness, we all face the same challenge – why are there so many hours in a day? Yet some lazy people find themselves wit...
Things Ultra-Lazy People Do Differently
When it comes to laziness, we all face the same challenge – why are there so many hours in a day?
Yet some lazy people find themselves with extra time in the day to get stuff done, even after napping, talking, caffinating, bitching, yawning, urinating and eating.
Many amateur lazy people are actually faced with huge tasks on a daily basis, like putting their pants on.
Try these 10 tips from the experts at laziness so you too can stop accomplishing things.
1. They never touch things: Lazy people will look at a project, start sweating and hyperventilating at the enormity of it, and put it off for a better time, like on their 121st birthday. They lock the project in a file cabinet drawer and ignore the project's screams and pleas to GET IT DONE.
2. They ignore tomorrow: These people will ignore tomorrow until sometime next month. They end the current day depressed and are never really convinced that tomorrow will actually come. A truly lazy person's calendar is very confusing.
3. They hate eating frogs: Productive people eat frogs, or, do the least appetizing chore first. Lazy people hate frogs legs, even in a nice garlic butter sauce. They look for the most rewarding activity of the day first, like applying duct tape to the snooze button.
4. They submit to the tyranny of the urgent: "Lazies" hate important things, or the "big picture". They focus on immediate urges that get in the way of productivity, like eating a cruller, gossiping or massaging the back of their knees.
5. They deviate from all schedules: Forget about schedules with these people. They will fuck you up, especially in meetings. They take notes on their thighs because it distracts everyone and slows things down.
6. They say yes: These people don't really want to do anything, but will say yes to everything. That's because they want you to like them, and they have lots of room in the cabinet to lock that task up.
7. They check emails all day: Even the spam. They build up all kinds of email attachments. Very dependent, insecure people.
8. They multitask: Focussing on one thing means it might get done. Lazies don't risk that. Then they'll have to start something else. It all snowballs and soon they are actually working and have a life. Multitasking is the ticket to failure, and avoiding work.
9. They stay on the grid: There's nothing like watching a good episode of Naked and Afraid while running around the house turning on anything electrical. If they didn't tune in, a lot of naked people would be unemployed.
10. They hate delegating: Lazies don't accept that you might be smart enough to help them. They are perfectly capable of completing the job, if they weren't so good at being lazy.
Many of us are searching for ways to be lazier. I hope these strategies help you to eliminate any extra impulse you have to get anything done.
Yet some lazy people find themselves with extra time in the day to get stuff done, even after napping, talking, caffinating, bitching, yawning, urinating and eating.
Many amateur lazy people are actually faced with huge tasks on a daily basis, like putting their pants on.
Try these 10 tips from the experts at laziness so you too can stop accomplishing things.
1. They never touch things: Lazy people will look at a project, start sweating and hyperventilating at the enormity of it, and put it off for a better time, like on their 121st birthday. They lock the project in a file cabinet drawer and ignore the project's screams and pleas to GET IT DONE.
2. They ignore tomorrow: These people will ignore tomorrow until sometime next month. They end the current day depressed and are never really convinced that tomorrow will actually come. A truly lazy person's calendar is very confusing.
3. They hate eating frogs: Productive people eat frogs, or, do the least appetizing chore first. Lazy people hate frogs legs, even in a nice garlic butter sauce. They look for the most rewarding activity of the day first, like applying duct tape to the snooze button.
4. They submit to the tyranny of the urgent: "Lazies" hate important things, or the "big picture". They focus on immediate urges that get in the way of productivity, like eating a cruller, gossiping or massaging the back of their knees.
5. They deviate from all schedules: Forget about schedules with these people. They will fuck you up, especially in meetings. They take notes on their thighs because it distracts everyone and slows things down.
6. They say yes: These people don't really want to do anything, but will say yes to everything. That's because they want you to like them, and they have lots of room in the cabinet to lock that task up.
7. They check emails all day: Even the spam. They build up all kinds of email attachments. Very dependent, insecure people.
8. They multitask: Focussing on one thing means it might get done. Lazies don't risk that. Then they'll have to start something else. It all snowballs and soon they are actually working and have a life. Multitasking is the ticket to failure, and avoiding work.
9. They stay on the grid: There's nothing like watching a good episode of Naked and Afraid while running around the house turning on anything electrical. If they didn't tune in, a lot of naked people would be unemployed.
10. They hate delegating: Lazies don't accept that you might be smart enough to help them. They are perfectly capable of completing the job, if they weren't so good at being lazy.
Many of us are searching for ways to be lazier. I hope these strategies help you to eliminate any extra impulse you have to get anything done.
Sunday, 20 September 2015
Helloooo Newman: A Less Than Interstellar Performance
Helloooo Newman: A Less Than Interstellar Performance: I watched the movie Interstellar last night. It's about a band of astronauts poking through a wormhole seeking a new planet to colonize...
A Less Than Interstellar Performance
I watched the movie Interstellar last night. It's about a band of astronauts poking through a wormhole seeking a new planet to colonize.
I'm a big fan of Sci-fi, mostly because I wish aliens would take me to another planet where I can be more of a success than I am here – I'm thinking a planet of very slowly developing arthropods that I can rule over with my above average I.Q.
I like some of Matthew McConaughey's past performances. Hell, I'm often mistaken for him by women on the street, especially when the wind from a subway tunnel grate blows my shirt off. Still, it seems like more and more of his acting is preceded by a pitcher of Tom Collins laced with Nyquil.
One of the themes of this movie bothered me. It suggested that the one feature of human behaviour that would save the species is the emotion love.
I completely disagree. The biggest problem humans have is emotions. They are everywhere all the time and it really pisses me off. Emotionally speaking.
Think of the last time you had an argument with someone. It was 95% emotion, wasn't it? I'm convinced the more humans argue over things, the more we keep arguing just to "feel" like we won the argument.
I don't think we're getting anywhere with emotions around. They cloud and obfuscate.
Take my dating life. Nothing but emotion. And a complete failure.
On one of my first dates ever, a very cute girl said to me, "Paul, there's something I need to get off my chest."
Silly me. I thought it was her bra. Finally, I get to play titty-winks.
She said I need to stop pretending she's my girlfriend.
"What? I don't believe you. I'd like to speak to your chest directly, please. I want to hear what it has to say about all this."
My right cheek is still slightly swollen to this day.
God, give me a wormhole to crawl through.
I'm a big fan of Sci-fi, mostly because I wish aliens would take me to another planet where I can be more of a success than I am here – I'm thinking a planet of very slowly developing arthropods that I can rule over with my above average I.Q.
I like some of Matthew McConaughey's past performances. Hell, I'm often mistaken for him by women on the street, especially when the wind from a subway tunnel grate blows my shirt off. Still, it seems like more and more of his acting is preceded by a pitcher of Tom Collins laced with Nyquil.
One of the themes of this movie bothered me. It suggested that the one feature of human behaviour that would save the species is the emotion love.
I completely disagree. The biggest problem humans have is emotions. They are everywhere all the time and it really pisses me off. Emotionally speaking.
Think of the last time you had an argument with someone. It was 95% emotion, wasn't it? I'm convinced the more humans argue over things, the more we keep arguing just to "feel" like we won the argument.
I don't think we're getting anywhere with emotions around. They cloud and obfuscate.
Take my dating life. Nothing but emotion. And a complete failure.
On one of my first dates ever, a very cute girl said to me, "Paul, there's something I need to get off my chest."
Silly me. I thought it was her bra. Finally, I get to play titty-winks.
She said I need to stop pretending she's my girlfriend.
"What? I don't believe you. I'd like to speak to your chest directly, please. I want to hear what it has to say about all this."
My right cheek is still slightly swollen to this day.
God, give me a wormhole to crawl through.
Helloooo Newman: Gaining Wait
Helloooo Newman: Gaining Wait: Wait times are going up and up in this world. It's an international crisis, all this wait people are putting on. Where is the U.N. o...
Gaining Wait
Wait times are going up and up in this world.
It's an international crisis, all this wait people are putting on.
Where is the U.N. on this issue? We're still waiting. But these are "waity" issues!
MRIs, that first call from a potential girlfriend, getting your "no smiling" passport photo, end-of-the-world scenarios, all taking longer than ever.
The other day I read Waiting for Godot again. I haven't looked at it since high school. I swear all the characters were waiting much longer for this Godot fella then when I read it so long ago.
What's the key word in Godot? GO, obviously. So where the hell is he? I think he's already gone. Gonedot.
These end-of-the-world cults keep delaying things. I had all my affairs in order for the last deadline, and then they just go and cancel it. No apology. DISAPPOINTED. I can't stand being made to wait like that. Next time I think I'll have to help things along by creating a world incident that triggers a nuclear war. I've had it with delay, delay, delay.
Did you know that in the U.S. the average wait time to be executed on death row is now 21 years. That's up 11 years since the 50s. Scandalous!
To "execute" means to "carry out, accomplish." Not on death row. Wait times for MRIs or crucial surgeries pale in comparison to the "broken" institution of capital punishment.
You know what takes so long? All this fuss about how to execute someone. Make their last meal a KFC Double Down. Problem solved.
The next time a doctor is reassembling your hemispheres to save you life, be thankful you're not a mass murderer, waiting so long for what the government promised you.
Speaking of doctors, people are living longer than ever. That means an even longer wait to die. How depressing.
And the most important wait time of all? JESUS. Up and up it goes.
Theories abound as to why it's taking him so long.
Stuck in traffic near the Big Dipper. He and God are arguing over what to wear. He can't show up in the same clothes. That's just gross. Plus he should coordinate with the season of his arrival. Will pastels be trendy? If he wears white after Labour Day, I'm gonna puke.
Clearly, when Jesus took off after the resurrection, someone should have had him fill out an appointment card. Your next app't is ??????? Pick a time, dude.
Then when he shows up late, we can do what my dentists did to me. Embarrassed me in front of all the other patients, charged me for the app't and forgot the anesthetic on my next root canal.
