HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
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 ...
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 a writer is that I'm picky with language. Except when I'm drunk. Put some of that "vodka from the skull" in me and I speak more of a "languidage". Or perhaps a "liquidage."
When I'm sober, there is one English phrase, or meme, or verbal habit, that drives me nuts.
It comes from the 150 percenters.
As a group, the 150 percenters are the most annoying in society. These are people who say things like, "I'm so thankful for their effort. They gave 150%."
"I expect you to give 1000% on this project."
I guess what these people are really saying, but feel the need to couch it in a nonsensical phrase, is, "please, go that extra mile."
I hate going that extra mile. One thing I love about Canada is you don't have to go that extra mile. You go that extra kilometre, which is shorter and easier.
For these people, the glass isn't half empty or half full, but more than full, which makes so much sense. No need to fuss with a bigger glass. Just make this glass more than full.
Remember when Nigel Tufnel, from Spinal Tap, exclaimed about his amps that "these go to eleven?" We all laughed at the absurdity of that, correct?
Well, when the 150 percenters ask someone to give 150%, they are Nigel with his amps. They look and sound just as silly.
"Hey Bob, sorry I only gave 100% on that last job. But you know what? I found a bag full of 50% more energy, so here I am to help some more."
This group also says things like, "to infinity and beyond." They have watches that count metric minutes, which are shorter. You can fit more in across your lifespan.
Are there any 150 percenters among the one percent? Yes! They are the 151 percenters.
Keep this in mind. When a member of this group asks you if you could give 150%, what they are really saying is your last effort sucked. Smarten up and work harder.
But this blog is not about Stephen King.
The problem with ME being a writer is that I'm picky with language. Except when I'm drunk. Put some of that "vodka from the skull" in me and I speak more of a "languidage". Or perhaps a "liquidage."
When I'm sober, there is one English phrase, or meme, or verbal habit, that drives me nuts.
It comes from the 150 percenters.
As a group, the 150 percenters are the most annoying in society. These are people who say things like, "I'm so thankful for their effort. They gave 150%."
"I expect you to give 1000% on this project."
I guess what these people are really saying, but feel the need to couch it in a nonsensical phrase, is, "please, go that extra mile."
I hate going that extra mile. One thing I love about Canada is you don't have to go that extra mile. You go that extra kilometre, which is shorter and easier.
For these people, the glass isn't half empty or half full, but more than full, which makes so much sense. No need to fuss with a bigger glass. Just make this glass more than full.
Remember when Nigel Tufnel, from Spinal Tap, exclaimed about his amps that "these go to eleven?" We all laughed at the absurdity of that, correct?
Well, when the 150 percenters ask someone to give 150%, they are Nigel with his amps. They look and sound just as silly.
"Hey Bob, sorry I only gave 100% on that last job. But you know what? I found a bag full of 50% more energy, so here I am to help some more."
This group also says things like, "to infinity and beyond." They have watches that count metric minutes, which are shorter. You can fit more in across your lifespan.
Are there any 150 percenters among the one percent? Yes! They are the 151 percenters.
Keep this in mind. When a member of this group asks you if you could give 150%, what they are really saying is your last effort sucked. Smarten up and work harder.
Saturday, 13 June 2015
Helloooo Newman: Shortening
Helloooo Newman: Shortening: I've had some feedback that my blog articles are too long. – The End –
Tuesday, 9 June 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer
Helloooo Newman: The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer: My biggest fans often ask me, "Hey Paul, is writing your fantastically creative and brilliantly fluffy and funny articles, that are jus...
The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer
My biggest fans often ask me, "Hey Paul, is writing your fantastically creative and brilliantly fluffy and funny articles, that are just deep enough with useful information that I say to myself, 'hey, reading that was better than brushing my teeth with a miter saw', a lonely endeavour?"
I love these kinds of fans. As I've said before, when I'm on the street, crowds of one or two people will swarm me, creating this capacious mosh pit, and chant my name. I guess mosh pit is a bit hyperbolic. There's no moshing, although one of my fans, high on bug spray, was jerking around my body and kept calling me Kenny G. That really hurt. At least confuse me with an artist who's tough, like Hemingway, who had the balls to end his career fellating his shotgun. Honourable, but that method isn't for me. I'll probably get cozy in a bed and listen to Kenny G for a week straight. They don't call it the Big Sleep for nothing.
Then my fans will spray paint some of my best lines on the sides of buildings. Unfortunately I've had to tell a few overzealous fans not to quote me directly, using my name. Hemingway would be a good substitute name.
And certainly don't draw my face using black spray paint. First of all, I've copyrighted my face. At first, the lawyers said the © symbol had to clearly appear on my face, one inch below my hairline (which drifts every day, much like the continents do) and be at least the size of a beer bottle cap.
One day, the lawyers showed up for an urgent meeting while I was in the shower. A female lawyer glanced at my bum (can you blame her?) and noticed similarities to my face. That's when they decided the © could legally appear on my bum.
On a side note, I certainly don't call myself a genius. Clever, I guess, like a chimp that can learn a slew of symbols. Oh, those chimps and that Paul, so much more clever than we ever thought. But do you know what the keyboard shortcut for the copyright symbol on a MAC keyboard is? Option-C, right? You know, the first letter of copyright. That's what I would have done. I mean if I were as talented as Kenny G.
No. It's Option-G, like the G in Kenny G. From those clever folks in Cupertino.
I ramble.
Back to my fans, armed with spray paint. As I said, they will spray entire articles of mine on buildings. Have you ever had to remove a whole article of graffiti from a brick wall with your bare muscles? A year ago I had to remove just that off the Brass Rail's front facade. I run into fans at the Rail all the time. How embarrassing.
Why can't writing be a group activity, like playing Bridge, or Croquet? Hey, my word trumps yours. Remember to hit the reader over the head with a mallet, to get your theme across.
Instead I feel like Dustin Hoffman from that running scene in The Marathon Man. All alone, frantic and sweaty. Then I ask someone to edit or comment on my work, and suddenly Olivier shows up as a dentist, asking "Is it safe?". "Is it readable?". There are holes all over your plot, as well as in your teeth.
I'm not sure why, but every time I start writing, my craving for Chinese food goes up 1000 percent. I load up on MSG, check out what I've written, and love it. Half an hour later, I hate it. Damn, that!
Great writing should be like Chinese food, shouldn't it? Half an hour later I need to read more.
I can't write a new blog every half hour. Pick another food, I'm still writing. Try Indian. I've eaten Indian and spent hours in the WC. I also like Indian because you can put it in a blender and it still looks and tastes the same, only easier to eat.
The real tragedy about my writing career is that I have no time to be a helicopter parent to my daughter. I'm not even a broken down Escalade parent. I'm more like one of those retro wooden wagon parents. Wagon Wheels for dinner. Eat your broccoli.
Are these the things that tortured Hemingway? Am I a real writer or a nyquil-fuelled ranter? Will my fans accept more serious work from me or opine for the earlier, funnier stuff?
You try wrestling with all this every day.
I love these kinds of fans. As I've said before, when I'm on the street, crowds of one or two people will swarm me, creating this capacious mosh pit, and chant my name. I guess mosh pit is a bit hyperbolic. There's no moshing, although one of my fans, high on bug spray, was jerking around my body and kept calling me Kenny G. That really hurt. At least confuse me with an artist who's tough, like Hemingway, who had the balls to end his career fellating his shotgun. Honourable, but that method isn't for me. I'll probably get cozy in a bed and listen to Kenny G for a week straight. They don't call it the Big Sleep for nothing.
Then my fans will spray paint some of my best lines on the sides of buildings. Unfortunately I've had to tell a few overzealous fans not to quote me directly, using my name. Hemingway would be a good substitute name.
And certainly don't draw my face using black spray paint. First of all, I've copyrighted my face. At first, the lawyers said the © symbol had to clearly appear on my face, one inch below my hairline (which drifts every day, much like the continents do) and be at least the size of a beer bottle cap.
One day, the lawyers showed up for an urgent meeting while I was in the shower. A female lawyer glanced at my bum (can you blame her?) and noticed similarities to my face. That's when they decided the © could legally appear on my bum.
On a side note, I certainly don't call myself a genius. Clever, I guess, like a chimp that can learn a slew of symbols. Oh, those chimps and that Paul, so much more clever than we ever thought. But do you know what the keyboard shortcut for the copyright symbol on a MAC keyboard is? Option-C, right? You know, the first letter of copyright. That's what I would have done. I mean if I were as talented as Kenny G.
No. It's Option-G, like the G in Kenny G. From those clever folks in Cupertino.
I ramble.
Back to my fans, armed with spray paint. As I said, they will spray entire articles of mine on buildings. Have you ever had to remove a whole article of graffiti from a brick wall with your bare muscles? A year ago I had to remove just that off the Brass Rail's front facade. I run into fans at the Rail all the time. How embarrassing.
Why can't writing be a group activity, like playing Bridge, or Croquet? Hey, my word trumps yours. Remember to hit the reader over the head with a mallet, to get your theme across.
Instead I feel like Dustin Hoffman from that running scene in The Marathon Man. All alone, frantic and sweaty. Then I ask someone to edit or comment on my work, and suddenly Olivier shows up as a dentist, asking "Is it safe?". "Is it readable?". There are holes all over your plot, as well as in your teeth.
I'm not sure why, but every time I start writing, my craving for Chinese food goes up 1000 percent. I load up on MSG, check out what I've written, and love it. Half an hour later, I hate it. Damn, that!
Great writing should be like Chinese food, shouldn't it? Half an hour later I need to read more.
I can't write a new blog every half hour. Pick another food, I'm still writing. Try Indian. I've eaten Indian and spent hours in the WC. I also like Indian because you can put it in a blender and it still looks and tastes the same, only easier to eat.
The real tragedy about my writing career is that I have no time to be a helicopter parent to my daughter. I'm not even a broken down Escalade parent. I'm more like one of those retro wooden wagon parents. Wagon Wheels for dinner. Eat your broccoli.
Are these the things that tortured Hemingway? Am I a real writer or a nyquil-fuelled ranter? Will my fans accept more serious work from me or opine for the earlier, funnier stuff?
You try wrestling with all this every day.
Tuesday, 2 June 2015
Helloooo Newman: AEIOU and Always Why
Helloooo Newman: AEIOU and Always Why: One of the first things we learn as children is the alphabet. And the most important question we learn to ask as we explore the world is &qu...
AEIOU and Always Why
One of the first things we learn as children is the alphabet. And the most important question we learn to ask as we explore the world is "Why".
Why is the question that distinguishes humans from all other living things. Not only can we ask why, we are compelled to ask it. All humans need food, water, sex, reasonably priced beer and to know the reason why.
There are two kinds of "why" questions. Upper case "WHY" questions and lower case "why" questions.
WHY questions are the BIG questions: WHY is gravity so much weaker than the other forces of the universe or WHY did human consciousness develop. I like asking these kinds of questions, but only after my fair share of beer, nyquil and the weed.
The more mundane, lower case "why" questions are the questions I want to entertain here. Questions like, why is Canadian beer sold for a lower price in the U.S.?
Here is another question. You are approaching a set of doors. You extend your arm to open one of the doors, say the right door – and it's locked. You are walking full speed ahead, expecting the door to serve its function, but…face, meet plate glass.
Why do we build two doors and lock one of them? Why does this improve the human condition?
Why don't we build other entrance/exit mechanisms where only half the structure is allowed to do its job?
You never run into a turnstile that only turns half way. Immediate castration (for men) or tubal ligation (for women).
Imagine if only half your car doors opened. "Hey Fred, my door won't open."
"Sorry, Tony, I keep those doors locked. Can you squeeze in from this side, around the baby's seat?"
How about revolving doors only working half way. Or you live on the 58th floor of the newest condo and the elevator is only allowed to go to the 28th floor.
