I knew him when…

Dear Reader.

Yes, I revere you far more than North Koreans revere their "Dear Leader", Kim Jong Un-human.

I am all wet today. Why? Everything is frozen.

Oh, I know why.

I am bathing in stardom.

My first article, my first birth, has been published. As a writer I've gone from fetus to meet us!

Here is the link: http://www.pointsincase.com/articles/is-your-chicken-tired

Thank you all for your adoring eyes.

You like me now. You really like me.

Helloooo Newman: Minding your Pees and Cues

Helloooo Newman: Minding your Pees and Cues: Entering a public washroom is always full of terror and tough decisions. 11:30 a.m. and it was time to pee. "NOW, PLEASE!", if m...

Minding My Pees and Cues

Entering a public washroom is always fraught with terror and tough decisions.

11:30 a.m. and it was time to pee. "NOW, PLEASE!", if my bladder had vocal chords, gurgled though they would be under water.

My poor bladder: aka the Titanic's hull, its various emergency compartments quickly bubbling up with sea water, sloshing over the safety walls into yet more compartments, and me frantically searching for a lifeboat.

I'M THE KING OF THE WASHROOM!

Gotta find one first. Sail around the corner at 5 kph. Thar she blows…a men's room.

Business people swam through the downtown tower, looking at me in awe, figuring I had an incredibly urgent meeting to attend with millions of dollars at stake.

Nope. Drank too much coffee.

I entered the men's room quicker than Bill Clinton said yes to the dress.

Now the real stress. So many important decisions needed to be made in a flash…as I got ready to flash the urinal.

Minding your pees and cues is of udder importance in the male public washroom.

First challenge – quick math. I counted 6 urinals. Five open, the far right one occupied.

First quick decision – I took the far left urinal, furthest away from the other occupier. That's the golden rule of the golden shower – always furthest away.

The occupier started to whistle a tune. The Titanic theme? No, no, no. Not cool. I had no idea if he's so happy peeing because he got a raise that day, enjoyed holding his dick in his hands, or wanted to dance with me on the upper deck.

Judging from his ill-fitted suit, TSX haircut and a certain cockiness in his stance, so to speak, I figured this guy for a broker. But why the whistling?

Perhaps his penis had a blue tooth connection and he's getting live stock quotes. Viagra is up 20%. Did he get a good stock tip on his, ah, tip?

I'd had enough of this man whistling dixie. Egressing the washroom quickly was now task number one.

I made a difficult decision – Three quick shakes and I pulled in. My little big man shrunk back slinky-style, rather upset to go back in his little box so soon.

On a normal day I would shake at least 10 times. One sacrifices in emergencies.

I couldn't leave without a good hand wash. I was not Poppie from Seinfeld.

The soap dispenser got romantic. As I pressed down on its extension, a barely perceptible piece of dried soap on its tip caused it to misfire and "ejaculate" milky-white goo all over my coat.

Monica Lewinsky's dress popped into my mind. I did not have sexual relations with that dispenser.

The damn tap! The hand sensor gave me three seconds of water and stopped.

The whistling pee-er was approaching.

I bent down towards the floor and then popped back up, hoping to convince the tap that I was, indeed, a new person. Please sir, can I have some more water? The tap Nazi did not deliver.

The towel dispenser did not respond to my frantically waving hand. The towels and the tap were working together.

I scurried out of the washroom, trying not to look like I just left a Roman bath.

The whole logic of the modern day public washroom is deeply disturbing to me. Very, VERY few people in this world have seen my penis, and yet there I was displaying it, in the open, not directly to, but beside a complete stranger.

The ability of the modern day public washroom to turn Roman bath is profoundly easy. One simple 45 degree turn and presto, say hello to my Augustus Flacidus.

From now on it's only private peeing for me.

Helloooo Newman: A Real Paul Buster

Helloooo Newman: A Real Paul Buster: Do you know the hardest thing about being a famous writer? Is it the demands of my editors? Hey Paul, only a small group of people were of...

A Real Paul Buster

Do you know the hardest thing about being a famous writer?

Is it the demands of my editors? Hey Paul, only a small group of people were offended by your last article. What's the story? Keep this up and you'll be writing for the phone book.

Nope.

Is it the fans camping outside my house trying to get a glimpse of me in the actual writing process? Women offering themselves and mistaking me for Jamie Dornan, the male lead in 50 Shades of Grey?

Sadly, no.

It's me. I'm the hardest on myself.

Truth be told, I'm a real Paul buster.

Demanding, exacting, fastidious, obdurate, intrepid, on the liminel of historical greatness.

I told you my vocab is growing. That last big word, "liminel", isn't even in the pathetic spellcheck my blog service offers.

I think I'm outgrowing this internet thing. I'm too big, too smart. Too perfidious.

I'm the Paul buster.

Helloooo Newman: Ebolarama

Helloooo Newman: Ebolarama: For the last sleepless 48 hours, since I found out one of my articles will be published, I've been braining heavily on my fame – how it ...