I think it's been so long that Jesus has developed a fear of public speaking. People fear public speaking more than death. Wait a minute. Jesus has already been dead. That's a good introduction to speaking in front of 7 billion people.
Maybe he doesn't know what to say. Maybe he needs a good speech writer.
Ya, well I'm busy. Wait your turn.
It's an international crisis, all this wait people are putting on.
Where is the U.N. on this issue? We're still waiting. But these are "waity" issues!
MRIs, that first call from a potential girlfriend, getting your "no smiling" passport photo, end-of-the-world scenarios, all taking longer than ever.
The other day I read Waiting for Godot again. I haven't looked at it since high school. I swear all the characters were waiting much longer for this Godot fella then when I read it so long ago.
What's the key word in Godot? GO, obviously. So where the hell is he? I think he's already gone. Gonedot.
These end-of-the-world cults keep delaying things. I had all my affairs in order for the last deadline, and then they just go and cancel it. No apology. DISAPPOINTED. I can't stand being made to wait like that. Next time I think I'll have to help things along by creating a world incident that triggers a nuclear war. I've had it with delay, delay, delay.
Did you know that in the U.S. the average wait time to be executed on death row is now 21 years. That's up 11 years since the 50s. Scandalous!
To "execute" means to "carry out, accomplish." Not on death row. Wait times for MRIs or crucial surgeries pale in comparison to the "broken" institution of capital punishment.
You know what takes so long? All this fuss about how to execute someone. Make their last meal a KFC Double Down. Problem solved.
The next time a doctor is reassembling your hemispheres to save you life, be thankful you're not a mass murderer, waiting so long for what the government promised you.
Speaking of doctors, people are living longer than ever. That means an even longer wait to die. How depressing.
And the most important wait time of all? JESUS. Up and up it goes.
Theories abound as to why it's taking him so long.
Stuck in traffic near the Big Dipper. He and God are arguing over what to wear. He can't show up in the same clothes. That's just gross. Plus he should coordinate with the season of his arrival. Will pastels be trendy? If he wears white after Labour Day, I'm gonna puke.
Clearly, when Jesus took off after the resurrection, someone should have had him fill out an appointment card. Your next app't is ??????? Pick a time, dude.
Then when he shows up late, we can do what my dentists did to me. Embarrassed me in front of all the other patients, charged me for the app't and forgot the anesthetic on my next root canal.
I think it's been so long that Jesus has developed a fear of public speaking. People fear public speaking more than death. Wait a minute. Jesus has already been dead. That's a good introduction to speaking in front of 7 billion people.
Maybe he doesn't know what to say. Maybe he needs a good speech writer.
Ya, well I'm busy. Wait your turn.
Friday, 18 September 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Matryoshka Sleep
Helloooo Newman: The Matryoshka Sleep: The Dalai Lama once said, "Sleep is the best meditation." I got this tidbit from the internet, so I have no idea if he actually ...
The Matryoshka Sleep
The Dalai Lama once said, "Sleep is the best meditation."
I got this tidbit from the internet, so I have no idea if he actually said it. But I'm saying it, so you can quote me if you like.
The best thing about sleep is you don't have to think while it's going on. Even in traditional meditation, you have to think. You have to think about not thinking, which is really annoying. Meditation is one big struggle to convince yourself, OKAY, I'M NOT THINKING ABOUT ANYTHING RIGHT NOW. NOPE, I AM NOT THINKING ABOUT BIG BOOBIES AT THIS MOMENT. THAT IMAGE THAT JUST FLASHED BY IN MY MIND WAS NOT A NICE PAIR OF LEGS AROUND MY WAIST. I'M AS CLEAR AND CALM AS HELL.
With meditation, you're lying to yourself, and I'm a guy who deals in truth.
Dreaming is not thinking. Dreaming is like being entranced by a great movie, and in my case they are mostly porn movies. The great thing is this is not my fault. I didn't click "porn dreams" among a choice of dreams on a big dream screen list that pops up in my head. First of all, they are way too expensive. And my wife will see the bill.
These dreams were chosen for me. By some really nice dream theatre owner.
Is it possible to nap while you sleep? This is what I'm studying these days.
Like the Russian dolls, one nested in another. A nap, nested in a dream, nested in another nap, and so on…
This can get confusing. What if I wake up from sleep #7, but nap #6 and #4 are still going on? I think some days I wake up from all my sleeps but there are still several naps going on in the background. Like apps that are running behind everything else.
That explains a lot.
I'm not getting old.
I'm napping.
I got this tidbit from the internet, so I have no idea if he actually said it. But I'm saying it, so you can quote me if you like.
The best thing about sleep is you don't have to think while it's going on. Even in traditional meditation, you have to think. You have to think about not thinking, which is really annoying. Meditation is one big struggle to convince yourself, OKAY, I'M NOT THINKING ABOUT ANYTHING RIGHT NOW. NOPE, I AM NOT THINKING ABOUT BIG BOOBIES AT THIS MOMENT. THAT IMAGE THAT JUST FLASHED BY IN MY MIND WAS NOT A NICE PAIR OF LEGS AROUND MY WAIST. I'M AS CLEAR AND CALM AS HELL.
With meditation, you're lying to yourself, and I'm a guy who deals in truth.
Dreaming is not thinking. Dreaming is like being entranced by a great movie, and in my case they are mostly porn movies. The great thing is this is not my fault. I didn't click "porn dreams" among a choice of dreams on a big dream screen list that pops up in my head. First of all, they are way too expensive. And my wife will see the bill.
These dreams were chosen for me. By some really nice dream theatre owner.
Is it possible to nap while you sleep? This is what I'm studying these days.
Like the Russian dolls, one nested in another. A nap, nested in a dream, nested in another nap, and so on…
This can get confusing. What if I wake up from sleep #7, but nap #6 and #4 are still going on? I think some days I wake up from all my sleeps but there are still several naps going on in the background. Like apps that are running behind everything else.
That explains a lot.
I'm not getting old.
I'm napping.
Monday, 14 September 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Woman Who Shouldn't be There
Helloooo Newman: The Woman Who Shouldn't be There: I sincerely hope you've never heard of Kim Davis, which could possibly negate the usefulness of this article. Kim Davis is the Kentuck...
The Woman Who Shouldn't be There
I sincerely hope you've never heard of Kim Davis, which could possibly negate the usefulness of this article.
Kim Davis is the Kentucky clerk who refuses to authorize marriage licences to gay couples, even though SCOTUS said it is the law of the land. State law requires her signature to make a marriage legal.
The whole thing is supremely ironic – lots of people are getting to know her, and she keeps dropping the names God and Jesus into the conversation.
Problem is, God has never heard of Kim Davis.
We at Helloooo Newman interviewed God on the weekend and He was flummoxed over the entire controversy.
God: Sorry, who are we talking about?
Newman: Kim Davis. County clerk. Kentucky.
God: Sorry, doesn't ring a bell. Which planet is this?
Newman: Earth.
God: Oh, earth. You guys are still waiting for the second coming, right? Damn, you guys are on the list. You know, everyone is so busy these days. So what seems to be the problem?
Newman: Mrs. Davis won't do her job and authorize gay marriage licences. She says she's following your law, not Man's law.
God: Hmmm, a trouble maker, eh? I've had a few of those. Fired their asses.
Newman: That's what we here at Helloooo Newman would do. But then you get lawyers involved, and no one wants to bring Satan into this.
God: You guys follow the Bible, right? Ya, I don't blame you for the confusion. I never really finished that the way I wanted to. The universe was expanding faster than I thought possible so I had to rush publication. Came out kinda James Joycian.
Newman: Ya, lots of confusion on our end.
God: Well, just so you know, I never gave this, what is it, Ms. Slayvis? I never gave her instructions to embarrass the human race.
Newman: Davis, but close enough. Any instructions?
God: Sorry, can you hold for a second?
(Who Are You? by The Who plays over the speaker)
God: Sorry. Damn Martians. Want to be closer to the sun. That's not easy, you know.
Newman: There are Martians?
God: Oh ya. They always hide when you humans come poking around. Something about foreign viruses.
Newman: Any advice for me, God?
God: Best thing to do Newman is keep the blog going and bring truth to the people. It's the only way.
Newman: Thanks, buddy. I'm on it.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Pete Townshend
— and God
Kim Davis is the Kentucky clerk who refuses to authorize marriage licences to gay couples, even though SCOTUS said it is the law of the land. State law requires her signature to make a marriage legal.
The whole thing is supremely ironic – lots of people are getting to know her, and she keeps dropping the names God and Jesus into the conversation.
Problem is, God has never heard of Kim Davis.
We at Helloooo Newman interviewed God on the weekend and He was flummoxed over the entire controversy.
God: Sorry, who are we talking about?
Newman: Kim Davis. County clerk. Kentucky.
God: Sorry, doesn't ring a bell. Which planet is this?
Newman: Earth.
God: Oh, earth. You guys are still waiting for the second coming, right? Damn, you guys are on the list. You know, everyone is so busy these days. So what seems to be the problem?
Newman: Mrs. Davis won't do her job and authorize gay marriage licences. She says she's following your law, not Man's law.
God: Hmmm, a trouble maker, eh? I've had a few of those. Fired their asses.
Newman: That's what we here at Helloooo Newman would do. But then you get lawyers involved, and no one wants to bring Satan into this.
God: You guys follow the Bible, right? Ya, I don't blame you for the confusion. I never really finished that the way I wanted to. The universe was expanding faster than I thought possible so I had to rush publication. Came out kinda James Joycian.
Newman: Ya, lots of confusion on our end.
God: Well, just so you know, I never gave this, what is it, Ms. Slayvis? I never gave her instructions to embarrass the human race.
Newman: Davis, but close enough. Any instructions?
God: Sorry, can you hold for a second?
(Who Are You? by The Who plays over the speaker)
God: Sorry. Damn Martians. Want to be closer to the sun. That's not easy, you know.