So, we don't know WHY humans developed consciousness, but the more important question is, WHY don't the humans who lock these doors use their consciousness?
Gentlemen, we are at the forefront of human ingenuity. We are going to build a structure, and only allow people to use half of it. Pretty soon, all things will be done in half measure.
Maybe, like the locked door, they only keep one of the brain hemispheres switched on. Or maybe I'm being too generous here. Maybe just one neuron works.
Starting today, the glass will ALWAYS be half empty. All houses will be halfway houses.
Can't we meet these people halfway?
Why is the question that distinguishes humans from all other living things. Not only can we ask why, we are compelled to ask it. All humans need food, water, sex, reasonably priced beer and to know the reason why.
There are two kinds of "why" questions. Upper case "WHY" questions and lower case "why" questions.
WHY questions are the BIG questions: WHY is gravity so much weaker than the other forces of the universe or WHY did human consciousness develop. I like asking these kinds of questions, but only after my fair share of beer, nyquil and the weed.
The more mundane, lower case "why" questions are the questions I want to entertain here. Questions like, why is Canadian beer sold for a lower price in the U.S.?
Here is another question. You are approaching a set of doors. You extend your arm to open one of the doors, say the right door – and it's locked. You are walking full speed ahead, expecting the door to serve its function, but…face, meet plate glass.
Why do we build two doors and lock one of them? Why does this improve the human condition?
Why don't we build other entrance/exit mechanisms where only half the structure is allowed to do its job?
You never run into a turnstile that only turns half way. Immediate castration (for men) or tubal ligation (for women).
Imagine if only half your car doors opened. "Hey Fred, my door won't open."
"Sorry, Tony, I keep those doors locked. Can you squeeze in from this side, around the baby's seat?"
How about revolving doors only working half way. Or you live on the 58th floor of the newest condo and the elevator is only allowed to go to the 28th floor.
So, we don't know WHY humans developed consciousness, but the more important question is, WHY don't the humans who lock these doors use their consciousness?
Gentlemen, we are at the forefront of human ingenuity. We are going to build a structure, and only allow people to use half of it. Pretty soon, all things will be done in half measure.
Maybe, like the locked door, they only keep one of the brain hemispheres switched on. Or maybe I'm being too generous here. Maybe just one neuron works.
Starting today, the glass will ALWAYS be half empty. All houses will be halfway houses.
Can't we meet these people halfway?
Monday, 1 June 2015
Helloooo Newman: Zoology
Helloooo Newman: Zoology: I don't understand why we use the word "zoo" when referring to certain events. "Wow, wasn't that concert a zoo?&quo...
Zoology
I don't understand why we use the word "zoo" when referring to certain events.
"Wow, wasn't that concert a zoo?" "Boy, that dance club was packed with chicks, but what a zoo."
We seem to use the term to describe excessively crowded and chaotic events.
But any zoo I've been to has been relatively orderly, and mostly not that crowded. Sure, people bunch up around the cages every once in a while, giggling at the orangutan as he tries to hump the coconut. But then you turn around and you have acres of property to roam free in.
The Toronto Zoo is massive. The giraffes have plenty of space and seem pretty much at peace with their environment. Even in the cages, animals aren't packed to the rafters, like your average popular bar after work. And they are fed in a very orderly, precisely-timed manner.
Zoos are great for people too. No one is pushing or shoving or spilling beer on your shirt. And you don't get a bill for $78 and change for the privilege of yelling over hordes of other voices.
I think the place that more accurately describes crowded and chaotic events is the subway, especially during rush hour.
"Man, I'm so happy our team won, but wasn't that game a subway?" "I'm never going to see Taylor Swift in concert again. What a subway!"
Yes, that sounds much better.
What surprises me is how orderly zoos really are. More orderly than your average bar or club and a virtual paradise compared to the subway.
I've never seen the zoo's resident anteater mix beer, red wine and vodka in his stomach and then vomit it all over his cage, like I saw a girl once do on the subway during New Years Eve. After messing up a good portion of the subway seating, this girl started screaming and scratching herself, thinking her body was covered in ants. That's called delirium tremens, and it's the only thing she had in common with the anteater.
Zoo animals are far better behaved than people who are drinking. I only have to look at my own behaviour to prove that. I remember at one dance club (I can't remember the venue, just the incident) I decided that trying to balance two beer bottles on my head would be the next smart move I could make. I filmed it for an interview at Cirque de Soleil, and was promptly turned down.
One thing I am sure of is if I were a zoo animal I would have way more fun than the animals currently have. I would want to be a monkey, and my first order of business would be to fling my own feces at some of the spectators. It's just lying there anyway, and what a great way to clean my home. Make a day of it. The zookeeper will thank me for this.
I don't get why animals haven't tried this. It would be a hoot. Be nice and charming, cute and smiley, wait for them to get close, and then heave a steaming pile at their eyes.
It's only fair. It levels the playing field. I'm stuck in this cage. You're free to roam the world. So here's shit in your eye. No, I don't have an opposable thumb, but I can still ruin your day.
If I were a lion, I would laze around pretending I was asleep, wait for some stupid kid to get real close to the cage, and then suddenly charge him with full fangs and claws. Now I get to see you shit your pants for a change, human. Sure, I'll get a time out, but without me, there's no zoo.
If I were the orangutan, I would work up a big, orange erection just as the 500-pound doe head man was swallowing his corn dog in front of me. Hey, we're looking for another pig in the zoo, mister. The job's yours.
Yes, zoo animals are far too well behaved. I think these animals need to visit the subway at rush hour.
"Wow, wasn't that concert a zoo?" "Boy, that dance club was packed with chicks, but what a zoo."
We seem to use the term to describe excessively crowded and chaotic events.
But any zoo I've been to has been relatively orderly, and mostly not that crowded. Sure, people bunch up around the cages every once in a while, giggling at the orangutan as he tries to hump the coconut. But then you turn around and you have acres of property to roam free in.
The Toronto Zoo is massive. The giraffes have plenty of space and seem pretty much at peace with their environment. Even in the cages, animals aren't packed to the rafters, like your average popular bar after work. And they are fed in a very orderly, precisely-timed manner.
Zoos are great for people too. No one is pushing or shoving or spilling beer on your shirt. And you don't get a bill for $78 and change for the privilege of yelling over hordes of other voices.
I think the place that more accurately describes crowded and chaotic events is the subway, especially during rush hour.
"Man, I'm so happy our team won, but wasn't that game a subway?" "I'm never going to see Taylor Swift in concert again. What a subway!"
Yes, that sounds much better.
What surprises me is how orderly zoos really are. More orderly than your average bar or club and a virtual paradise compared to the subway.
I've never seen the zoo's resident anteater mix beer, red wine and vodka in his stomach and then vomit it all over his cage, like I saw a girl once do on the subway during New Years Eve. After messing up a good portion of the subway seating, this girl started screaming and scratching herself, thinking her body was covered in ants. That's called delirium tremens, and it's the only thing she had in common with the anteater.
Zoo animals are far better behaved than people who are drinking. I only have to look at my own behaviour to prove that. I remember at one dance club (I can't remember the venue, just the incident) I decided that trying to balance two beer bottles on my head would be the next smart move I could make. I filmed it for an interview at Cirque de Soleil, and was promptly turned down.
One thing I am sure of is if I were a zoo animal I would have way more fun than the animals currently have. I would want to be a monkey, and my first order of business would be to fling my own feces at some of the spectators. It's just lying there anyway, and what a great way to clean my home. Make a day of it. The zookeeper will thank me for this.
I don't get why animals haven't tried this. It would be a hoot. Be nice and charming, cute and smiley, wait for them to get close, and then heave a steaming pile at their eyes.
It's only fair. It levels the playing field. I'm stuck in this cage. You're free to roam the world. So here's shit in your eye. No, I don't have an opposable thumb, but I can still ruin your day.
If I were a lion, I would laze around pretending I was asleep, wait for some stupid kid to get real close to the cage, and then suddenly charge him with full fangs and claws. Now I get to see you shit your pants for a change, human. Sure, I'll get a time out, but without me, there's no zoo.
If I were the orangutan, I would work up a big, orange erection just as the 500-pound doe head man was swallowing his corn dog in front of me. Hey, we're looking for another pig in the zoo, mister. The job's yours.
Yes, zoo animals are far too well behaved. I think these animals need to visit the subway at rush hour.
Thursday, 28 May 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Answer is 404
Helloooo Newman: The Answer is 404: I had a dream. It was a dream deeply rooted in melatonin, nyquil and beer. I had a dream today. Like MLK, I had a dream that I will ri...
The Answer is 404
I had a dream.
It was a dream deeply rooted in melatonin, nyquil and beer.
I had a dream today.
Like MLK, I had a dream that I will rise up and live out my true meaning.
Okay, maybe not a dream as big as Mr. King's…but man, was it weird.
In this dream, God was the Internet. That part actually made a lot of sense to me. God is everywhere, so is the Internet. Or porn is everywhere on the Internet. Something like that.
What didn't make sense was when I searched for things on the Internet, um, God. I clicked on important links like "why does relish exist when everyone hates it?" or "why won't my ears and nose go bald instead of my head?", and all I got was that warning page when a link doesn't work:
404: Sorry this page is not available.
Has God gone down? Did he run out of bandwidth? The universe seems pretty wide to me, judging from the size of an average city block in Vegas. Lots of room for really big cables I would think.
What about the wifi signal? Where was it? Maybe it was being blocked by Vladimir Putin's chest, or Kevin O'Leary's planet-sized greed for money.
Maybe God needs more servers, like Jesus and the Pope. Today we have Joel Osteen. What a freaky smile that "man of God" has. I once met a guy in Mexico who smiled at me like Mr. Osteen smiles and he wanted to play Donkey Kong with my colon.
Pretty weird, right? Dreams are suppose to be weird, I guess.
They say dreams are a window into your favourite Netflix show.
Okay, that's not true, but I have been binge dreaming of late.
Binge dreaming is like having a Netflix subscription in your head while you sleep. Very low cost. The price of a few beers, 10 mg of melatonin and a shot of nyquil, required to produce the effect.
When I fall asleep and start dreaming, little icons of my favourite genres and shows pop up. Genres like suspense, porn, more porn, additional porn, further porn, last but not least porn, soft porn, hard porn, frozen solid porn, romance porn, food and porn (porn chops and porn bellies are favourites)… You get the picture.
Back to this crazy dream. On the 404 page was a little icon saying "download here". I clicked on it and suddenly I was downloaded into this room full of kids and me sitting at an old, ratty piano.
I started playing – the piano sounded like rusty metal – and the kids started booing. I was devastated. I had lost my fan base. Running out of the room, deciding suicide was the answer, I jumped into a freezing cold ocean to drown myself.
Instead of drowning, I floated up into this pre-historic room with one window in it. I nervously glanced through the dirty, half broken window and saw an old city laying in ashes, devastated by nuclear war. I certainly wasn't going to hang around here, I thought, until something caught my eye.
Sitting on the street was a spotless grand piano, as shiny as a gem. I jumped through the window, overcome with an urge to play this precious instrument. As the gorgeous sound swelled from the piano, old and broken people gathered around and smiled. I played for days and days.
Being a napper, I needed a rest. So I left that darn piano and found a bed to sleep on. My "audience" was not happy and showed their true perfidious nature. "Keep playing" they chanted. They carried swords high in the air, like steel soldiers marching to their orders. They were to cut off my hands unless I continued to play.
Well, I skedaddled out of there, through the window and back to that old, ratty piano. My home!
One could interpret this dream from many angles. Or one could just say, Paul, stop mixing beer and nyquil.
Or, one could wonder where God was when I needed Him most. Hair continues to consume my ears, and all I get is 404.
It was a dream deeply rooted in melatonin, nyquil and beer.