Newman: There are Martians?
God: Oh ya. They always hide when you humans come poking around. Something about foreign viruses.
Newman: Any advice for me, God?
God: Best thing to do Newman is keep the blog going and bring truth to the people. It's the only way.
Newman: Thanks, buddy. I'm on it.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Pete Townshend
— and God
Thursday, 10 September 2015
Helloooo Newman: Georgina
Helloooo Newman: Georgina: English is a confusing language. One thing you should never do is apply logic to the English language. Especially when it comes to pronunc...
Georgina
English is a confusing language.
One thing you should never do is apply logic to the English language. Especially when it comes to pronunciation.
On my way to the cottage, I pass through a town call Georgina (phonetically, jorjeena).
In one of my pensive moments, when all my great thinking is accomplished, I realized this should be the wrong way to say the name. Why don't we say Georgina (jorjyna)?
We have the vagina, one can suffer from angina, and one can live in Regina. Just when I think that is settled, I realize people live in Argentina (teena, not tyna).
Confusion sets in.
While we're on body parts, consider this: the pen is out of ink.
The bold part is easy to pronounce…(pen) (iz).
Now put those two words together. Why the sudden change?
Penis (Peenis).
But we don't say tennis (teennis). Yet one can have a big tennis game, like Serena Williams, and a big penis, like, um… Makes no sense, right?
Consider the name Geiger (G-eye-ger), as in the Geiger counter.
The Geiger counter is used to warn you of dangerous elements, like Justin Bieber's music.
Hey, suddenly we switch the "ei" and we have (Beeber). I prefer (B-eye-ber) because only heavy imbibers of vodka will survive the assault of his music.
I've read that Justin's pen is very small, and very likely out of ink.
Did I just put my foot in my mouth or am I a loon?
So confusing.
One thing you should never do is apply logic to the English language. Especially when it comes to pronunciation.
On my way to the cottage, I pass through a town call Georgina (phonetically, jorjeena).
In one of my pensive moments, when all my great thinking is accomplished, I realized this should be the wrong way to say the name. Why don't we say Georgina (jorjyna)?
We have the vagina, one can suffer from angina, and one can live in Regina. Just when I think that is settled, I realize people live in Argentina (teena, not tyna).
Confusion sets in.
While we're on body parts, consider this: the pen is out of ink.
The bold part is easy to pronounce…(pen) (iz).
Now put those two words together. Why the sudden change?
Penis (Peenis).
But we don't say tennis (teennis). Yet one can have a big tennis game, like Serena Williams, and a big penis, like, um… Makes no sense, right?
Consider the name Geiger (G-eye-ger), as in the Geiger counter.
The Geiger counter is used to warn you of dangerous elements, like Justin Bieber's music.
Hey, suddenly we switch the "ei" and we have (Beeber). I prefer (B-eye-ber) because only heavy imbibers of vodka will survive the assault of his music.
I've read that Justin's pen is very small, and very likely out of ink.
Did I just put my foot in my mouth or am I a loon?
So confusing.
Helloooo Newman: Practice Makes Perfect?
Helloooo Newman: Practice Makes Perfect?: I use to be a practicing catholic, as a kid. Now I'm just a practicing human being. The hours are much better. I can be a human being ...
Practice Makes Perfect?
I use to be a practicing catholic, as a kid.
Now I'm just a practicing human being. The hours are much better. I can be a human being anytime I want, but especially on Sunday morning I can be a human being while sleeping.
Church on Sunday morning? Isn't that the 7th day God took off when He created this whole mess? He gets to sleep in. Why can't I? Besides, does He want to hear my problems on His day off?
I don't think God mixes business with sleeping in.
Sunday seems like the worst day to be confessing sins. Sunday is bacon day at my house.
I bet God gets distracted by the smell of bacon anyway.
God: Yes, yes, as the woman walked by you touched yourself…wait a minute, is that bacon I smell? Butcher's bacon, eh? Banana pancakes too? What were we taking about? Never mind, you're forgiven. How about two strips for me?
I think people should rush to iHop on Sunday, not church. God understands.
iHop? I didn't know Apple use to be in the pancake business.
Sunday is the last day I want water turned into wine, after filling my gullet like a pelican with booze all day Saturday and suffering a cranial earthquake Sunday morning. I want water turned into Oxycontin. And will you tell that choir to shut up.
Sunday is also the last day that I want to put on a suit. There are no days, actually, but Sunday makes the least sense. Why do men wear suits to church? So many drawings I see of Jesus make Him look like a drifter.
Actually, it's pretty hard to get an idea of what Jesus looked like. The drawings vary from the Charles Manson look to pretty boy Jared Leto.
I find those kinds of Jesus' creepy. I want my Jesus to be friendly looking and approachable. Like the Trivago guy. He'd make an awesome Jesus, especially since he can check a thousand websites and get me a good deal on a room at the Inn. I need a room that takes donkeys, please.
Rushing around to church just doesn't fit with the idea of Sunday. That's why we have the Sunday driver, the slow, take it easy kind of driver. Would Jesus be a Sunday driver? Maybe not. With Roman soldiers trying to nail me to a cross, I think I'd give the car a little extra gas.
No to Sunday church. Church should be on Monday. Might as well put all the things you hate doing on the day that everyone hates.
As a practicing human being, I don't live and breath the Bible anymore. I live and breath living and breathing. My body is still a temple, but with extended drinking hours.
The gist of all this is I try and be a good person. But I still find the best part of me comes out when I'm sleeping. I'm easy to get along with, a good listener, and get all my chores done.
In answer to the title of this article, practice doesn't make perfect. Practice makes being a human being.
I'm no angel, but I still practice.
Now I'm just a practicing human being. The hours are much better. I can be a human being anytime I want, but especially on Sunday morning I can be a human being while sleeping.
Church on Sunday morning? Isn't that the 7th day God took off when He created this whole mess? He gets to sleep in. Why can't I? Besides, does He want to hear my problems on His day off?
I don't think God mixes business with sleeping in.
Sunday seems like the worst day to be confessing sins. Sunday is bacon day at my house.
I bet God gets distracted by the smell of bacon anyway.
God: Yes, yes, as the woman walked by you touched yourself…wait a minute, is that bacon I smell? Butcher's bacon, eh? Banana pancakes too? What were we taking about? Never mind, you're forgiven. How about two strips for me?
I think people should rush to iHop on Sunday, not church. God understands.
iHop? I didn't know Apple use to be in the pancake business.
Sunday is the last day I want water turned into wine, after filling my gullet like a pelican with booze all day Saturday and suffering a cranial earthquake Sunday morning. I want water turned into Oxycontin. And will you tell that choir to shut up.
Sunday is also the last day that I want to put on a suit. There are no days, actually, but Sunday makes the least sense. Why do men wear suits to church? So many drawings I see of Jesus make Him look like a drifter.
Actually, it's pretty hard to get an idea of what Jesus looked like. The drawings vary from the Charles Manson look to pretty boy Jared Leto.
I find those kinds of Jesus' creepy. I want my Jesus to be friendly looking and approachable. Like the Trivago guy. He'd make an awesome Jesus, especially since he can check a thousand websites and get me a good deal on a room at the Inn. I need a room that takes donkeys, please.
Rushing around to church just doesn't fit with the idea of Sunday. That's why we have the Sunday driver, the slow, take it easy kind of driver. Would Jesus be a Sunday driver? Maybe not. With Roman soldiers trying to nail me to a cross, I think I'd give the car a little extra gas.
No to Sunday church. Church should be on Monday. Might as well put all the things you hate doing on the day that everyone hates.
As a practicing human being, I don't live and breath the Bible anymore. I live and breath living and breathing. My body is still a temple, but with extended drinking hours.
The gist of all this is I try and be a good person. But I still find the best part of me comes out when I'm sleeping. I'm easy to get along with, a good listener, and get all my chores done.
In answer to the title of this article, practice doesn't make perfect. Practice makes being a human being.
I'm no angel, but I still practice.
Tuesday, 8 September 2015
Helloooo Newman: DIE Projects
Helloooo Newman: DIE Projects: I'm not much of a DIY guy. Do-It-Yourself – sounds like something my mom would scream at me when I was pealing from my body the last p...
DIE Projects
I'm not much of a DIY guy.
Do-It-Yourself – sounds like something my mom would scream at me when I was pealing from my body the last pair of clean underwear.
"Ma, I need more clean underwear."
"Sorry dear, I'm masturbating to Phil Donahue. Do it yourself."
In today's society, we acronymize it and produce a slew of t.v. shows trying to convince us we can actually build that deck or repair that feces-clogged plumbing.
DIYers are motivated, have the right tools, look forward to a challenge. I'm more interested in the Y. Y am I doing this?
I can't. Build. Repair. Many of you knew this already. A "do-it-yourselfer" does not live with his mommy until he's 29.
I'm more of a DIE guy – Do-It-Eventually.
This project will definitely get done. Eventually. Before I die.
This is not as bad as it sounds. Lots of historical projects fit into the DIE category.
The Egyptian pyramids. Do you think the Pharaoh asked the architect, "So, what are we looking at, like, one or two weeks, right?"
"You kiddin' me?", answered the foreman. "You try cheering up 200,000 slaves. The workers are asking for one meal a week and I'm like, come on guys, I can't deal with ridiculous demands like that."
"Now, now, don't get your sphinxter in a knot. Just work them harder", says the Pharaoh.
"Dude, these are not Lego blocks we're dealing with. 10,000 pound boulders moved by blood and sweat, hundred's of miles through sand, 130 degrees out, glass of water and a bowl of dirt. All to house your lame, dead carcass. Hard to build a motivational program around that kind of scenario, ya know?"
And was it all worth it? I don't think so. 4000 years later and they're already falling apart. Shabby stuff.
I like to think that as a kid I was much more of a DIYer. I use to assemble little bombs out of lady finger firecrackers. I'd build forts with my parent's furniture. I'd build up the nerve to attack giant hornet nests.