I had a dream today.
Like MLK, I had a dream that I will rise up and live out my true meaning.
Okay, maybe not a dream as big as Mr. King's…but man, was it weird.
In this dream, God was the Internet. That part actually made a lot of sense to me. God is everywhere, so is the Internet. Or porn is everywhere on the Internet. Something like that.
What didn't make sense was when I searched for things on the Internet, um, God. I clicked on important links like "why does relish exist when everyone hates it?" or "why won't my ears and nose go bald instead of my head?", and all I got was that warning page when a link doesn't work:
404: Sorry this page is not available.
Has God gone down? Did he run out of bandwidth? The universe seems pretty wide to me, judging from the size of an average city block in Vegas. Lots of room for really big cables I would think.
What about the wifi signal? Where was it? Maybe it was being blocked by Vladimir Putin's chest, or Kevin O'Leary's planet-sized greed for money.
Maybe God needs more servers, like Jesus and the Pope. Today we have Joel Osteen. What a freaky smile that "man of God" has. I once met a guy in Mexico who smiled at me like Mr. Osteen smiles and he wanted to play Donkey Kong with my colon.
Pretty weird, right? Dreams are suppose to be weird, I guess.
They say dreams are a window into your favourite Netflix show.
Okay, that's not true, but I have been binge dreaming of late.
Binge dreaming is like having a Netflix subscription in your head while you sleep. Very low cost. The price of a few beers, 10 mg of melatonin and a shot of nyquil, required to produce the effect.
When I fall asleep and start dreaming, little icons of my favourite genres and shows pop up. Genres like suspense, porn, more porn, additional porn, further porn, last but not least porn, soft porn, hard porn, frozen solid porn, romance porn, food and porn (porn chops and porn bellies are favourites)… You get the picture.
Back to this crazy dream. On the 404 page was a little icon saying "download here". I clicked on it and suddenly I was downloaded into this room full of kids and me sitting at an old, ratty piano.
I started playing – the piano sounded like rusty metal – and the kids started booing. I was devastated. I had lost my fan base. Running out of the room, deciding suicide was the answer, I jumped into a freezing cold ocean to drown myself.
Instead of drowning, I floated up into this pre-historic room with one window in it. I nervously glanced through the dirty, half broken window and saw an old city laying in ashes, devastated by nuclear war. I certainly wasn't going to hang around here, I thought, until something caught my eye.
Sitting on the street was a spotless grand piano, as shiny as a gem. I jumped through the window, overcome with an urge to play this precious instrument. As the gorgeous sound swelled from the piano, old and broken people gathered around and smiled. I played for days and days.
Being a napper, I needed a rest. So I left that darn piano and found a bed to sleep on. My "audience" was not happy and showed their true perfidious nature. "Keep playing" they chanted. They carried swords high in the air, like steel soldiers marching to their orders. They were to cut off my hands unless I continued to play.
Well, I skedaddled out of there, through the window and back to that old, ratty piano. My home!
One could interpret this dream from many angles. Or one could just say, Paul, stop mixing beer and nyquil.
Or, one could wonder where God was when I needed Him most. Hair continues to consume my ears, and all I get is 404.
Sunday, 24 May 2015
Helloooo Newman: Tree Talk
Helloooo Newman: Tree Talk: Tree 1: Hey Bruce, read the paper yesterday? Tree 2: I don't read papers, Burt. You know they cut down Leif and his family to make tha...
Tree Talk
Tree 1: Hey Bruce, read the paper yesterday?
Tree 2: I don't read papers, Burt. You know they cut down Leif and his family to make that paper.
Tree 1: Ya, shame. Thought you never liked him? Ever since you discovered his family roots.
Tree 2: True. Still, we trees have to stand up for each other.
Tree 1: I heard Mel is working with the lumber companies. Told them Leif's family would make great croquet mallets.
Tree 2: That's treeson.
Tree 1: Article in the paper said this global warming thing is going to destroy the planet.
Tree 2: Ha. My relatives have been here since that first fish walked out of the ocean. How long has that Al Gore dude been here?
Tree 1: He's a smart guy, you know. Invented the internet.
Tree 2: You mean that thing that was suppose to cut down on wood use so Leif's family could grow up?
Tree 1: Good point. But they need paper cups to hold their lattes. What will they drink their lattes from, Bruce?
Tree 2: From a bed pan for all I care. They're all getting so old anyway. Damn humans can't see the pulp for the paper.
Tree 1: You mean the trees for the forest?
Tree 2: That too.
Tree 1: Still, this warming thing could get really bad.
Tree 2: Bad for who, Burt? I'm thinking some warmer temps are pretty tempting. Maybe the humans will cancel that xmas thing. You know how many of my relatives ended up sitting in a pot full of mouldy water, surrounded by presents that aren't for them? Smell of delicious turkey and you can't do a damn thing about it. Oh Christmas Tree my ass.
Tree 1: Greenhouse gases, Bruce, that's what it's all about. They say carbon dioxide is one of the worst GH gases. They want to reduce them.
Tree 2. Nice. It's only what we breath, thank you. I have an idea. Why don't we all hold our breath, see how they like that.
Tree 1: I think we should be nice, Bruce. Maybe we can work something out with them. Come to an understanding.
Tree 2: You mean a treety? Fat chance. Oxygen deprivation is the best solution. Teach them not to mess with nature.
Tree 1: Okay Bruce, if you think it's best.
All the flora hold their breath, the oxygen disappears and the human race dies.
Tree 1: Morning, Bruce.
Tree 2: Morning. Beautiful day.
Tree 1: Yes. So quiet.
Tree 2: Isn't it nice?
Tree 1: What's that, over by the shore?
Tree 2: Appears to be a fish. He's walking on his fins. He's breathing air.
Tree 1: It's starting all over again, Bruce.
Tree 2: Damn.
Tree 2: I don't read papers, Burt. You know they cut down Leif and his family to make that paper.
Tree 1: Ya, shame. Thought you never liked him? Ever since you discovered his family roots.
Tree 2: True. Still, we trees have to stand up for each other.
Tree 1: I heard Mel is working with the lumber companies. Told them Leif's family would make great croquet mallets.
Tree 2: That's treeson.
Tree 1: Article in the paper said this global warming thing is going to destroy the planet.
Tree 2: Ha. My relatives have been here since that first fish walked out of the ocean. How long has that Al Gore dude been here?
Tree 1: He's a smart guy, you know. Invented the internet.
Tree 2: You mean that thing that was suppose to cut down on wood use so Leif's family could grow up?
Tree 1: Good point. But they need paper cups to hold their lattes. What will they drink their lattes from, Bruce?
Tree 2: From a bed pan for all I care. They're all getting so old anyway. Damn humans can't see the pulp for the paper.
Tree 1: You mean the trees for the forest?
Tree 2: That too.
Tree 1: Still, this warming thing could get really bad.
Tree 2: Bad for who, Burt? I'm thinking some warmer temps are pretty tempting. Maybe the humans will cancel that xmas thing. You know how many of my relatives ended up sitting in a pot full of mouldy water, surrounded by presents that aren't for them? Smell of delicious turkey and you can't do a damn thing about it. Oh Christmas Tree my ass.
Tree 1: Greenhouse gases, Bruce, that's what it's all about. They say carbon dioxide is one of the worst GH gases. They want to reduce them.
Tree 2. Nice. It's only what we breath, thank you. I have an idea. Why don't we all hold our breath, see how they like that.
Tree 1: I think we should be nice, Bruce. Maybe we can work something out with them. Come to an understanding.
Tree 2: You mean a treety? Fat chance. Oxygen deprivation is the best solution. Teach them not to mess with nature.
Tree 1: Okay Bruce, if you think it's best.
All the flora hold their breath, the oxygen disappears and the human race dies.
Tree 1: Morning, Bruce.
Tree 2: Morning. Beautiful day.
Tree 1: Yes. So quiet.
Tree 2: Isn't it nice?
Tree 1: What's that, over by the shore?
Tree 2: Appears to be a fish. He's walking on his fins. He's breathing air.
Tree 1: It's starting all over again, Bruce.
Tree 2: Damn.
Wednesday, 20 May 2015
Helloooo Newman: Jobs Disguised as Jobs
Helloooo Newman: Jobs Disguised as Jobs: Steve Jobs said, "Stay hungry, stay foolish." ( www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/answer-sheet/post/steve-jobs-told-students-stay-hungr...
Helloooo Newman: Jobs Disguised as Jobs
Helloooo Newman: Jobs Disguised as Jobs: Steve Jobs said, "Stay hungry, stay foolish." ( www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/answer-sheet/post/steve-jobs-told-students-stay-hungr...
Jobs Disguised as Jobs
Steve Jobs said, "Stay hungry, stay foolish." (www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/answer-sheet/post/steve-jobs-told-students-stay-hungry-stay-foolish/2011/10/05/gIQA1qVjOL_blog.html)
I certainly try to stay hungry, but there are so many chicken wings out there that know my name. They call out to me with their greasy, stentorian voices. To ignore them would be animal cruelty, rather like depriving the Kardashian's of the attention they so crave to hang on the liminal of relevance.
Steve got it half wrong. But, he also got it half right.
Staying foolish…now there's a task I'm built for. Like the cheetah, built for short bursts of speed, or the Dingo – natural born baby eater.
Or the La-z-boy reclining chair, built for comfort and watching t.v.
Perhaps the more apt comparison is the Dung Beetle, built to lift 1,141 times its weight – in dung. That's ten outhouses from our cottage stacked one on top of the other. Which is scarier – me carrying that much dung or me going downtown in my dungarees?
I will play the fool, Mr. Jobs. This is why, instead of asking people for a job, I am going to create my own job. Only they won't be "Job" jobs. They will be jobs disguised as "Jobs". No, not Steve Jobs. Okay, stop confusing me.
I've created a few jobs for myself that sound incredibly impressive in pixels, and require no skill whatsoever.
Disguised Job #1: Mud Spatter Expert
You would be dazzled by the amount of useful information I can glean from your suspiciously average looking mud spatter on your everyday car.
Immediately upon beginning my mud reading, I can tell the make and model of the car. True, the car is in front of me anyway, but I can tell this info way faster than you, the spatter dilettante.
Through careful re-enacting of the car's movements, using strings and Jedi magic, I can tell how fast it was going, how deep the puddle was, and the name of the blonde sitting beside you.
A thorough analysis, required in more serious cases, has often brought forth startling results, such as how many Timbits were consumed within 100 km of the puddle that day, and I even found the Virgin Mary image on the rear-fender mud spatter of a hearse cum house painting truck.
I am in hush-hush talks to star in an HBO production called Paulster, about a serial killer who works as a mud spatter expert for the local mechanic. My targets are people who fix their own cars, via Youtube, NOT the mechanic. After I cut up my victims, I send their family, as per the mechanic's practice, a bill for labour and body parts. The labour is always what gets them.
I am surrounded by co-workers who, whenever they pass me, exclaim, "the Paulster", in a Rob Schneider SNL-type voice.
The producers preferred that the show be called Dickster, because it fit more closely my personality. I didn't laugh.
Disguised Job #2: Dock Spider-Man
Most super heroes have it all wrong. They are too pretty, work too hard, don't drink enough alcohol, wear silly colourful costumes while trying to be introspective and take themselves far too seriously. Not Dock Spider-Man.
The best thing about being Dock Spider-Man is the dock part. Because that's where you'll find me all summer. My eight legs splayed over the sides of a chaise lounge, munching on lightly sea-salted dragon fly chips and rubbing SPF 50 on my fangs.
If you're drowning, I'm there. I don't actually save you, though. You won't learn anything that way. I throw you a damn lifejacket. Do it yourself. Don't be stupid next time. It's a teaching moment. Instead of super heroes saving everyone's ass, they should employ the power of "don't be stupid next time."