Those are all kind of DIYish, aren't they?
Then there is the most failed DIY project of them all – the universe.
The problem with our universe is God had nothing to go on. No pre-existing universe he could steal ideas from. No peeking into a parallel universe – Hey, now that's a sexy galaxy. Whoa, free energy? That's cool.
Would that be plagiarism? If God borrowed from another universe? Is there a tiny footnote somewhere in the universe thanking other God-like creators? Maybe that's what Pluto is.
The universe takes up way too much room. It takes too long to get around. The galaxies closest to us are 5 trillion miles away and scientists call them the "Local Group". Really? Can I drive there and get milk?
Pretty soon we'll need a new planet, and the next available one is just around the corner and 3 trillion miles straight ahead. Jesus, how many little bags of peanuts will we need for that trip?
I'm not sure I like this open concept universe either. I want some privacy. The universe needs more walls and fences. Hey, Mr. Alien, the door is closed. Stop going to the bathroom on my planet.
There are just so many things to do…eventually.
Do-It-Yourself – sounds like something my mom would scream at me when I was pealing from my body the last pair of clean underwear.
"Ma, I need more clean underwear."
"Sorry dear, I'm masturbating to Phil Donahue. Do it yourself."
In today's society, we acronymize it and produce a slew of t.v. shows trying to convince us we can actually build that deck or repair that feces-clogged plumbing.
DIYers are motivated, have the right tools, look forward to a challenge. I'm more interested in the Y. Y am I doing this?
I can't. Build. Repair. Many of you knew this already. A "do-it-yourselfer" does not live with his mommy until he's 29.
I'm more of a DIE guy – Do-It-Eventually.
This project will definitely get done. Eventually. Before I die.
This is not as bad as it sounds. Lots of historical projects fit into the DIE category.
The Egyptian pyramids. Do you think the Pharaoh asked the architect, "So, what are we looking at, like, one or two weeks, right?"
"You kiddin' me?", answered the foreman. "You try cheering up 200,000 slaves. The workers are asking for one meal a week and I'm like, come on guys, I can't deal with ridiculous demands like that."
"Now, now, don't get your sphinxter in a knot. Just work them harder", says the Pharaoh.
"Dude, these are not Lego blocks we're dealing with. 10,000 pound boulders moved by blood and sweat, hundred's of miles through sand, 130 degrees out, glass of water and a bowl of dirt. All to house your lame, dead carcass. Hard to build a motivational program around that kind of scenario, ya know?"
And was it all worth it? I don't think so. 4000 years later and they're already falling apart. Shabby stuff.
I like to think that as a kid I was much more of a DIYer. I use to assemble little bombs out of lady finger firecrackers. I'd build forts with my parent's furniture. I'd build up the nerve to attack giant hornet nests.
Those are all kind of DIYish, aren't they?
Then there is the most failed DIY project of them all – the universe.
The problem with our universe is God had nothing to go on. No pre-existing universe he could steal ideas from. No peeking into a parallel universe – Hey, now that's a sexy galaxy. Whoa, free energy? That's cool.
Would that be plagiarism? If God borrowed from another universe? Is there a tiny footnote somewhere in the universe thanking other God-like creators? Maybe that's what Pluto is.
The universe takes up way too much room. It takes too long to get around. The galaxies closest to us are 5 trillion miles away and scientists call them the "Local Group". Really? Can I drive there and get milk?
Pretty soon we'll need a new planet, and the next available one is just around the corner and 3 trillion miles straight ahead. Jesus, how many little bags of peanuts will we need for that trip?
I'm not sure I like this open concept universe either. I want some privacy. The universe needs more walls and fences. Hey, Mr. Alien, the door is closed. Stop going to the bathroom on my planet.
There are just so many things to do…eventually.
Thursday, 3 September 2015
Helloooo Newman: Youtube Killed the Blog Star
Helloooo Newman: Youtube Killed the Blog Star: Ladies and gentlemen. We at Helloooo Newman have a very exciting announcement to make. Finally, the media spotlight can be taken off For...
Youtube Killed the Blog Star
Ladies and gentlemen.
We at Helloooo Newman have a very exciting announcement to make.
Finally, the media spotlight can be taken off Forrest Trump, the I-ran from a decent nuclear deal, and Vladimir Punytin's shirtless foreign policy.
Time for the world to celebrate.
Helloooo Newman will be starting a Youtube series – Newman's Vlog
Now, now. Calm down. I know you're just getting off the high of Game of Thrones. You've had enough of sex and violence for one lifetime, right?
Well, we can offer you some violence – you will violently laugh! You will claw your way to the computer for the next hilarious episode.
Negotiations are in their final stages with the production company – WTF, a little-known transgender company of HBO.
The people at WTF have been wonderful. The terms of the contract were very easy to negotiate. Make it funny, or we will murder you and the entire cast.
How's that for making a deal? I think WTF is running for president.
Newman's Vlog will be entirely crowd-funded, with funds comprising dog food. To contribute some dog treats, please contact me privately. If you want to throw in a beer or two, I won't complain.
The first script is in the works and will appear before xmas.
Please don't worry. The same quality blog articles that keep you up at night laughing will still be coming. But now you can also watch Newman.
And the best part? – no reading!
Stay tuned.
"…and those wonderful people out there in the dark. Alright, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my closeup."
We at Helloooo Newman have a very exciting announcement to make.
Finally, the media spotlight can be taken off Forrest Trump, the I-ran from a decent nuclear deal, and Vladimir Punytin's shirtless foreign policy.
Time for the world to celebrate.
Helloooo Newman will be starting a Youtube series – Newman's Vlog
Now, now. Calm down. I know you're just getting off the high of Game of Thrones. You've had enough of sex and violence for one lifetime, right?
Well, we can offer you some violence – you will violently laugh! You will claw your way to the computer for the next hilarious episode.
Negotiations are in their final stages with the production company – WTF, a little-known transgender company of HBO.
The people at WTF have been wonderful. The terms of the contract were very easy to negotiate. Make it funny, or we will murder you and the entire cast.
How's that for making a deal? I think WTF is running for president.
Newman's Vlog will be entirely crowd-funded, with funds comprising dog food. To contribute some dog treats, please contact me privately. If you want to throw in a beer or two, I won't complain.
The first script is in the works and will appear before xmas.
Please don't worry. The same quality blog articles that keep you up at night laughing will still be coming. But now you can also watch Newman.
And the best part? – no reading!
Stay tuned.
"…and those wonderful people out there in the dark. Alright, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my closeup."
Monday, 31 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: You've been Chopped
Helloooo Newman: You've been Chopped: There's so much pressure these days for the layperson to not just cook decent food, but to create a brilliant, creative, healthy, fresh-...
You've been Chopped
There's so much pressure these days for the layperson to not just cook decent food, but to create a brilliant, creative, healthy, fresh-ingredient-laced meal worthy of a Michelin start or two.
I blame shows like Chopped, Iron Chef, Iron Chef America, Top Chef, MasterChef, Hell's Kitchen, Dinner:Impossible, Barefoot Contessa…and the KFC Double Down sandwich commercial.
Who can live up to this pressure? Layperson means I don't really know how to cook, and I just want to eat a decent dinner and lay down my tired personage.
And what's this Michelin thing? Aren't they concerned that gourmet, fine cooked food is used in the same sentence with a tire company? Is that the best name they could think of? How about "Grill". Like Michelin, you find a grill on a car, and you also cook with it. This is not hard, people.
When I cook dinner for my family, I always feel like I'm on an episode of Chopped. My wife and daughter are the judges and I'm on a tight deadline, only because I remembered I have to cook dinner a half hour before they got home.
You didn't transform the ingredients, Paul.
What? It's ketchup. It's already been transformed from tomatoes…into ketchup. I find too much transformation is hard on the belly.
Often I'll add the magic ingredient that makes everyone like food – bacon.
Christmas cake? No thanks.
I added bacon.
I guess I'll try it. Mmmmmm.
Cooking with bacon is almost not fair. It's cheating, really.
Aren't I a good cook?
Ah, ya, you know what to do with a pound of bacon, that's for sure.
The problem with adding bacon to everything is you put so much effort into eating "just" the bacon. Yesterday I had kale salad (yuk) but it had bacon in it. Finding the bacon became like playing a game of Operation with my food.
Buzzer goes off – sorry, you took out some kale. What a lousy surgeon you are.
Back to culinary medical school.
I blame shows like Chopped, Iron Chef, Iron Chef America, Top Chef, MasterChef, Hell's Kitchen, Dinner:Impossible, Barefoot Contessa…and the KFC Double Down sandwich commercial.
Who can live up to this pressure? Layperson means I don't really know how to cook, and I just want to eat a decent dinner and lay down my tired personage.
And what's this Michelin thing? Aren't they concerned that gourmet, fine cooked food is used in the same sentence with a tire company? Is that the best name they could think of? How about "Grill". Like Michelin, you find a grill on a car, and you also cook with it. This is not hard, people.
When I cook dinner for my family, I always feel like I'm on an episode of Chopped. My wife and daughter are the judges and I'm on a tight deadline, only because I remembered I have to cook dinner a half hour before they got home.
You didn't transform the ingredients, Paul.
What? It's ketchup. It's already been transformed from tomatoes…into ketchup. I find too much transformation is hard on the belly.
Often I'll add the magic ingredient that makes everyone like food – bacon.
Christmas cake? No thanks.
I added bacon.
I guess I'll try it. Mmmmmm.
Cooking with bacon is almost not fair. It's cheating, really.
Aren't I a good cook?
Ah, ya, you know what to do with a pound of bacon, that's for sure.
The problem with adding bacon to everything is you put so much effort into eating "just" the bacon. Yesterday I had kale salad (yuk) but it had bacon in it. Finding the bacon became like playing a game of Operation with my food.
Buzzer goes off – sorry, you took out some kale. What a lousy surgeon you are.
Back to culinary medical school.
Friday, 28 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Me and Mr. Trump
Helloooo Newman: Me and Mr. Trump: I'm admiring Mr. Trump more and more these days. Sure, he has some rad ideas. Rounding up 20 million people is no small feat. I once tri...
Me and Mr. Trump
I'm admiring Mr. Trump more and more these days. Sure, he has some rad ideas. Rounding up 20 million people is no small feat. I once tried to organize a party of six people in my tiny bachelor apartment and it was a nightmare. Some "illegal" partiers showed up via the balcony and things got so crowded it was very hard to find them and departy them. We built a wall with beer empties, but it just wasn't high enough. Then we realized these interlopers were serving us drinks, so maybe they're not that bad after all. They contributed nicely to the small bachelor economy I had set up.
It wouldn't seem like it to the casual observer, but Mr. Trump and I have so much in common. Consider the following quote, an everyday musing from the man himself:
One of the reasons I tell people about my level of intelligence — like, for instance, I had an uncle, Dr. John Trump, who was at MIT, like totally brilliant, became a professor at MIT — …
I relish his honesty. I have trouble admitting the very same thing to my friends. Granted, they would have trouble believing it too.
Notice Mr. Trump's clever strategy. He's an intelligence "borrower." As an example of his mental prowess, he borrows the abilities and accomplishments of someone else.
Clearly, though, he's not borrowing from just anyone. He's implying a genetic link. He's borrowing his uncle's genes and fitting them nice and snug around his own I.Q. He also shares 98% of his genes with chimpanzees, and is a distant cousin with Hillary Clinton. One chimpanzee Mr. Trump is very closely related to did quite well on Object Recognition tests in MIT labs, and even learned how to inflate a bouncy castle. Yes, the same MIT his uncle frequented.
Like Mr. Trump, I, too, am related to a brilliant and successful person. My first cousin headed up the Canada Pension Plan, is on the Board of 10,000 international companies, is a math genius, and is a multi-qualti millionaire. See how smart I am?
The problem with gene-sharing among smart people is that the proper genes in an individual have to be switched on by some complicated chemical process. Scientists don't fully understand why certain genes switch on or off in a given person, and also think some people may have a dimmer switch attached to their genes, so they don't get the full effect of brilliance. These people tend to be very romantic dinner hosts.
So I do have brilliant genes in me, but it's hard to find them. I've been searching through my huge gene pool, and the chlorine is starting to bug my eyes.
Look more closely at the quote. Note the use of a key word that all intellectuals use – "like". Mr. Trump is so, like, brilliant. Totally. I believe it was Einstein who said, "God does not, like, play dice with the universe, dang ya'll."
It takes only one word to plug Mr. Trump into the Miley Cyrus set. I have no idea who or what Miley Cyrus is related to.
Now, time to replace some of those dimmer switches.
It wouldn't seem like it to the casual observer, but Mr. Trump and I have so much in common. Consider the following quote, an everyday musing from the man himself:
One of the reasons I tell people about my level of intelligence — like, for instance, I had an uncle, Dr. John Trump, who was at MIT, like totally brilliant, became a professor at MIT — …
I relish his honesty. I have trouble admitting the very same thing to my friends. Granted, they would have trouble believing it too.
Notice Mr. Trump's clever strategy. He's an intelligence "borrower." As an example of his mental prowess, he borrows the abilities and accomplishments of someone else.
Clearly, though, he's not borrowing from just anyone. He's implying a genetic link. He's borrowing his uncle's genes and fitting them nice and snug around his own I.Q. He also shares 98% of his genes with chimpanzees, and is a distant cousin with Hillary Clinton. One chimpanzee Mr. Trump is very closely related to did quite well on Object Recognition tests in MIT labs, and even learned how to inflate a bouncy castle. Yes, the same MIT his uncle frequented.
Like Mr. Trump, I, too, am related to a brilliant and successful person. My first cousin headed up the Canada Pension Plan, is on the Board of 10,000 international companies, is a math genius, and is a multi-qualti millionaire. See how smart I am?
The problem with gene-sharing among smart people is that the proper genes in an individual have to be switched on by some complicated chemical process. Scientists don't fully understand why certain genes switch on or off in a given person, and also think some people may have a dimmer switch attached to their genes, so they don't get the full effect of brilliance. These people tend to be very romantic dinner hosts.
So I do have brilliant genes in me, but it's hard to find them. I've been searching through my huge gene pool, and the chlorine is starting to bug my eyes.
Look more closely at the quote. Note the use of a key word that all intellectuals use – "like". Mr. Trump is so, like, brilliant. Totally. I believe it was Einstein who said, "God does not, like, play dice with the universe, dang ya'll."
It takes only one word to plug Mr. Trump into the Miley Cyrus set. I have no idea who or what Miley Cyrus is related to.
Now, time to replace some of those dimmer switches.
Thursday, 27 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Hard Core
Helloooo Newman: Hard Core: Women attribute their success to working hard, luck, and help from other people. Men will attribute that – whatever success they have, that ...
Hard Core
Women attribute their success to working hard, luck, and help from other people. Men will attribute that – whatever success they have, that same success – to their own core skills.
Sheryl Sandberg
I couldn't agree more with Sheryl. I really admire Sheryl, especially the guts it took to change the "C" that usually starts "Cheryl" to an "S". This clearly makes her unique, and in the enviable position of explaining the world to the rest of us…men. Amazing what she can do with a paint brush – painting all of us men into a corner where all the early primates live.
In light of this, I am spelling my name Pawl. I await the accolades.
Sheryl is bang on when she states that MY success is due to MY core skills. I freely admit that the heights I have risen to involved no hard work, a smidgen of luck, and offers of help, which I promptly turned down. Why do I need help when I have my core skills?
Even some of the men I talk to at our private meetings, celebrating our core skills together, offer me help, and I turn it down. In fact, we all turn down help together.
Probably the best part of the meetings is chewing tobacco together, spitting it on pictures of Gloria Steinem, and making the wife clean it up. Hey, she can get help from other people, you know.
We end each meeting with the slogan, "Use your core skill, Bill." Not sure who Bill is.
I am especially glad to be underemployed these days, because I get to flex some of my greatest of core skills.
Today I am focusing on getting some new batteries for our fart book.
Perhaps you've read it? It's called Farts: A Spotter's Guide by Crai S. Bower.
We keep it at the cottage so our valued guests can snuggle up in bed and read a good book.
The only problem is, the damn thing needs batteries. Sure, I had trouble understanding Moby Dick, but I didn't have to replace the batteries just as the exciting whale part was coming up.
AA? AAA? No, not those batteries. This book takes the flat circular batteries, like the ones you find in a Rolex.
Could it be? Does the fart book contain the same delicate machinery that graces the wrists of Federer and Clooney?
Here's where the core skills part comes in. Should I get the batteries at Costco? Will they live up to the standards of my fart book's technology? Or should I go to the Rolex store? Spend a bit more but I get to "read" the book for a much longer time.
Me: Hi, I need three LR44 batteries, please.
Rolex Man: Of course, sir. For your Rolex.
Me: Actually, no. It's for my fart book. Do you get this kind of request often?
Rolex Man: All the time, sir. Why, you're the tenth customer today looking for fart book batteries. May I ask which book?
Me: It's called Farts: A Spotter's Guide.
Rolex Man: Ah, that one. Pretty good book, kinda fizzled out at the end.
fart sound
Rolex Man: I thought you said the batteries were dead.
Me: That was me. Sounded like #7 in the book.
Rolex Man: Did you contribute to the book?
Me: No. I am a writer but they didn't think my stuff was up to par.
Rolex Man: Amazing thing. This fart book contains more computing power than the first Apple computer ever built.
Me: Apples make me fart.
I purchased the batteries. All by myself. No help from anyone, Sheryl. It's a core skill of mine.
Pawl
Sheryl Sandberg
I couldn't agree more with Sheryl. I really admire Sheryl, especially the guts it took to change the "C" that usually starts "Cheryl" to an "S". This clearly makes her unique, and in the enviable position of explaining the world to the rest of us…men. Amazing what she can do with a paint brush – painting all of us men into a corner where all the early primates live.
In light of this, I am spelling my name Pawl. I await the accolades.
Sheryl is bang on when she states that MY success is due to MY core skills. I freely admit that the heights I have risen to involved no hard work, a smidgen of luck, and offers of help, which I promptly turned down. Why do I need help when I have my core skills?
Even some of the men I talk to at our private meetings, celebrating our core skills together, offer me help, and I turn it down. In fact, we all turn down help together.
Probably the best part of the meetings is chewing tobacco together, spitting it on pictures of Gloria Steinem, and making the wife clean it up. Hey, she can get help from other people, you know.
We end each meeting with the slogan, "Use your core skill, Bill." Not sure who Bill is.
I am especially glad to be underemployed these days, because I get to flex some of my greatest of core skills.
Today I am focusing on getting some new batteries for our fart book.
Perhaps you've read it? It's called Farts: A Spotter's Guide by Crai S. Bower.
We keep it at the cottage so our valued guests can snuggle up in bed and read a good book.
The only problem is, the damn thing needs batteries. Sure, I had trouble understanding Moby Dick, but I didn't have to replace the batteries just as the exciting whale part was coming up.
AA? AAA? No, not those batteries. This book takes the flat circular batteries, like the ones you find in a Rolex.
Could it be? Does the fart book contain the same delicate machinery that graces the wrists of Federer and Clooney?
Here's where the core skills part comes in. Should I get the batteries at Costco? Will they live up to the standards of my fart book's technology? Or should I go to the Rolex store? Spend a bit more but I get to "read" the book for a much longer time.
Me: Hi, I need three LR44 batteries, please.
Rolex Man: Of course, sir. For your Rolex.
Me: Actually, no. It's for my fart book. Do you get this kind of request often?
Rolex Man: All the time, sir. Why, you're the tenth customer today looking for fart book batteries. May I ask which book?
Me: It's called Farts: A Spotter's Guide.