Disguised Job #3: Righter
Society is full of writers. Everyone and their dog thinks they can write. Blogs abound, peddling presumably profound prose.
What society really needs is more Righters. Few things feel better than finding yourself in an argument and being right. After hurling invective and skillfully using ad hominem attacks, the last thing you want is to end up on the wrong side of an argument. That's where I come in.
I have a wealth of experience being right about things. You are a husband, arguing with your wife. She is slowly wearing you down with her one-two punch of emotional incoherence and irrational exuberance. Your titanium man-shell begins to crack. You consider, for a fleeting moment, that you might be wrong. I'll be there to back you up.
"You are right! Quinoa and kale salad does not belong with chicken wings and beer. You have every right to be mad. Let it out. Take the truck for a spin through the mud. Go get some dock time."
"My job here is done."
I certainly try to stay hungry, but there are so many chicken wings out there that know my name. They call out to me with their greasy, stentorian voices. To ignore them would be animal cruelty, rather like depriving the Kardashian's of the attention they so crave to hang on the liminal of relevance.
Steve got it half wrong. But, he also got it half right.
Staying foolish…now there's a task I'm built for. Like the cheetah, built for short bursts of speed, or the Dingo – natural born baby eater.
Or the La-z-boy reclining chair, built for comfort and watching t.v.
Perhaps the more apt comparison is the Dung Beetle, built to lift 1,141 times its weight – in dung. That's ten outhouses from our cottage stacked one on top of the other. Which is scarier – me carrying that much dung or me going downtown in my dungarees?
I will play the fool, Mr. Jobs. This is why, instead of asking people for a job, I am going to create my own job. Only they won't be "Job" jobs. They will be jobs disguised as "Jobs". No, not Steve Jobs. Okay, stop confusing me.
I've created a few jobs for myself that sound incredibly impressive in pixels, and require no skill whatsoever.
Disguised Job #1: Mud Spatter Expert
You would be dazzled by the amount of useful information I can glean from your suspiciously average looking mud spatter on your everyday car.
Immediately upon beginning my mud reading, I can tell the make and model of the car. True, the car is in front of me anyway, but I can tell this info way faster than you, the spatter dilettante.
Through careful re-enacting of the car's movements, using strings and Jedi magic, I can tell how fast it was going, how deep the puddle was, and the name of the blonde sitting beside you.
A thorough analysis, required in more serious cases, has often brought forth startling results, such as how many Timbits were consumed within 100 km of the puddle that day, and I even found the Virgin Mary image on the rear-fender mud spatter of a hearse cum house painting truck.
I am in hush-hush talks to star in an HBO production called Paulster, about a serial killer who works as a mud spatter expert for the local mechanic. My targets are people who fix their own cars, via Youtube, NOT the mechanic. After I cut up my victims, I send their family, as per the mechanic's practice, a bill for labour and body parts. The labour is always what gets them.
I am surrounded by co-workers who, whenever they pass me, exclaim, "the Paulster", in a Rob Schneider SNL-type voice.
The producers preferred that the show be called Dickster, because it fit more closely my personality. I didn't laugh.
Disguised Job #2: Dock Spider-Man
Most super heroes have it all wrong. They are too pretty, work too hard, don't drink enough alcohol, wear silly colourful costumes while trying to be introspective and take themselves far too seriously. Not Dock Spider-Man.
The best thing about being Dock Spider-Man is the dock part. Because that's where you'll find me all summer. My eight legs splayed over the sides of a chaise lounge, munching on lightly sea-salted dragon fly chips and rubbing SPF 50 on my fangs.
If you're drowning, I'm there. I don't actually save you, though. You won't learn anything that way. I throw you a damn lifejacket. Do it yourself. Don't be stupid next time. It's a teaching moment. Instead of super heroes saving everyone's ass, they should employ the power of "don't be stupid next time."
Disguised Job #3: Righter
Society is full of writers. Everyone and their dog thinks they can write. Blogs abound, peddling presumably profound prose.
What society really needs is more Righters. Few things feel better than finding yourself in an argument and being right. After hurling invective and skillfully using ad hominem attacks, the last thing you want is to end up on the wrong side of an argument. That's where I come in.
I have a wealth of experience being right about things. You are a husband, arguing with your wife. She is slowly wearing you down with her one-two punch of emotional incoherence and irrational exuberance. Your titanium man-shell begins to crack. You consider, for a fleeting moment, that you might be wrong. I'll be there to back you up.
"You are right! Quinoa and kale salad does not belong with chicken wings and beer. You have every right to be mad. Let it out. Take the truck for a spin through the mud. Go get some dock time."
"My job here is done."
Monday, 11 May 2015
Helloooo Newman: This is my brain on peanut butter
Helloooo Newman: This is my brain on peanut butter: Peanut butter is the perfect food. The natural kind of peanut butter, naturally. It's full of so many good things, but my favourite part...
This is my brain on peanut butter
Peanut butter is the perfect food. The natural kind of peanut butter, naturally. It's full of so many good things, but my favourite part is the peanut butter part. Way better than the peanut margarine I use to eat. It had this sickly puce colour, so idiots wouldn't confuse it with peanut butter, and tasted like it was made from a piece of that plastic island floating in the ocean.
Functional MRI experiments show that peanut butter has astounding effects on the brain. People who consume huge quantities of peanut butter while in the MRI machine, a task in itself that requires an I.Q. of 140 or better to perform and a very large bib, develop an urge to dip themselves in chocolate and press themselves into a cup-shaped mould. Other parts of the brain that lit up were the "I need jam with this because the peanut butter is stuck to the roof of my mouth" area and the area that controls inquisitiveness, with the brain asking, "has anyone tried this stuff with banana?" These brain parts were named the PB&J region.
At one point in the experiments, a glob of peanut butter (the crunchy kind) made its way into the MRI mechanism. Until it was found, patient after patient was diagnosed with a peanut-shaped tumour on their occipital lobe.
When some errant mice, sniffing the peanut butter, made their way into the MRI machine for a snack, the tumours changed to a smushed mouse shape. One of the clever doctors got suspicious, checked the machine, and found what they termed a "statistically significant gross-out mess."
The lawsuits continue.
Since peanut butter is the perfect food, why can't everything be made of peanut butter? I wish my finger nails were made of peanut butter. I would sell short on the stock market more often. Peanut butter boogers would be very convenient. If I was an Orthodontist I would make the retainers out of peanut butter. They naturally stick to the roof of the mouth and kids would love seeing me. I wonder if I'm the only one who uses peanut butter as a face cream. Well, I did until I discovered I couldn't have a face-to-face with anyone having a peanut allergy, including my shrink, priest, dermatologist and local hooker.
If you're into DIY projects, consider using peanut butter instead of drywall compound. Drywalling and sanding is a dirty and frustrating activity, right up there with colorectal surgery and discussing foreign policy with John McCain. Imagine the pleasure of sanding dried peanut butter. Stick your tongue out and enjoy.
Don't you think John McCain is part chipmunk, and those cheeks of his are loaded up with peanuts? Check it out (http://cheezburger.com/1136657152). He's two or three chews away from having his own peanut butter churning machine in his mouth.
I seriously think if the Catholic church put peanut butter on their hosts they'd have way more churchgoers. They would also need jam on there, or the Lord's prayer would come out as, "our thather, who tharts in theventh."
Many things will be possible in the future that seem outlandish right now: time travel, teleportation, a rational Republican.
But no one will ever be able to put the jam on bread first, and then spread the peanut butter in any coherent way. Right down to the quantum level, peanut butter will not spread over jam. It would be like Meryl Streep and Carrot Top reading excerpts from An Actor Prepares together on "Inside the Actor's Studio" – NEVAH, EVAH!
My favourite meal of all time, to this day, is the PB&J sandwiches we had on our canoe trips at camp. This was way back in the fur trading days, when I was a member of the Métis. Hauling birch bark canoes, heaving packs full of reeking beaver pelts, a little tyke like me built up an appetite.
Of course, I was so starving I would have eaten the slow-roasted body of another camper. Cannibalism was a real possibility back then, save for peanut butter.
Humanity can be so cruel. Imagine the gall of personifying a peanut, as Planters did with Mr. Peanut, and convincing kids that some peanuts are walking around with arms, legs, a top hat and a bi-focal. A very well-dressed peanut, meaning he's a member of the upper echelons. But then every time a kid enjoys a PB&J sandwich he/she is left with the guilt that thousands of peanuts were lined up, stripped down and liquefied in a grinder so mom can make an easy lunch and watch The Price is Right. Once we've tortured their little minds into accepting that peanut "people" can be massacred for a good snack, a few years later we teach them the evils of the Holocaust. #ConfuZING!!!
I discovered some interesting facts about peanut butter. According to my research the first person to think of sticking a banana into some peanut butter was Linda Lovelace. After a short term of experimentation she decided another good place to stick the peanut butter-covered banana would be into her mouth. Peanut butter and banana have since been getting along famously as a snack. A pioneering woman, that Linda.
Startling fact: peanuts are not nuts. They are legumes. Does anyone really need to know this distinction? Pineapples, believe it or not, are not apples. Nor do they come from a pine tree. And head cheese is not made from someones head.
By the way, if peanuts aren't nuts, why are they always included in those incessant warnings about nut allergies? Allergic kids can't even be around someone wearing a peanut costume. You never hear about Billy having a legume allergy.
The average American eats 2500 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before they graduate from high school. The 2500 figure doesn't surprise me, although I thought it would have been closer to 100,000. What shocked me was that the average American graduates from high school.
While peanut butter is an awesome snack, it's not particularly creative as a food.
So, peanut butter being a very "unsophisticated" dish, it was obviously invented by a man. And that man was none other than Adam, from the garden. How did Adam come to invent peanut butter? Well, he needed the protein to start the human race. Adam provided the peanut butter and jam, while Eve provided the soft bread. It all spread so easily. So did Eve.
Is this a cosmic coincidence? My current favourite peanut butter is called Adam's All Natural Peanut Butter (www.adamspeanutbutter.ca/). It just has a flavour no other peanut butter manages to achieve. Why is that? There's no sugar, salt, veggie oil, bacon, beer, bugles or any other of my favourite ingredients. I guess it could be the cocaine they add. But I kicked that habit years ago. One of life's pleasant mysteries.
Peanut butter also has many practical uses. One of the better uses is for controlling the rodent population. Cheese is a big one too. I prefer peanut butter in all my mouse traps. I love the idea that I can enjoy a nice peanut butter snack and a few feet away my beloved peanut butter is helping me separate a mouse's head from its torso.
I found peanut butter was really handy when you needed a good excuse in school. In Grade Twelve English, where I had to read Shakespeare in front of the class, I butchered it so badly I told my teacher I had just finished a peanut butter sandwich and my mom forgot the jam. I hadn't a clue what I was reading and remember wishing the teacher would re-enact the Romeo poisoning scene on himself.
When my mom found her 200-page Vogue in my bathroom reduced to a few turnable pages from all the sticking together, peanut butter was a very handy excuse. Wrong colour, but what did she know?
If I had kids over again, I'd name them Peanut Butter, Jam and Banana. The boy, for obvious reasons, would get the Banana name.
Peanut butter is so marvelous, I would devote an entire t.v. channel to its celebration. It would be called PBS - The Peanut Butter Station.
I've always wanted to visit a peanut butter farm.
When I retire I'm moving to the country to operate my own peanut butter farm.
Functional MRI experiments show that peanut butter has astounding effects on the brain. People who consume huge quantities of peanut butter while in the MRI machine, a task in itself that requires an I.Q. of 140 or better to perform and a very large bib, develop an urge to dip themselves in chocolate and press themselves into a cup-shaped mould. Other parts of the brain that lit up were the "I need jam with this because the peanut butter is stuck to the roof of my mouth" area and the area that controls inquisitiveness, with the brain asking, "has anyone tried this stuff with banana?" These brain parts were named the PB&J region.