Rolex Man: Ah, that one. Pretty good book, kinda fizzled out at the end.
fart sound
Rolex Man: I thought you said the batteries were dead.
Me: That was me. Sounded like #7 in the book.
Rolex Man: Did you contribute to the book?
Me: No. I am a writer but they didn't think my stuff was up to par.
Rolex Man: Amazing thing. This fart book contains more computing power than the first Apple computer ever built.
Me: Apples make me fart.
I purchased the batteries. All by myself. No help from anyone, Sheryl. It's a core skill of mine.
Pawl
Wednesday, 26 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Upbringing or Bringing Up?
Helloooo Newman: Upbringing or Bringing Up?: People ask me, Paul, are you depressed to be turning 53 in October? I tell them naw, not at all. That's 50 years longer than I expecte...
Upbringing or Bringing Up?
People ask me, Paul, are you depressed to be turning 53 in October?
I tell them naw, not at all. That's 50 years longer than I expected to live. I was sure, by the way my brothers treated me as a kid, that I wouldn't make it past three.
I didn't really have an upbringing. It was more reminiscent of a bringing up – that creamed corn you had for dinner, or macaroni and cheese drowned in ketchup.
One time I actually did vomit creamed corn all over the floor. My mom said you are eating that! I said I can't, I was sick and vomited it up. She said prove it. I couldn't. It looked the same.
Essentially I was raised by my brothers, and they did a bang up job.
First they would play beer pong while I watched. Switching to baby pong was just plain mean. I guess beer pong got boring. My parents thought all the welts from the ping pong balls were chicken pox so they quarantined me for 2 weeks.
I think they were actually on to something when they used duct tape on me as a diaper. Kinda held stuff pretty well, but when it came time to change the "diaper" – oh, the PAIN!!
They really blew it when they started putting the blame for my dad's missing beer on me. Not only was blaming me for drinking dad's beer really stupid, but my dad knew I would usually pass out half way through my second beer anyway. Come on, I was two.
There were times my oldest brother had to babysit me and take me for strolls. Now I was no expert at the time, but later on I compared a picture of a stroller and a skate board and they didn't look anything alike. But somehow my brother managed to confuse them when walk time came. Really, bro? I mean, I seem to be the only baby that needs to be bungee corded to the stroller to go for a walk. Why the hell is it so bumpy? Did we really need to go over that ramp and do a nosegrind?
I was the only toddler in the 'hood with bungee burns.
As a young kid I was very shy, and also afraid of people. This meant I couldn't even talk to myself.
I tell them naw, not at all. That's 50 years longer than I expected to live. I was sure, by the way my brothers treated me as a kid, that I wouldn't make it past three.
I didn't really have an upbringing. It was more reminiscent of a bringing up – that creamed corn you had for dinner, or macaroni and cheese drowned in ketchup.
One time I actually did vomit creamed corn all over the floor. My mom said you are eating that! I said I can't, I was sick and vomited it up. She said prove it. I couldn't. It looked the same.
Essentially I was raised by my brothers, and they did a bang up job.
First they would play beer pong while I watched. Switching to baby pong was just plain mean. I guess beer pong got boring. My parents thought all the welts from the ping pong balls were chicken pox so they quarantined me for 2 weeks.
I think they were actually on to something when they used duct tape on me as a diaper. Kinda held stuff pretty well, but when it came time to change the "diaper" – oh, the PAIN!!
They really blew it when they started putting the blame for my dad's missing beer on me. Not only was blaming me for drinking dad's beer really stupid, but my dad knew I would usually pass out half way through my second beer anyway. Come on, I was two.
There were times my oldest brother had to babysit me and take me for strolls. Now I was no expert at the time, but later on I compared a picture of a stroller and a skate board and they didn't look anything alike. But somehow my brother managed to confuse them when walk time came. Really, bro? I mean, I seem to be the only baby that needs to be bungee corded to the stroller to go for a walk. Why the hell is it so bumpy? Did we really need to go over that ramp and do a nosegrind?
I was the only toddler in the 'hood with bungee burns.
As a young kid I was very shy, and also afraid of people. This meant I couldn't even talk to myself.
A few times I worked up the courage to ask girls, in my weak voice, "Hey, would you like to go out?"
They all answered, "Sure, know anyone nice?"
I could tell you those callouses on my hands were from football practice. And you could choose to believe me – if you want.
For the next 15 years my dates were a series of snapchat sessions – 10 seconds and the woman disappeared.
My dating life was full of 360 degrees of separation – I would look all around me and no sign of women.
But I made it. I'm a hugely successful writer, read in five different countries (according to the stats my blog reports to me).
I am nearing 10,000 views. That's 20,000 eyeballs. 40,000 limbs. 200,000,000 miles of blood vessels (each person carries 60,000 miles of blood vessels in their body). That's – amazing!
Now I just, um, need a job.
For the next 15 years my dates were a series of snapchat sessions – 10 seconds and the woman disappeared.
My dating life was full of 360 degrees of separation – I would look all around me and no sign of women.
But I made it. I'm a hugely successful writer, read in five different countries (according to the stats my blog reports to me).
I am nearing 10,000 views. That's 20,000 eyeballs. 40,000 limbs. 200,000,000 miles of blood vessels (each person carries 60,000 miles of blood vessels in their body). That's – amazing!
Now I just, um, need a job.
Wednesday, 19 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Drove Down The Wrong Madison Avenue
Helloooo Newman: Drove Down The Wrong Madison Avenue: Um, ah, well, okay, yes, my name does appear on the hacker-exposed list of Ashley Madison clients. I can explain. I was doing research f...
Drove Down The Wrong Madison Avenue
Um, ah, well, okay, yes, my name does appear on the hacker-exposed list of Ashley Madison clients.
I can explain.
I was doing research for a very important upcoming political blog that will change the landscape of the current American political race.
This blog required me to research, um, past Presidents, and one of those presidents was James Madison, President from 1809-1817.
Ya, I know, that goes pretty far back, but I'm a stickler for research.
Anywho, while researching Jimmy, I also need information on his wife, DOLLEY Madison.
That's DOLLEY, okay?
I swear I typed Dolley Madison in Google. Is it my fault a North Korean-created virus took hold of my machine and redirected me to ASHLEY?
No, it's not!
I mean, look below. It's a painting of Dolley Madison.
Now I ask you – would I have an affair with this women? Okay, she is kinda cute. Love the rosy cheeks and looks like a great chance to play motor boat with her.
But I highly doubt this is how the average Ashley Madison worker looks or dresses.
Wait a minute. No, I'm wrong. I was actually looking for Dolly Madison ice cream. Had a craving.
Okay, actually, I was…
Oh, never mind. I'm busted.
I can explain.
I was doing research for a very important upcoming political blog that will change the landscape of the current American political race.
This blog required me to research, um, past Presidents, and one of those presidents was James Madison, President from 1809-1817.
Ya, I know, that goes pretty far back, but I'm a stickler for research.
Anywho, while researching Jimmy, I also need information on his wife, DOLLEY Madison.
That's DOLLEY, okay?
I swear I typed Dolley Madison in Google. Is it my fault a North Korean-created virus took hold of my machine and redirected me to ASHLEY?
No, it's not!
I mean, look below. It's a painting of Dolley Madison.
Now I ask you – would I have an affair with this women? Okay, she is kinda cute. Love the rosy cheeks and looks like a great chance to play motor boat with her.
But I highly doubt this is how the average Ashley Madison worker looks or dresses.
Wait a minute. No, I'm wrong. I was actually looking for Dolly Madison ice cream. Had a craving.
Okay, actually, I was…
Oh, never mind. I'm busted.
Tuesday, 18 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Trump Dump
Helloooo Newman: Trump Dump: Amis Take, roving reporter here. I caught up with Donald Trump on the campaign trail. He was feeding his hair while they gassed up his hel...
Trump Dump
Amis Take, roving reporter here.
I caught up with Donald Trump on the campaign trail. He was feeding his hair while they gassed up his helicopter.
I asked him about some of the polling numbers. He leads in the polls to be Republican leader, but a majority of these same people also think the Republicans won't win if he is leader.
This is becoming known as the Trump Dump phenomenon. Set him up as the Trump card, then dump the card.
I asked him about this curious contradiction. "Don, how can people prefer you as the party leader and yet feel that you can't win the election?"
Trump, as usual, was very direct. "Son, if you ever call me Don again, I'll rip the hair off your nut sack, braid it together and hang you from one of my tall buildings. Then I'll deport you."
"Will I still be alive? Also, I'm American."
"Only if I say so, buddy."
Obviously a touchy subject. I apologized.
Mr. Trump got hungry and the only place around was a local Taco Bell.
"Unfortunately I am going to have to deport the owner of this particular Taco Bell along with his 12 diarrhea-laden kids, all born and raised in the kitchen of this restaurant. But that can wait until after lunch. I can't make America great again on an empty stomach."
We took a short helicopter ride to a nearby Red Cross shelter. Mr. Trump was giving blood for a good cause. Rich, white, American blood. There's a shortage of that, he said.
I asked, "Mr. Trump, where will you give blood from?"
"My right arm, I'm Republican."
Actually, I meant will he give it from his nose, or eyes, or maybe his vagina? He wasn't sure where women gave blood from when visiting the Red Cross.
He kept saying "I want to help women" so often I thought he might grow a vagina right then and there.
I wondered if he ever say the Vagina Monologues, seeing as he wants to help women so much. Nope. Being a white, upper class, pudgy male, I figured soon he'll go see the Angina Monologues.
"I want to help women. You know, with the bleeding thing. What's up with that anyway? If there's a way I can help them with that, I will."
Mr. Trump put on his batman costume and flew away in his helicopter.
America will be great again.
I caught up with Donald Trump on the campaign trail. He was feeding his hair while they gassed up his helicopter.
I asked him about some of the polling numbers. He leads in the polls to be Republican leader, but a majority of these same people also think the Republicans won't win if he is leader.
This is becoming known as the Trump Dump phenomenon. Set him up as the Trump card, then dump the card.
I asked him about this curious contradiction. "Don, how can people prefer you as the party leader and yet feel that you can't win the election?"
Trump, as usual, was very direct. "Son, if you ever call me Don again, I'll rip the hair off your nut sack, braid it together and hang you from one of my tall buildings. Then I'll deport you."
"Will I still be alive? Also, I'm American."
"Only if I say so, buddy."
Obviously a touchy subject. I apologized.
Mr. Trump got hungry and the only place around was a local Taco Bell.
"Unfortunately I am going to have to deport the owner of this particular Taco Bell along with his 12 diarrhea-laden kids, all born and raised in the kitchen of this restaurant. But that can wait until after lunch. I can't make America great again on an empty stomach."
We took a short helicopter ride to a nearby Red Cross shelter. Mr. Trump was giving blood for a good cause. Rich, white, American blood. There's a shortage of that, he said.
I asked, "Mr. Trump, where will you give blood from?"
"My right arm, I'm Republican."
Actually, I meant will he give it from his nose, or eyes, or maybe his vagina? He wasn't sure where women gave blood from when visiting the Red Cross.
He kept saying "I want to help women" so often I thought he might grow a vagina right then and there.
I wondered if he ever say the Vagina Monologues, seeing as he wants to help women so much. Nope. Being a white, upper class, pudgy male, I figured soon he'll go see the Angina Monologues.
"I want to help women. You know, with the bleeding thing. What's up with that anyway? If there's a way I can help them with that, I will."
Mr. Trump put on his batman costume and flew away in his helicopter.
America will be great again.
Monday, 17 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Sadtember
Helloooo Newman: Sadtember: And then comes sadness… The summer is almost over. And then comes the month that starts to change everything. Sadtember. I always take...
Sadtember
And then comes sadness…
The summer is almost over.
And then comes the month that starts to change everything. Sadtember.
I always take a roll in the doldrums after labour Day. I just love summer. I love the sun beating me up on a daily basis. And its partner in crime, the heat, that coaxes the moisture out of my cells, gives me horrible hair days and sets me up for slaking that beer thirst.
Then Labour Day. Depression. People around often ask, "Hey Paul, are you on your period? You go, girl!"
Donald Trump had it right in the debate. I get irritable in the Winter. All that bleeding.
No. I suffer from SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, as psychologists call it.
Or in my parlance, FUCK! Winter is coming soon.
Winter is all about being reminded that time is running out. Each day is shorter, the sun going up and down like a yoyo, dark, light, suddenly dark just before you slip on that patch of ice. Days whip by like not-in-service TTC buses.
The summer always seems endless, as if the world is stuck in some relaxed gear with cruise control on. That's great, because cruise control saves gas.
They're not called the lazy, hazy days of summer for nothing. Part of my challenge is confining those lazy days to ONLY the summer. I'm very good at being lazy while it's snowing too. Just ask my snow shovel.
There's a reason violent crime goes way up in the nice summer months. More people are out enjoying themselves and they bring their guns with them. It's lovely to see. Conversely, suicide rates go way down. I figure more of these kinds of people are shot in violent crimes in the summer, and let's face it, that looks more respectable on the death certificate.
One thing I love about the summer is I don't have to make lists of any kind. Except the list I refer to so I can replenish my meat and beer.
When Sadtember roles around, I have to get started on three important lists. My daughter's birthday comes in November. This is hard for me. November is usually the month where I go hunting for the cave I want to crawl into for the winter. Instead I find myself at a Forever 21 store, hauling my 52-year-old carcass in between tweens who think makeup is a clothing item.
Then there's my all-time favourite – Xmas. I call it Xmas now because I make a gift list and then draw a big fat X through it. There's no Christ to be found near me, except for the thousand times I exclaim "Christ, you're out of that too?"
Finally there is my wife's bday. I love and cherish my wife and her birthday. And not just because she reads this blog, and will be studying this article in particular.
Shakespeare did not write, "Now is the summer holidays drinking coolers with ribs on the barby of our discontent" for a reason. Smart guy.
I am not a man for all seasons. God, please take the following months off my calendar:
Sadtember
Awfultober
Foevember
Decadentcember
Insaneuary
Febrileuary
The rest can stay.
The summer is almost over.
And then comes the month that starts to change everything. Sadtember.
I always take a roll in the doldrums after labour Day. I just love summer. I love the sun beating me up on a daily basis. And its partner in crime, the heat, that coaxes the moisture out of my cells, gives me horrible hair days and sets me up for slaking that beer thirst.
Then Labour Day. Depression. People around often ask, "Hey Paul, are you on your period? You go, girl!"
Donald Trump had it right in the debate. I get irritable in the Winter. All that bleeding.
No. I suffer from SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, as psychologists call it.
Or in my parlance, FUCK! Winter is coming soon.
Winter is all about being reminded that time is running out. Each day is shorter, the sun going up and down like a yoyo, dark, light, suddenly dark just before you slip on that patch of ice. Days whip by like not-in-service TTC buses.
The summer always seems endless, as if the world is stuck in some relaxed gear with cruise control on. That's great, because cruise control saves gas.
They're not called the lazy, hazy days of summer for nothing. Part of my challenge is confining those lazy days to ONLY the summer. I'm very good at being lazy while it's snowing too. Just ask my snow shovel.
There's a reason violent crime goes way up in the nice summer months. More people are out enjoying themselves and they bring their guns with them. It's lovely to see. Conversely, suicide rates go way down. I figure more of these kinds of people are shot in violent crimes in the summer, and let's face it, that looks more respectable on the death certificate.
One thing I love about the summer is I don't have to make lists of any kind. Except the list I refer to so I can replenish my meat and beer.
When Sadtember roles around, I have to get started on three important lists. My daughter's birthday comes in November. This is hard for me. November is usually the month where I go hunting for the cave I want to crawl into for the winter. Instead I find myself at a Forever 21 store, hauling my 52-year-old carcass in between tweens who think makeup is a clothing item.
Then there's my all-time favourite – Xmas. I call it Xmas now because I make a gift list and then draw a big fat X through it. There's no Christ to be found near me, except for the thousand times I exclaim "Christ, you're out of that too?"
Finally there is my wife's bday. I love and cherish my wife and her birthday. And not just because she reads this blog, and will be studying this article in particular.
Shakespeare did not write, "Now is the summer holidays drinking coolers with ribs on the barby of our discontent" for a reason. Smart guy.
I am not a man for all seasons. God, please take the following months off my calendar:
Sadtember
Awfultober
Foevember
Decadentcember
Insaneuary
Febrileuary
The rest can stay.
Tuesday, 4 August 2015
Wednesday, 29 July 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Barber of Davisville
Helloooo Newman: The Barber of Davisville: This barber was no Figaro! I should probably hate getting my haircut more than I do. The expense. Time wasted. The stress of wondering whe...
The Barber of Davisville
This barber was no Figaro!
I should probably hate getting my haircut more than I do. The expense. Time wasted. The stress of wondering whether I'll look like the Kardashian's poodle.
But I love haircuts. Mostly because it's nice to still have hair to cut. Also, I love the tickly feeling of that electric trimmer on my neck. Hey, could you do my whole body with that trimmer? Yup, there too.
Picking the right barber is an enormous decision. It deserves far more consideration than picking your doctor for a heart valve replacement. If the doctor screws up, who will know? It's all buried under your chest plate. Assuming you survived the operation, of course.
A bad haircut screams out to the world – hey, I have head leprosy. The barber is the plastic surgeon for hair. Oh my God, my hair looks like Meg Ryan's face.
A few summer's ago I was desperate for a haircut so I popped into this barber at Bayview and Davisville. It was one of those heat wave summers, which we get about once a decade now. Double Bubble boiling on the pavement and time stands still.
I should have known trouble was ahead. When I set my eyes on the guy who was doing the "barbering", I thought Alice Cooper had quite his musical career and moved to my neighbourhood. I quickly wrote a script in my head for a new movie, "Alice the Barberian".
I told him, "NOT TOO SHORT". I know I have nice biceps, but I'm not going for the Vin Diesel look.
The part of this guy's brain that controlled jabbering was 100 times larger than yours or mine. I think it comprised his entire brain, save for a few neurons to allow for the modest operation of scissors.
Please, put me under general anaesthetic, like my heart surgeon would. Just for the peace and quiet.
The worst part was he completely lacked vocal punctuation. Inane story flowed into inane story without a pause, like a dentist's drill spinning on full for days on end with no rest to remove the build up of spit.
Please, Alice, let me know when you are starting a new idea so I can organize the notes I'm taking. I'm up to the part where you defeated your syphilis with a record short round of antibiotics.
I turned towards the mirror to observe the final product. That dentist's drill is still spinning in my ears.
Excuse me. Did you think I was off to a civil war re-enactment? Or maybe a jousting tournament at Medieval Times?
We live in Toronto, not the forests of New Guinea.
Thanks Figaro. Now I'm sure to win the woman of my dreams.
I should probably hate getting my haircut more than I do. The expense. Time wasted. The stress of wondering whether I'll look like the Kardashian's poodle.
But I love haircuts. Mostly because it's nice to still have hair to cut. Also, I love the tickly feeling of that electric trimmer on my neck. Hey, could you do my whole body with that trimmer? Yup, there too.
Picking the right barber is an enormous decision. It deserves far more consideration than picking your doctor for a heart valve replacement. If the doctor screws up, who will know? It's all buried under your chest plate. Assuming you survived the operation, of course.
A bad haircut screams out to the world – hey, I have head leprosy. The barber is the plastic surgeon for hair. Oh my God, my hair looks like Meg Ryan's face.
A few summer's ago I was desperate for a haircut so I popped into this barber at Bayview and Davisville. It was one of those heat wave summers, which we get about once a decade now. Double Bubble boiling on the pavement and time stands still.