At one point in the experiments, a glob of peanut butter (the crunchy kind) made its way into the MRI mechanism. Until it was found, patient after patient was diagnosed with a peanut-shaped tumour on their occipital lobe.
When some errant mice, sniffing the peanut butter, made their way into the MRI machine for a snack, the tumours changed to a smushed mouse shape. One of the clever doctors got suspicious, checked the machine, and found what they termed a "statistically significant gross-out mess."
The lawsuits continue.
Since peanut butter is the perfect food, why can't everything be made of peanut butter? I wish my finger nails were made of peanut butter. I would sell short on the stock market more often. Peanut butter boogers would be very convenient. If I was an Orthodontist I would make the retainers out of peanut butter. They naturally stick to the roof of the mouth and kids would love seeing me. I wonder if I'm the only one who uses peanut butter as a face cream. Well, I did until I discovered I couldn't have a face-to-face with anyone having a peanut allergy, including my shrink, priest, dermatologist and local hooker.
If you're into DIY projects, consider using peanut butter instead of drywall compound. Drywalling and sanding is a dirty and frustrating activity, right up there with colorectal surgery and discussing foreign policy with John McCain. Imagine the pleasure of sanding dried peanut butter. Stick your tongue out and enjoy.
Don't you think John McCain is part chipmunk, and those cheeks of his are loaded up with peanuts? Check it out (http://cheezburger.com/1136657152). He's two or three chews away from having his own peanut butter churning machine in his mouth.
I seriously think if the Catholic church put peanut butter on their hosts they'd have way more churchgoers. They would also need jam on there, or the Lord's prayer would come out as, "our thather, who tharts in theventh."
Many things will be possible in the future that seem outlandish right now: time travel, teleportation, a rational Republican.
But no one will ever be able to put the jam on bread first, and then spread the peanut butter in any coherent way. Right down to the quantum level, peanut butter will not spread over jam. It would be like Meryl Streep and Carrot Top reading excerpts from An Actor Prepares together on "Inside the Actor's Studio" – NEVAH, EVAH!
My favourite meal of all time, to this day, is the PB&J sandwiches we had on our canoe trips at camp. This was way back in the fur trading days, when I was a member of the Métis. Hauling birch bark canoes, heaving packs full of reeking beaver pelts, a little tyke like me built up an appetite.
Of course, I was so starving I would have eaten the slow-roasted body of another camper. Cannibalism was a real possibility back then, save for peanut butter.
Humanity can be so cruel. Imagine the gall of personifying a peanut, as Planters did with Mr. Peanut, and convincing kids that some peanuts are walking around with arms, legs, a top hat and a bi-focal. A very well-dressed peanut, meaning he's a member of the upper echelons. But then every time a kid enjoys a PB&J sandwich he/she is left with the guilt that thousands of peanuts were lined up, stripped down and liquefied in a grinder so mom can make an easy lunch and watch The Price is Right. Once we've tortured their little minds into accepting that peanut "people" can be massacred for a good snack, a few years later we teach them the evils of the Holocaust. #ConfuZING!!!
I discovered some interesting facts about peanut butter. According to my research the first person to think of sticking a banana into some peanut butter was Linda Lovelace. After a short term of experimentation she decided another good place to stick the peanut butter-covered banana would be into her mouth. Peanut butter and banana have since been getting along famously as a snack. A pioneering woman, that Linda.
Startling fact: peanuts are not nuts. They are legumes. Does anyone really need to know this distinction? Pineapples, believe it or not, are not apples. Nor do they come from a pine tree. And head cheese is not made from someones head.
By the way, if peanuts aren't nuts, why are they always included in those incessant warnings about nut allergies? Allergic kids can't even be around someone wearing a peanut costume. You never hear about Billy having a legume allergy.
The average American eats 2500 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before they graduate from high school. The 2500 figure doesn't surprise me, although I thought it would have been closer to 100,000. What shocked me was that the average American graduates from high school.
While peanut butter is an awesome snack, it's not particularly creative as a food.
Neanderthal husband: Honey, found these in the ground. Me and the boys decided to call 'em peanuts.
Neanderthal wife: Oh dumb dumb, those look like legumes, not nuts.
Neanderthal husband: Okay, but peaumes doesn't sound very appetizing. What should we do with 'em?
Neanderthal wife: Well, I think I'll slow roast them and then make a nice velvety peanut reduction. Hmm, what spices to add?
Neanderthal husband: Na, I thought we'd just crush 'em. Call it butter. That's what this large boulder's for.
So, peanut butter being a very "unsophisticated" dish, it was obviously invented by a man. And that man was none other than Adam, from the garden. How did Adam come to invent peanut butter? Well, he needed the protein to start the human race. Adam provided the peanut butter and jam, while Eve provided the soft bread. It all spread so easily. So did Eve.
Is this a cosmic coincidence? My current favourite peanut butter is called Adam's All Natural Peanut Butter (www.adamspeanutbutter.ca/). It just has a flavour no other peanut butter manages to achieve. Why is that? There's no sugar, salt, veggie oil, bacon, beer, bugles or any other of my favourite ingredients. I guess it could be the cocaine they add. But I kicked that habit years ago. One of life's pleasant mysteries.
Peanut butter also has many practical uses. One of the better uses is for controlling the rodent population. Cheese is a big one too. I prefer peanut butter in all my mouse traps. I love the idea that I can enjoy a nice peanut butter snack and a few feet away my beloved peanut butter is helping me separate a mouse's head from its torso.
I found peanut butter was really handy when you needed a good excuse in school. In Grade Twelve English, where I had to read Shakespeare in front of the class, I butchered it so badly I told my teacher I had just finished a peanut butter sandwich and my mom forgot the jam. I hadn't a clue what I was reading and remember wishing the teacher would re-enact the Romeo poisoning scene on himself.
When my mom found her 200-page Vogue in my bathroom reduced to a few turnable pages from all the sticking together, peanut butter was a very handy excuse. Wrong colour, but what did she know?
If I had kids over again, I'd name them Peanut Butter, Jam and Banana. The boy, for obvious reasons, would get the Banana name.
Peanut butter is so marvelous, I would devote an entire t.v. channel to its celebration. It would be called PBS - The Peanut Butter Station.
I've always wanted to visit a peanut butter farm.
When I retire I'm moving to the country to operate my own peanut butter farm.
Friday, 1 May 2015
Helloooo Newman: Cell Face
Helloooo Newman: Cell Face: I was jaunting along Bloor Street when these two young girls stopped me. I turned to look at them. I sensed they wanted to ask me someth...
Cell Face
I was jaunting along Bloor Street when these two young girls stopped me.
I turned to look at them.
I sensed they wanted to ask me something, perhaps directions to a good shoe store, but I could hear no voices. Just a series of soft whoop sounds.
To my horror, I realized I was talking to a pair of cell phones. Their faces had been surgically removed and replaced with an iPhone on the shorter, prettier girl and a Samsung Galaxy on the lanky, plain looking girl.
Suddenly a new meme occurred to me. Cell Face.
It took me a moment to gauge what was happening. They weren't speaking to me. They were texting me.
I had to move closer to read the text, but this was disturbing. The puffy red scars surrounding the phones were not entirely healed. The iPhone girl even had a few drops of blood emerging from the stitches. That can't be good for the phone, I thought. I wonder if they've tried a topical vitamin E on the scars.
They were not happy. I could tell from the emoticons on their faces…phones, I mean. I'll admit it took a bit of getting use to.
Soon I could see the benefits of cell face. You never wrinkle. No actually feeling those tough negative emotions that handicap so many of us. The emoticons take care of that. All those self help books to make yourself a better person? Gone. Just update your iOS.
And all this for the small price of plugging your face into an outlet for a few hours.
I feel so old, having a plain old regular face to face the world.
I turned to look at them.
I sensed they wanted to ask me something, perhaps directions to a good shoe store, but I could hear no voices. Just a series of soft whoop sounds.
To my horror, I realized I was talking to a pair of cell phones. Their faces had been surgically removed and replaced with an iPhone on the shorter, prettier girl and a Samsung Galaxy on the lanky, plain looking girl.
Suddenly a new meme occurred to me. Cell Face.
It took me a moment to gauge what was happening. They weren't speaking to me. They were texting me.
I had to move closer to read the text, but this was disturbing. The puffy red scars surrounding the phones were not entirely healed. The iPhone girl even had a few drops of blood emerging from the stitches. That can't be good for the phone, I thought. I wonder if they've tried a topical vitamin E on the scars.
They were not happy. I could tell from the emoticons on their faces…phones, I mean. I'll admit it took a bit of getting use to.
Soon I could see the benefits of cell face. You never wrinkle. No actually feeling those tough negative emotions that handicap so many of us. The emoticons take care of that. All those self help books to make yourself a better person? Gone. Just update your iOS.
And all this for the small price of plugging your face into an outlet for a few hours.
I feel so old, having a plain old regular face to face the world.
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: Well, now I feel really connected to the universe....
Helloooo Newman: Well, now I feel really connected to the universe....: I was on LinkedIn the other day and I got a message from God. He wants to connect with me. Oh my God…I mean, "Him", I said to my...
Well, now I feel really connected to the universe.
I was on LinkedIn the other day and I got a message from God. He wants to connect with me.
Oh my God…I mean, "Him", I said to myself. It's the cosmic CEO. Strange picture on His profile, though. Jerry Lewis as the Nutty Professor. Irony? Symbolism? I just can't pin this guy down.
A sudden rush of dread flooded my body. Why me? He'll see how lame my career has been. I've never recovered from the time He found out that I lived at home until I was 29.
Then it occurred to me. Wait a minute. Look at His resume. Talk about gaps in the job history.
Scientists figure the universe is about 12 billion years old. That means God's single biggest project (The Big Bang) took place a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. His next biggest work achievement, Mankind, only really got going about 7 million years ago.
By the way, God doesn't refer to the birth of the universe as The Big Bang. He calls it the "Mishap". He was practicing His water-into-wine trick, used the wrong chemicals and the whole thing blew up in His face. He was too embarrassed to say anything. He only invented Man to make it look intentional.
So what in the universe was He doing all that time between the Bang and Man? As far as I can tell, He doesn't fill any of this massive interim with interesting hobbies or charity work.
Then it occurred to me. He must know I'm looking for work. Maybe He wants to hire me.
That scared me even more. Let's face it, His past employees don't have the most impressive records.
Would you have taken the position of "Jesus"? Obviously when Jesus responded to the job ad, he was lied to.
Jesus: Excuse me, God? When I applied for this job you said I would be a carpenter, working with wood, nails and a hammer.
God: Yes, that sounds right.
Jesus: Well, you never mentioned I'd be nailed to a wooden cross with my own hammer. Maybe that's why I was the only one to apply.
God. Listen, buddy. You're lucky to have a job. Most people these days spend their life fighting for food or being raped, living and dying in their own feces. Now if you have a problem, take it up with HR. I'm trying to run a very large company here. And I'm trying to take it public. Do you know how many universes I have to compete with? Ya, I know I'm ranting. And if you think this will affect my bonus, think again.
Jesus: Okay, but look at it from my point of view. The reason I applied for the position of "Jesus" is that my name happens to be Jesus. It's the perfect fit, I thought. But then you go and give the arc job to Noah. Did you forget I'm the carpenter?
God: Okay, why don't you go back to earth and we'll try it again?
Jesus: The second coming? Not thanks. My hands and feet are still healing. Can we talk about the health benefits you don't offer?
Oh my God…I mean, "Him", I said to myself. It's the cosmic CEO. Strange picture on His profile, though. Jerry Lewis as the Nutty Professor. Irony? Symbolism? I just can't pin this guy down.