I should have known trouble was ahead. When I set my eyes on the guy who was doing the "barbering", I thought Alice Cooper had quite his musical career and moved to my neighbourhood. I quickly wrote a script in my head for a new movie, "Alice the Barberian".
I told him, "NOT TOO SHORT". I know I have nice biceps, but I'm not going for the Vin Diesel look.
The part of this guy's brain that controlled jabbering was 100 times larger than yours or mine. I think it comprised his entire brain, save for a few neurons to allow for the modest operation of scissors.
Please, put me under general anaesthetic, like my heart surgeon would. Just for the peace and quiet.
The worst part was he completely lacked vocal punctuation. Inane story flowed into inane story without a pause, like a dentist's drill spinning on full for days on end with no rest to remove the build up of spit.
Please, Alice, let me know when you are starting a new idea so I can organize the notes I'm taking. I'm up to the part where you defeated your syphilis with a record short round of antibiotics.
I turned towards the mirror to observe the final product. That dentist's drill is still spinning in my ears.
Excuse me. Did you think I was off to a civil war re-enactment? Or maybe a jousting tournament at Medieval Times?
We live in Toronto, not the forests of New Guinea.
Thanks Figaro. Now I'm sure to win the woman of my dreams.
Tuesday, 28 July 2015
Helloooo Newman: Go tit
Helloooo Newman: Go tit: It's nice to be known world-wide for my brilliant writing. Too bad it's not in this world. It's actually an exoplanet 4 light ...
Go tit
It's nice to be known world-wide for my brilliant writing. Too bad it's not in this world.
It's actually an exoplanet 4 light years from here that scientists discovered with their latest telescope, built to find creative genius in the universe. An exoplanet is an earth-like planet that rotates around a sun, but hasn't managed to produce any intelligent life. Perfect market for my writing.
One could, of course, easily have a stimulating debate about whether there is any intelligent life here on earth. Imagine some other planet building a telescope to find intelligent life, it hones in on our earth and manages to record a speech by Donald Trump or an article about Bill Cosby. No doubt they would conclude their telescope failed in its mission. Melding the philosophies of Trump and Cosby together, the alien planet would conclude that Man's mission is to build a really high fence to trap women in, feed them drugs and rape them. This would be allowed behaviour by all of Man except a species called "Mexican". They're just getting out of hand with the rape thing.
What I'm not so brilliant at is typoing. Sorry, "typing". Maybe that's where the term "typo" comes from. Almost every time I type "typing", it comes out "typoing".
I make all kinds of other predictable mistakes, all of them with the same typo every time.
When I type "Globe" in Google Chrome, to read the Globe and Mail, it comes out as "Glboe". Never "Gbloe", "Goelb", or "Fuck it, I'm going back to bed".
When my wife emails me to find out what I have planned for dinner, I type "meat and porn". Of course, I meant corn. Maybe that's a Freudian slip.
I search a lot for "cornography".
Some typos are more severe. When I email the boys, typing, "Let's go out for drinks", it often comes out as, "Hey, let's sink some Red Bulls and look for hookers".
This being summer, we are visiting people all over Ontario. I need directions. People send directions and wonder if I understand them.
My shortcut for directions understanding is, "Got it".
Nope. Comes out as "Go tit". "Hey Paul", the wives of our couple friends ask me, "what did you mean by go tit? Are you and your wife breaking up? Is that why you're shaving your chest?"
Actually, I'm writing a kids book, in the vein of Go, Dog. Go! It will be called Go, Tit. Go! Go into the Bedroom and Wait for Me While I take This Pill.
Well, it all makes sense on my exoplanet.
It's actually an exoplanet 4 light years from here that scientists discovered with their latest telescope, built to find creative genius in the universe. An exoplanet is an earth-like planet that rotates around a sun, but hasn't managed to produce any intelligent life. Perfect market for my writing.
One could, of course, easily have a stimulating debate about whether there is any intelligent life here on earth. Imagine some other planet building a telescope to find intelligent life, it hones in on our earth and manages to record a speech by Donald Trump or an article about Bill Cosby. No doubt they would conclude their telescope failed in its mission. Melding the philosophies of Trump and Cosby together, the alien planet would conclude that Man's mission is to build a really high fence to trap women in, feed them drugs and rape them. This would be allowed behaviour by all of Man except a species called "Mexican". They're just getting out of hand with the rape thing.
What I'm not so brilliant at is typoing. Sorry, "typing". Maybe that's where the term "typo" comes from. Almost every time I type "typing", it comes out "typoing".
I make all kinds of other predictable mistakes, all of them with the same typo every time.
When I type "Globe" in Google Chrome, to read the Globe and Mail, it comes out as "Glboe". Never "Gbloe", "Goelb", or "Fuck it, I'm going back to bed".
When my wife emails me to find out what I have planned for dinner, I type "meat and porn". Of course, I meant corn. Maybe that's a Freudian slip.
I search a lot for "cornography".
Some typos are more severe. When I email the boys, typing, "Let's go out for drinks", it often comes out as, "Hey, let's sink some Red Bulls and look for hookers".
This being summer, we are visiting people all over Ontario. I need directions. People send directions and wonder if I understand them.
My shortcut for directions understanding is, "Got it".
Nope. Comes out as "Go tit". "Hey Paul", the wives of our couple friends ask me, "what did you mean by go tit? Are you and your wife breaking up? Is that why you're shaving your chest?"
Actually, I'm writing a kids book, in the vein of Go, Dog. Go! It will be called Go, Tit. Go! Go into the Bedroom and Wait for Me While I take This Pill.
Well, it all makes sense on my exoplanet.
Friday, 17 July 2015
Helloooo Newman: Is That a Gun in your Tote Bag?
Helloooo Newman: Is That a Gun in your Tote Bag?: I have no idea if any Americans read this blog. If there are any, I have a question for you. The NRA, and a good deal of the population (n...
Is That a Gun in your Tote Bag?
I have no idea if any Americans read this blog. If there are any, I have a question for you.
The NRA, and a good deal of the population (not everyone, I realize), want there to be more and more guns available. They want guns in schools, teachers with guns, babies with guns, animals with guns, guns on golf courses, at nudist beaches, guns carrying guns around.
And they want it to be easy to get guns. Easier than buying a pack of nicorette, surfing for porn, or getting a glass of water at Denny's.
You get the picture. Many of the problems with American society are caused by too few guns, not too many.
Then I find out that the army recruitment centres in America are declared "gun-free zones".
Um, yaaaaaaa. What?
The place you go to join the very institution that uses guns for a living to defend the country doesn't allow guns in its "stores"?
Whose idea was that?
Does that make sense?
Did you know there were any gun-free zones?
Who created this "Strangelovian" world? This is the army, there will be no guns here!
Four "experts" on CNN, after much discussion, declared that this policy needs to be examined. Really? Is that what really needs to be examined?
That kind of logic defeats my brain. I need a world where this kind of logic doesn't survive.
I can't live in a world where kindergarten is a gun-toting zone and an army recruitment centre is a gun-free zone.
Please – allow guns at army recruitment centres. Do it for my brain.
The NRA, and a good deal of the population (not everyone, I realize), want there to be more and more guns available. They want guns in schools, teachers with guns, babies with guns, animals with guns, guns on golf courses, at nudist beaches, guns carrying guns around.
And they want it to be easy to get guns. Easier than buying a pack of nicorette, surfing for porn, or getting a glass of water at Denny's.
You get the picture. Many of the problems with American society are caused by too few guns, not too many.
Then I find out that the army recruitment centres in America are declared "gun-free zones".
Um, yaaaaaaa. What?
The place you go to join the very institution that uses guns for a living to defend the country doesn't allow guns in its "stores"?
Whose idea was that?
Does that make sense?
Did you know there were any gun-free zones?
Who created this "Strangelovian" world? This is the army, there will be no guns here!
Four "experts" on CNN, after much discussion, declared that this policy needs to be examined. Really? Is that what really needs to be examined?
That kind of logic defeats my brain. I need a world where this kind of logic doesn't survive.
I can't live in a world where kindergarten is a gun-toting zone and an army recruitment centre is a gun-free zone.
Please – allow guns at army recruitment centres. Do it for my brain.
Thursday, 16 July 2015
Helloooo Newman: e-Questions
Helloooo Newman: e-Questions: A new study just came out, confirming our worst fears. Sitting IS the new smoking. If you smoke a traditional cigarette, you will likely ...
e-Questions
A new study just came out, confirming our worst fears. Sitting IS the new smoking.
If you smoke a traditional cigarette, you will likely get cancer. If you sit for 6 hours, you will likely get cancer.
What about lying down? They never study that. If sitting is really that bad for you, wouldn't lying down, say to sleep, be even more sedentary, and thus more dangerous? Does sleeping cause cancer? Try not to lose sleep over that question. Or maybe you should?
Meanwhile, there's an even more important question.
If electronic cigarettes (e-cigarettes) are healthier for you than the traditional cigarette, wouldn't the same be true of sitting?
Isn't sitting in an electric chair (e-chair) healthier than a traditional chair?
Does traditional mail give you cancer? Is e-mail healthier for you?
More studies, please.
If you smoke a traditional cigarette, you will likely get cancer. If you sit for 6 hours, you will likely get cancer.
What about lying down? They never study that. If sitting is really that bad for you, wouldn't lying down, say to sleep, be even more sedentary, and thus more dangerous? Does sleeping cause cancer? Try not to lose sleep over that question. Or maybe you should?
Meanwhile, there's an even more important question.
If electronic cigarettes (e-cigarettes) are healthier for you than the traditional cigarette, wouldn't the same be true of sitting?
Isn't sitting in an electric chair (e-chair) healthier than a traditional chair?
Does traditional mail give you cancer? Is e-mail healthier for you?
More studies, please.
Saturday, 27 June 2015
Helloooo Newman: The 150 Percenters
Helloooo Newman: The 150 Percenters: Being a famous and spectacularly successful writer is a huge burden. But this blog is not about Stephen King. The problem with ME being ...
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