A sudden rush of dread flooded my body. Why me? He'll see how lame my career has been. I've never recovered from the time He found out that I lived at home until I was 29.
Then it occurred to me. Wait a minute. Look at His resume. Talk about gaps in the job history.
Scientists figure the universe is about 12 billion years old. That means God's single biggest project (The Big Bang) took place a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. His next biggest work achievement, Mankind, only really got going about 7 million years ago.
By the way, God doesn't refer to the birth of the universe as The Big Bang. He calls it the "Mishap". He was practicing His water-into-wine trick, used the wrong chemicals and the whole thing blew up in His face. He was too embarrassed to say anything. He only invented Man to make it look intentional.
So what in the universe was He doing all that time between the Bang and Man? As far as I can tell, He doesn't fill any of this massive interim with interesting hobbies or charity work.
Then it occurred to me. He must know I'm looking for work. Maybe He wants to hire me.
That scared me even more. Let's face it, His past employees don't have the most impressive records.
Would you have taken the position of "Jesus"? Obviously when Jesus responded to the job ad, he was lied to.
Jesus: Excuse me, God? When I applied for this job you said I would be a carpenter, working with wood, nails and a hammer.
God: Yes, that sounds right.
Jesus: Well, you never mentioned I'd be nailed to a wooden cross with my own hammer. Maybe that's why I was the only one to apply.
God. Listen, buddy. You're lucky to have a job. Most people these days spend their life fighting for food or being raped, living and dying in their own feces. Now if you have a problem, take it up with HR. I'm trying to run a very large company here. And I'm trying to take it public. Do you know how many universes I have to compete with? Ya, I know I'm ranting. And if you think this will affect my bonus, think again.
Jesus: Okay, but look at it from my point of view. The reason I applied for the position of "Jesus" is that my name happens to be Jesus. It's the perfect fit, I thought. But then you go and give the arc job to Noah. Did you forget I'm the carpenter?
God: Okay, why don't you go back to earth and we'll try it again?
Jesus: The second coming? Not thanks. My hands and feet are still healing. Can we talk about the health benefits you don't offer?
Friday, 24 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: High Pressure Jobs I Don't Want
Helloooo Newman: High Pressure Jobs I Don't Want: I remember it like it was yesterday, but I'm talking about the early 80s. I was discussing good career choices with a friend. I had my...
High Pressure Jobs I Don't Want
I remember it like it was yesterday, but I'm talking about the early 80s.
I was discussing good career choices with a friend. I had my whole future ahead of me at the time and wanted to make the right decision.
Upon reflection, I'm lucky that I had my future ahead of me. I met someone who had their future behind them and it wasn't pretty.
He was always tense. Past tense.
He would always say, "If my past is in front of me, stop telling me to grow up."
Imagine having your past ahead of you. Running into old flings and bosses. Your whole life is a rerun. Groundhog Day!
Even your fortune cookie reminds you of your past. "You treated your last three girlfriends like trash. Way to go, jackass."
This guy was confused, uncertain and finally realized he was in the wrong universe.
"Where do I belong?", he asked me.
Go that way about 500 quintillion, zillion, trillion, billion, million miles and once you get to that point, keep going.
Einstein and Eastern mystics have both said that the past, present and future are illusions, and they all exist together at once. If this is true we'll definitely need a new subway line in Toronto?
If everything happens at once, then I'm confused. Here are some problems, as I see it, with that theory:
why can't I retire now?
then my soufflé is definitely over cooked
I'm returning my Apple Watch
I'm done with that 12-step program
do I still get peanuts on my flight?
why do we have pause buttons?
do I still need the Sports Illustrated calendar?
I feel full
NOTE: For a mind-bending take on future and past, read this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/06/27/science/27side.html?_r=0
Anyway, my friend (not the one looking for a new universe) said injection moulding was going to be really big.
I had to admit, I hadn't given injection moulding the proper consideration.
The closest I ever got to injection moulding was using my waffle maker. I rather enjoyed putting all that goop in the mould, pressing down and burning the shit out of it. I would always pretend I was making something super important, like a crucial part for the space shuttle, but this part was unique because you could cover it in maple syrup and eat it.
I guess the biggest obstacle for me in work situations is I hate stress. Don't like working under pressure. Some might call me lackadaisical. I call it lack of talent.
This rules out a ton of jobs I could perform.
I certainly couldn't do the traditionally stressful jobs: air traffic controller, neurosurgeon, husband, father. But let's considers some of the less well known high pressure jobs. Jobs I would really hate to have.
Piano String: A job full of tension, to say the least. Always pulled in both directions. Who needs it? This is a job where you spend hours on end doing nothing – waiting, trying to stay in tune with things – and for what? To be hit with a hammer. It's like working while you're on the medieval rack. "I need to unwind. I use to b. Now I b flat."
Piano string: "If you play that song one more time, pal, I'm gonna strangle you."
Water: It's good for you, but boy I'd hate to be water for a living. While you may live in a nice house, you are constantly under a lot of pressure.
Husband: "Hey honey, we have no water pressure."
Water: "Give me a break. I'm on vacation. Drink beer, will ya."
Just like the piano string, you sit around all day under all that stress. When the pressure lessens, say a pipe bursts and you're all over the floor, your career goes down the drain. Or worse, someone drinks you and there goes your career in the toilet. No thanks.
Or you're sitting in a comfortable tray, warm and relaxed, finally out of that cramped cubicle called a pipe. Can water be claustrophobic? Then you're sent to the Arctic on special assignment.
I think I would only take the water job if I worked for Jesus. Then as a promotion He could turn me into wine. Now there's a prestigious job.
Blood: Crucial for life, but again, the pressure is too much for me. If I'm in the body of the average North American person, I'm under tons of pressure and squeezed by tons of fat. I can only hope the person cuts themselves with the kitchen knife so I get a little relief. Please, punch me so I can bleed through the nose.
Weather: For a while I thought it might nice to be weather for a living. People are always talking about you. And you get to choose between two jobs – high pressure and low pressure. I would take the low pressure job, obviously. But then I'm raining or snowing all the time. I'm depressed. People hate me. I'm always spoiling their weekends. I might as well work as a flu bug who shows up for the weekend. At least then I get to sleep all day.
Tires: This is a job where I dare not tread. Unless I was a flat tire. You have CAA? Oh no. I'm just spinning my wheels in this job.
Diamond: This is one high pressure job I could get into. Women love you. You're net worth is very high. Sure, you have to get through the first 20 million years of sitting in the earth being crushed by billions of tons of rock. I'm just not sure I could cut it in this position.
I was discussing good career choices with a friend. I had my whole future ahead of me at the time and wanted to make the right decision.
Upon reflection, I'm lucky that I had my future ahead of me. I met someone who had their future behind them and it wasn't pretty.
He was always tense. Past tense.
He would always say, "If my past is in front of me, stop telling me to grow up."
Imagine having your past ahead of you. Running into old flings and bosses. Your whole life is a rerun. Groundhog Day!
Even your fortune cookie reminds you of your past. "You treated your last three girlfriends like trash. Way to go, jackass."
This guy was confused, uncertain and finally realized he was in the wrong universe.
"Where do I belong?", he asked me.
Go that way about 500 quintillion, zillion, trillion, billion, million miles and once you get to that point, keep going.
Einstein and Eastern mystics have both said that the past, present and future are illusions, and they all exist together at once. If this is true we'll definitely need a new subway line in Toronto?
If everything happens at once, then I'm confused. Here are some problems, as I see it, with that theory:
why can't I retire now?
then my soufflé is definitely over cooked
I'm returning my Apple Watch
I'm done with that 12-step program
do I still get peanuts on my flight?
why do we have pause buttons?
do I still need the Sports Illustrated calendar?
I feel full
NOTE: For a mind-bending take on future and past, read this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/06/27/science/27side.html?_r=0
Anyway, my friend (not the one looking for a new universe) said injection moulding was going to be really big.
I had to admit, I hadn't given injection moulding the proper consideration.
The closest I ever got to injection moulding was using my waffle maker. I rather enjoyed putting all that goop in the mould, pressing down and burning the shit out of it. I would always pretend I was making something super important, like a crucial part for the space shuttle, but this part was unique because you could cover it in maple syrup and eat it.
I guess the biggest obstacle for me in work situations is I hate stress. Don't like working under pressure. Some might call me lackadaisical. I call it lack of talent.
This rules out a ton of jobs I could perform.
I certainly couldn't do the traditionally stressful jobs: air traffic controller, neurosurgeon, husband, father. But let's considers some of the less well known high pressure jobs. Jobs I would really hate to have.
Piano String: A job full of tension, to say the least. Always pulled in both directions. Who needs it? This is a job where you spend hours on end doing nothing – waiting, trying to stay in tune with things – and for what? To be hit with a hammer. It's like working while you're on the medieval rack. "I need to unwind. I use to b. Now I b flat."
Piano string: "If you play that song one more time, pal, I'm gonna strangle you."
Water: It's good for you, but boy I'd hate to be water for a living. While you may live in a nice house, you are constantly under a lot of pressure.
Husband: "Hey honey, we have no water pressure."
Water: "Give me a break. I'm on vacation. Drink beer, will ya."
Just like the piano string, you sit around all day under all that stress. When the pressure lessens, say a pipe bursts and you're all over the floor, your career goes down the drain. Or worse, someone drinks you and there goes your career in the toilet. No thanks.
Or you're sitting in a comfortable tray, warm and relaxed, finally out of that cramped cubicle called a pipe. Can water be claustrophobic? Then you're sent to the Arctic on special assignment.
I think I would only take the water job if I worked for Jesus. Then as a promotion He could turn me into wine. Now there's a prestigious job.
Blood: Crucial for life, but again, the pressure is too much for me. If I'm in the body of the average North American person, I'm under tons of pressure and squeezed by tons of fat. I can only hope the person cuts themselves with the kitchen knife so I get a little relief. Please, punch me so I can bleed through the nose.
Weather: For a while I thought it might nice to be weather for a living. People are always talking about you. And you get to choose between two jobs – high pressure and low pressure. I would take the low pressure job, obviously. But then I'm raining or snowing all the time. I'm depressed. People hate me. I'm always spoiling their weekends. I might as well work as a flu bug who shows up for the weekend. At least then I get to sleep all day.
Tires: This is a job where I dare not tread. Unless I was a flat tire. You have CAA? Oh no. I'm just spinning my wheels in this job.
Diamond: This is one high pressure job I could get into. Women love you. You're net worth is very high. Sure, you have to get through the first 20 million years of sitting in the earth being crushed by billions of tons of rock. I'm just not sure I could cut it in this position.
Friday, 17 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Ultimate Password
Helloooo Newman: The Ultimate Password: One day I died and went to Heaven. I was waiting patiently by the gates. As with everything in this world, there was a huge lineup. Thankf...
The Ultimate Password
One day I died and went to Heaven.
I was waiting patiently by the gates. As with everything in this world, there was a huge lineup. Thankfully there was plenty of comfortable seating and, of course, a Starbucks.
The Starbucks was very cool. All the latte's were topped with whipped cream that bespoke soft, bouncy clouds. Clever idea.
I finally made it to the counter.
Administrator: Password, please.
Me: Sorry?
Administrator: I am afraid "Sorry" does not register.
Me: No, I mean what password? I don't have a password.
Administrator: Everybody has a password. Did you not have an iPhone?
Me: Ah, yes, I did. "Boogersoup".
Administrator: Sorry?
Me: No, not "Sorry". "Boogersoup". That's my iPhone password.
Administrator: No, I need your Heaven password. And by the way, all Heaven passwords need to contain Pi to the first billion digits, the symbol of the crucifix, some water, some wine, an apple and a few nice words about God.
Me: I don't have a Heaven password. What the Hell is a Heaven password?
Administrator: You don't need a password for Hell, sir. You NEED a password to enter Heaven. Can I please have it?
Me: I don't remember picking a password to get into Heaven. I've had so many passwords and I forget them all the time. Can I pick a new password?
Administrator: You have to be alive to do that, sir. You are dead, and we can't just send you back again, now can we?
Me: No. I guess there's only one guy who gets to go back that way.
Administrator: That is right, sir. And looking at your questionable life, you are not him, that is for sure.
Me: Can I answer some security questions? I had to do that once for my Ashley Madison account.
Administrator: Well, it is unusual, but I guess so. Just a minute.
God: What seems to be the problem?
Administrator: This man lost his password and needs to answer his security questions to enter the Kingdom.
God: I see. Okay, sir. What was your favourite activity in life besides masturbating to the Victoria's Secret catalogue?
Me: Hmmm, nothing comes immediately to mind. Bowling? But that's a distant second.
God: Five pin or ten?
Me: Ahhhhmmm…five?
God: Ohhhhhh, no. That's wrong. Who is the most annoying, pathetic, lame-ass human being I have created in the last thousand centuries? This person's existence is the sole cause of the rise of atheism in the modern world.
Me: Ha, easy. Justin Bieber.
God: Mark that down as one right. Okay, final question. What does it all mean?
Me: Whoop-de-doo!
God: Ha. Nice try. Good movie, though.
Me: 42?
God: Are you taking this seriously?
Me: Yes. I have no frigging idea what it all means.
God: Me neither. Come on in.
I was waiting patiently by the gates. As with everything in this world, there was a huge lineup. Thankfully there was plenty of comfortable seating and, of course, a Starbucks.
The Starbucks was very cool. All the latte's were topped with whipped cream that bespoke soft, bouncy clouds. Clever idea.
I finally made it to the counter.
Administrator: Password, please.
Me: Sorry?
Administrator: I am afraid "Sorry" does not register.
Me: No, I mean what password? I don't have a password.
Administrator: Everybody has a password. Did you not have an iPhone?
Me: Ah, yes, I did. "Boogersoup".
Administrator: Sorry?
Me: No, not "Sorry". "Boogersoup". That's my iPhone password.
Administrator: No, I need your Heaven password. And by the way, all Heaven passwords need to contain Pi to the first billion digits, the symbol of the crucifix, some water, some wine, an apple and a few nice words about God.
Me: I don't have a Heaven password. What the Hell is a Heaven password?
Administrator: You don't need a password for Hell, sir. You NEED a password to enter Heaven. Can I please have it?
Me: I don't remember picking a password to get into Heaven. I've had so many passwords and I forget them all the time. Can I pick a new password?
Administrator: You have to be alive to do that, sir. You are dead, and we can't just send you back again, now can we?
Me: No. I guess there's only one guy who gets to go back that way.
Administrator: That is right, sir. And looking at your questionable life, you are not him, that is for sure.
Me: Can I answer some security questions? I had to do that once for my Ashley Madison account.
Administrator: Well, it is unusual, but I guess so. Just a minute.
God: What seems to be the problem?
Administrator: This man lost his password and needs to answer his security questions to enter the Kingdom.
God: I see. Okay, sir. What was your favourite activity in life besides masturbating to the Victoria's Secret catalogue?
Me: Hmmm, nothing comes immediately to mind. Bowling? But that's a distant second.
God: Five pin or ten?
Me: Ahhhhmmm…five?
God: Ohhhhhh, no. That's wrong. Who is the most annoying, pathetic, lame-ass human being I have created in the last thousand centuries? This person's existence is the sole cause of the rise of atheism in the modern world.
Me: Ha, easy. Justin Bieber.
God: Mark that down as one right. Okay, final question. What does it all mean?
Me: Whoop-de-doo!
God: Ha. Nice try. Good movie, though.
Me: 42?
God: Are you taking this seriously?
Me: Yes. I have no frigging idea what it all means.
God: Me neither. Come on in.
Wednesday, 15 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: This Crow Tastes Terrible
Helloooo Newman: This Crow Tastes Terrible: On this blog, from time to time, I have poked fun at food, diets, gluten, eating fads (though I have never called anyone a faddy to their fa...
This Crow Tastes Terrible
On this blog, from time to time, I have poked fun at food, diets, gluten, eating fads (though I have never called anyone a faddy to their face) etc.
All in good fun, of course. Yes, that's only a tongue in my cheek, naughty people.
And now I find myself having to make some serious changes to my diet.
So it's time for me to "eat crow" concerning all this making fun of diet fads. I apologize to all the foodie people out there, and to the crow I'm about to kill and eat.
For most of my life I've eaten pretty much what I want, when I want it. Except when I was single. You can replace the word "eaten" in the previous sentence with "drank", and that was my single life.
Nowadays, as the free radicals attack my aging body, I find I have issues with drinking beer while eating.
It's getting harder and harder to carry on with this healthy activity. I need to make a change.
It's not a change I take lightly. I want to live to be a healthy 137, but also enjoy myself a bit. It's just so hard to do that when I have a couple of beers with, say, a pizza or chicken wings.
I get way too full, even bloated, when I coincide beer and food. And tired, too. Oh, so tired. But then I can't sleep properly. What the "F" is that? I don't get it.
This obviously can't continue.
I did some research and this is all very common as people get older. There's a ton of research out there and I studied a fair amount of it.
I have to thank some of my Facebook friends as well, who have posted informative articles on food, special diets and how to handle digestive problems.
Some of that research is contradictory, to be sure, but I think I've settled on a strategy that makes sense for my circumstances.
I've discussed this with my wife as well. She's fed up with my complaining and just wants me to adopt new eating habits that are healthy and will stop the whining.
So, there you have it. Add me to the list of people who are getting a bit fussy with their dietary habits.
From now on…I will drink before I eat.
All in good fun, of course. Yes, that's only a tongue in my cheek, naughty people.
And now I find myself having to make some serious changes to my diet.
So it's time for me to "eat crow" concerning all this making fun of diet fads. I apologize to all the foodie people out there, and to the crow I'm about to kill and eat.
For most of my life I've eaten pretty much what I want, when I want it. Except when I was single. You can replace the word "eaten" in the previous sentence with "drank", and that was my single life.
Nowadays, as the free radicals attack my aging body, I find I have issues with drinking beer while eating.
It's getting harder and harder to carry on with this healthy activity. I need to make a change.
It's not a change I take lightly. I want to live to be a healthy 137, but also enjoy myself a bit. It's just so hard to do that when I have a couple of beers with, say, a pizza or chicken wings.
I get way too full, even bloated, when I coincide beer and food. And tired, too. Oh, so tired. But then I can't sleep properly. What the "F" is that? I don't get it.
This obviously can't continue.
I did some research and this is all very common as people get older. There's a ton of research out there and I studied a fair amount of it.
I have to thank some of my Facebook friends as well, who have posted informative articles on food, special diets and how to handle digestive problems.
Some of that research is contradictory, to be sure, but I think I've settled on a strategy that makes sense for my circumstances.
I've discussed this with my wife as well. She's fed up with my complaining and just wants me to adopt new eating habits that are healthy and will stop the whining.
So, there you have it. Add me to the list of people who are getting a bit fussy with their dietary habits.
From now on…I will drink before I eat.
Saturday, 11 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Unwritten Self Help Book
Helloooo Newman: The Unwritten Self Help Book: I was crammed on the subway today and I kept myself busy reading a poster. I guess I had no choice, since my face was pressed firmly into it...
The Unwritten Self Help Book
I was crammed on the subway today and I kept myself busy reading a poster. I guess I had no choice, since my face was pressed firmly into it from the 5,000 bodies leaning against me.
The poster was advertising a self help book. The concept was "change your habits and change yourself", or something of that nature.
That seemed a little redundant to me. Change yourself and you will change yourself. Thanks for that advice.
One of the tag lines on the book cover was "want to lose more weight?"
It occurred to me, you never see a book for people who need to gain weight. Despite the doom and gloom of the so-called obesity crisis, some people are way too skinny in our society.
You'll look like skin and bone at your funeral. Why not wait until then? Meanwhile, try eating some food.
Want to Gain Weight? The New Let's Eat More Food Book
What would be the contents of this book? Well, that's easy. It would be one page with a list on it.
Here's the list:
• Eat more food, and eat more of the food that is fattening.
• Do this all the time, not just for a few days, weeks or months.
• Throw up your food less often.
• Throw out all your size 2 bikinis.
• Lift weights until it hurts. Muscle weighs more than fat.
That's it! That's the book. I think we can all agree this is the best advice for someone who longs to be fatter.
SO…why wouldn't the opposite be true for people longing to be skinnier?
Want to Lose Weight? The New Let's Eat Less Food Book
What would be the contents of this book? Well, that's easy. It would be one page with a list on it.
Here's the list:
• Eat less food, and eat less of the food that is fattening.
• Do this all the time, not just for a few days, weeks or months.
• Throw up your food more often.
• Throw out all your size 18 bikinis.
• Lift bags of feathers until you get bored. Fat weighs less than muscle.
The poster was advertising a self help book. The concept was "change your habits and change yourself", or something of that nature.
That seemed a little redundant to me. Change yourself and you will change yourself. Thanks for that advice.
One of the tag lines on the book cover was "want to lose more weight?"
It occurred to me, you never see a book for people who need to gain weight. Despite the doom and gloom of the so-called obesity crisis, some people are way too skinny in our society.
You'll look like skin and bone at your funeral. Why not wait until then? Meanwhile, try eating some food.
Want to Gain Weight? The New Let's Eat More Food Book
What would be the contents of this book? Well, that's easy. It would be one page with a list on it.
Here's the list:
• Eat more food, and eat more of the food that is fattening.
• Do this all the time, not just for a few days, weeks or months.
• Throw up your food less often.
• Throw out all your size 2 bikinis.
• Lift weights until it hurts. Muscle weighs more than fat.
That's it! That's the book. I think we can all agree this is the best advice for someone who longs to be fatter.
SO…why wouldn't the opposite be true for people longing to be skinnier?
Want to Lose Weight? The New Let's Eat Less Food Book
What would be the contents of this book? Well, that's easy. It would be one page with a list on it.
Here's the list:
• Eat less food, and eat less of the food that is fattening.
• Do this all the time, not just for a few days, weeks or months.
• Throw up your food more often.
• Throw out all your size 18 bikinis.
• Lift bags of feathers until you get bored. Fat weighs less than muscle.
Now, are you really going to buy a book with just one page in it? I hope not.
So, save your money and enjoy being yourself. Neverending improvement is for cleaning products and food flavours.
Helloooo Newman: Whatever happened to the APB?
Helloooo Newman: Whatever happened to the APB?: Do you remember what an APB is? Or was? I know, there are so many acronyms out there nowadays. Even GOD is an acronym – Goofing Off Deity....
Whatever happened to the APB?
Do you remember what an APB is? Or was?
I know, there are so many acronyms out there nowadays. Even GOD is an acronym – Goofing Off Deity.
Think back to the show Adam-12. Some bad guy would rob a store, snatch a purse (no murse snatchings back then) or perhaps have a car tail light out.
The police would show up, the bad guy would run or drive away, and the cops would give chase.
The cops would get tired, due to a donut sugar rush, stop for a rest and then put out an APB on the assailant – an All Points Bulletin.
This would require all the cops in the city to keep a look out for the bad guy, even during donut breaks.
You never hear about APBs anymore. Why not? Didn't the system work? Wasn't it good for the more minor crimes that take place?
It seems better than the alternative.
In these modern times, time is of the essence. If some bad guy is running away, whatever the reason, it makes far more sense to shoot them dead.
Not only is it a great time and money saver, it sends out the right message for people who don't listen properly when a cop tells them to stop.
Isn't it worth a few dead people to get the point across? When the police ask you to stop running – like, say, when your parents asked you to stop running around the house – you stop running, or you'll never run again.
In Charleston, South Caroline, the incident on everyone's breath will also bode well for the economy.
No longer will evil doers drive around with broken tail lights. They will go straight to their mechanic for repairs. The economic benefits will be felt immediately.
I don't know, I guess I'm old-fashioned. Maybe we should find out why people are running before killing them.
I think we should bring back the APB – ASAP.
I know, there are so many acronyms out there nowadays. Even GOD is an acronym – Goofing Off Deity.
Think back to the show Adam-12. Some bad guy would rob a store, snatch a purse (no murse snatchings back then) or perhaps have a car tail light out.
The police would show up, the bad guy would run or drive away, and the cops would give chase.
The cops would get tired, due to a donut sugar rush, stop for a rest and then put out an APB on the assailant – an All Points Bulletin.
This would require all the cops in the city to keep a look out for the bad guy, even during donut breaks.
You never hear about APBs anymore. Why not? Didn't the system work? Wasn't it good for the more minor crimes that take place?
It seems better than the alternative.
In these modern times, time is of the essence. If some bad guy is running away, whatever the reason, it makes far more sense to shoot them dead.
Not only is it a great time and money saver, it sends out the right message for people who don't listen properly when a cop tells them to stop.
Isn't it worth a few dead people to get the point across? When the police ask you to stop running – like, say, when your parents asked you to stop running around the house – you stop running, or you'll never run again.
In Charleston, South Caroline, the incident on everyone's breath will also bode well for the economy.
No longer will evil doers drive around with broken tail lights. They will go straight to their mechanic for repairs. The economic benefits will be felt immediately.
I don't know, I guess I'm old-fashioned. Maybe we should find out why people are running before killing them.
I think we should bring back the APB – ASAP.
Wednesday, 8 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Secret?
Helloooo Newman: The Secret?: Why is it that when we interview really old people, we always ask them about their secret to a long life? It's as if they have some cl...
The Secret?
Why is it that when we interview old people, we always ask them about their secret to a long life?
It's as if they have some clue as to why they are still alive.
You might as well ask someone why they are so tall.
"Hey, you're 6 feet five. What's your secret?"
"Oh, it's a traditional method in our family. My parents had sex and gave birth to me."
"Hey, you're so thin-boned. What's your secret? Skim milk?"
And we always assume their answer is the right one, because it's their life, so they know.
I say most people probably know jack-shit about why they live as long or short as they do. Let's face it, we know jack-shit about why we're here in the first place.
We'll never hear this: "Hey, you're young, short, fat, stupid, drunk and doctors give you 6 months to live. What's your secret?"
"My mom was so emotionally distant. Mind you, that was only for the ten years she was in prison. Maybe it's because my parents died when they were 16."
"Well, I would always have a smile on my face and avoid stress." Really? I always play Russian Roulette with myself because I thrive on stress.
The stats are clear. If your parents lived a long time, you will too. Unless you're crushed by a streetcar or poisoned by your spouse.
And we always ask these people nicely. But what we're really asking is, hey, you're old, why aren't you dead yet? You should be dead, you know. You look dead, that's for sure.
I did some research on people who lived to be 100 or more.
One woman put it down to reading a lot. Do Penthouse letters count? What about Twitter feeds?
How does that affect blind people? What about dyslexia? Do they age in reverse?
One woman gave thanks to olive oil – on her food and rubbed on her skin. Ya, but you know what? You look like an overcooked rabbit.
One man thanked his sense of humour.
Oh great. Judging from this blog, I'll be dead tomorrow.
Ruth Gruber, 101, said "look inside your soul and find your tools." Can vodka be a tool? What about atheists, who have no soul? Maybe they can rent some tools.
They never interview normal old people:
Interviewer: Sir, you are 101. What is your secret?
Man: What, sonny?
Interviewer: I SAY, WHAT IS YOUR SECRET?
Man: I secrete many things, my friend. You'll have to ask the nurses about that.
Interviewer: SEEEEECRET
Man: No, I don't get the Victoria's Secret catalogue anymore. Bad for my heart.
It's as if they have some clue as to why they are still alive.
You might as well ask someone why they are so tall.
"Hey, you're 6 feet five. What's your secret?"
"Oh, it's a traditional method in our family. My parents had sex and gave birth to me."
"Hey, you're so thin-boned. What's your secret? Skim milk?"
And we always assume their answer is the right one, because it's their life, so they know.
I say most people probably know jack-shit about why they live as long or short as they do. Let's face it, we know jack-shit about why we're here in the first place.
We'll never hear this: "Hey, you're young, short, fat, stupid, drunk and doctors give you 6 months to live. What's your secret?"
"My mom was so emotionally distant. Mind you, that was only for the ten years she was in prison. Maybe it's because my parents died when they were 16."
The problem is that people give all kinds of different reasons as to why they live so long.
The stats are clear. If your parents lived a long time, you will too. Unless you're crushed by a streetcar or poisoned by your spouse.
And we always ask these people nicely. But what we're really asking is, hey, you're old, why aren't you dead yet? You should be dead, you know. You look dead, that's for sure.
I did some research on people who lived to be 100 or more.
One woman put it down to reading a lot. Do Penthouse letters count? What about Twitter feeds?
How does that affect blind people? What about dyslexia? Do they age in reverse?
One woman gave thanks to olive oil – on her food and rubbed on her skin. Ya, but you know what? You look like an overcooked rabbit.
One man thanked his sense of humour.
Oh great. Judging from this blog, I'll be dead tomorrow.
Ruth Gruber, 101, said "look inside your soul and find your tools." Can vodka be a tool? What about atheists, who have no soul? Maybe they can rent some tools.
They never interview normal old people:
Interviewer: Sir, you are 101. What is your secret?
Man: What, sonny?
Interviewer: I SAY, WHAT IS YOUR SECRET?
Man: I secrete many things, my friend. You'll have to ask the nurses about that.
Interviewer: SEEEEECRET
Man: No, I don't get the Victoria's Secret catalogue anymore. Bad for my heart.
Wednesday, 1 April 2015
Helloooo Newman: Life is Full of Compromise
Helloooo Newman: Life is Full of Compromise: Yesterday Newman and I followed our regular schedule of going to play on the driveway at 9:30 a.m. Why 9:30? Why not earlier? Thank you fo...
Life is Full of Compromise
Yesterday Newman and I followed our regular schedule of going to play on the driveway at 9:30 a.m.
Why 9:30? Why not earlier? Thank you for asking. I can keep writing.
Well, it usually takes me an hour to rise from my self-induced coma others call sleep. It's a very herky-jerky process, fits and starts, maybe a bit like Bruce Banner transforming into the Hulk, minus the anger and lousy complexion. Okay, a bit of anger, but only when I'm approached. Also, I can't afford to ruin a good pair of jeans every time I wake up.
Then I combine industrial strength coffee with a kind of self-help internal dialogue that I use to motivate me to stay awake and have some kind of desire to face the day. "I'm not a child anymore" repeated about 100 times is part of the process. If I were free from societal pressure, I would prefer napping about half an hour after I wake up from a night's sleep.
It's very hard to overestimate the role coffee plays in my composition as a human being. Does the TTC need a downtown relief line? Do we need a national housing strategy for whores? Do I need therapy for my Cenosillicaphobia? Yes, I need coffee.
So, I'm finally awake and I go to the door with Newman to get to the driveway. The micro-second I open the door, Newman tears across the earth trying to catch a squirrel. He fails – he always does – but he did set a world record for the 10 metre squirrel dash.
He reminded me of the Olympic champion Bruce Jenner. An apt comparison because Newman's balls have been removed as well.
It also helped me realize what a huge compromise Newman makes everyday. Because when I started throwing the tennis ball for him, he really didn't chase with the same alacrity and lilt.
Newman really wants to be chasing live animals, not sports balls.
All of us, really, want to be chasing live animals, not sports balls. That's a metaphor. Unless you actually do chase and kill animals. Or sports balls.
But we continue to chase sports balls. It's all compromise.
Boy, I've faced a ton of compromise in my life. One of the biggest was when I lost my virginity. What a compromise that was…partly for me as well.
That's one of the problems with compromise. It's uneven. Some people compromise far more than others. My wife, for example. She had to climb down a very tall ladder to get to me. I was the guy holding the ladder. It's not that I don't want to be great. I just have a fear of heights.
Scientists say that evolution is a big series of compromises. Really? I think it's a mistake to personify evolution, as if it's some kind of conscious thing that makes choices.
This feeds the whack job creationists, and we want to try and starve these people of any possible reason to completely and utterly reject things like reason, evidence and precedent.
Can you believe they think the universe is 6,000 years old? How do they explain Hugh Hefner? What about your average Starbucks latte? Takes forever to wait for one of those.
Evolution, the spontaneous change of living things, just happens. I know this because the lemon I accidentally left in my washroom for 6 months turned into a fuzzy blue tennis ball. Long story.
You. Yes, you! Are compromising right now. Clearly you've read all your cookbooks, user manuals and ingredient lists, because you're reading this now.
Fetch the ball.
Why 9:30? Why not earlier? Thank you for asking. I can keep writing.
Well, it usually takes me an hour to rise from my self-induced coma others call sleep. It's a very herky-jerky process, fits and starts, maybe a bit like Bruce Banner transforming into the Hulk, minus the anger and lousy complexion. Okay, a bit of anger, but only when I'm approached. Also, I can't afford to ruin a good pair of jeans every time I wake up.
Then I combine industrial strength coffee with a kind of self-help internal dialogue that I use to motivate me to stay awake and have some kind of desire to face the day. "I'm not a child anymore" repeated about 100 times is part of the process. If I were free from societal pressure, I would prefer napping about half an hour after I wake up from a night's sleep.
It's very hard to overestimate the role coffee plays in my composition as a human being. Does the TTC need a downtown relief line? Do we need a national housing strategy for whores? Do I need therapy for my Cenosillicaphobia? Yes, I need coffee.
So, I'm finally awake and I go to the door with Newman to get to the driveway. The micro-second I open the door, Newman tears across the earth trying to catch a squirrel. He fails – he always does – but he did set a world record for the 10 metre squirrel dash.
He reminded me of the Olympic champion Bruce Jenner. An apt comparison because Newman's balls have been removed as well.
It also helped me realize what a huge compromise Newman makes everyday. Because when I started throwing the tennis ball for him, he really didn't chase with the same alacrity and lilt.
Newman really wants to be chasing live animals, not sports balls.
All of us, really, want to be chasing live animals, not sports balls. That's a metaphor. Unless you actually do chase and kill animals. Or sports balls.
But we continue to chase sports balls. It's all compromise.
Boy, I've faced a ton of compromise in my life. One of the biggest was when I lost my virginity. What a compromise that was…partly for me as well.
That's one of the problems with compromise. It's uneven. Some people compromise far more than others. My wife, for example. She had to climb down a very tall ladder to get to me. I was the guy holding the ladder. It's not that I don't want to be great. I just have a fear of heights.
Scientists say that evolution is a big series of compromises. Really? I think it's a mistake to personify evolution, as if it's some kind of conscious thing that makes choices.
This feeds the whack job creationists, and we want to try and starve these people of any possible reason to completely and utterly reject things like reason, evidence and precedent.
Can you believe they think the universe is 6,000 years old? How do they explain Hugh Hefner? What about your average Starbucks latte? Takes forever to wait for one of those.
Evolution, the spontaneous change of living things, just happens. I know this because the lemon I accidentally left in my washroom for 6 months turned into a fuzzy blue tennis ball. Long story.
You. Yes, you! Are compromising right now. Clearly you've read all your cookbooks, user manuals and ingredient lists, because you're reading this now.
Fetch the ball.
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