Ebolarama

For the last sleepless 48 hours, since I found out one of my articles will be published, I've been braining heavily on my fame – how it will explode and how it will change me.

Taking into account my awesome talents, offset by my egotistical mindset and complete detachment from creative reality (necessary qualities to be famous), I believe my fame will spread in a way that mimes the spread of Ebola and the Bowlerama phenomenon.

Ebolarama. This is the working title of my memoires.

Ebola is a virus. Viruses are spread via the internet. My fame will spread this way too.

Ebola is only caught through contact with the bodily fluids, blood or organs of an infected person. My articles will infect people the same way. Readers will be "touched" by my heart-wrenching prose. They will laugh, cry, wipe their eyes and thus catch and spread my fame. It will be painful. Some will not survive.

You will be infected by my fame only if you come into direct contact with my writing. Hearing about it second hand? – and you definitely will! You are safe. Until you are overcome with the urge to log onto the blog.

Ebola snuck up on the world and spread long before health professionals could get control of it. My fame will circle the globe in similar fashion.

Soon – very soon – people will gather around in large groups, much like they do at Bowlerama, read my articles, get hammered, and discuss the finer points of my deep messaging.

Their minds will roll into the gutter. They will realize the futility of life, much like the futility of knocking over pins with a boulder, only to have them pop up again and again. Thanks to my writing.

As the Bowlerama ads say, you don't really have to know how to bowl to have fun. Likewise, you don't have to know how to read to enjoy my articles. No skill is involved. That's the best part of my blog – you don't really have to know how to read.

Can we really call bowling a sport? I think not. Can we call enjoying my articles reading? Not likely.

And yes, you'll look and feel damn silly.

All the while my fame will spread across the world, and maybe my DNA as well.

I will have no time for FAMILY. I will have my FAME–ILY.

Has all this gone to my head? Unlikely. It usually takes much longer for things to make it to my head.

I. Am. A. Published. Author.

Helloooo Newman: Eating More Slow Food

Helloooo Newman: Eating More Slow Food: As I rapidly age, quickly heading towards THE END , I find that three things in my life are slowing down. My Body. My mind. And my food. ...

Eating More Slow Food

As I rapidly age, quickly heading towards THE END, I find that three things in my life are slowing down.

My Body. My mind. And my food.

Yes, my food is slowing down.

Fast food is a vanishing item on my daily menu.

This is a step forward because slower food is better for my body and mind, in theory anyway.

I have yet to see the benefits of food moving at a reduced speed, but I continue to believe all the studies out there saying I'll feel and look better.

Right now I'm just completely depressed!

Up until about today I have suffered from what scientists term EFG syndrome. Eating Fat and Grease.

Here are the ABCs of EFG.

Do you think my level of EFG affects my EKG? In today's parlance, IDK.

There is no vaccine against this so stop calling me Jenny McCarthy.

When I tell people I like burgers or steak or ribs or fried chicken, that's really kind of a lie. These foods are merely vehicles for carrying to my body what I really crave – EFG.

My craving for EFG starts around the time I open my eyes from a nice sleep. It only lasts for about 24 hours a day.

Some "experts" out there say that man wasn't meant to eat meat, or fat, or grains, or do anything that people actually enjoy doing.

It's hard to imagine that 4 million years ago, as man ventured out of Africa, battling climate change, mile-high sheets of ice, deadly animals and disease, that he would survive on a diet of tofu and kale salad.

I'm convinced if they search hard enough, archeologists will find the early remnants of the first bacon cheeseburger among the arrowheads and cave drawings.

It might be hard to spot at first – a small pile of sesame seeds from the bun, or a bit of the wrapper it came in. No doubt the skeleton found beside the bacon cheeseburger will have a big, toothy smile on its face. And you're telling me man wasn't meant to eat this crap? Booha!

Even today, we put a positive spin on fat. We all want a fat cheque, a fat chance in life, and we're all waiting for the fat lady to sing. Who's waiting for the skinny singer? Did Celine Dion just pop into your mind?

For the longest time the most popular Broadway show was – Grease! See my point?

I don't know why people are so concerned about being big. Have you read lately about how large the universe is? In human terms the universe is grotesquely obese. And it's getting larger by the second. What the hell is it eating, anyway? Dark matter? Sounds like the pudding at Denny's.

On the other hand, your body is a tiny speck on a speck that sits on the speck of a speck.

Go ahead and eat more. There's room!

The other day I was looking at gorgeous pictures of our galaxy, the Milky Way. Viewed from the side it looks an awful lot like a bacon cheeseburger. Mind you, the bun is too small for the patty. Bun to meat ratio is quite important. Still, there's a message there somewhere.

Think about it. Our galaxy is named after a chocolate bar. I guess the Kale Way was voted down.

Let's be careful. I'm not saying all fast food is the same. There's crap, and there's crap crap. Try eating at a Red Lobster.

There's only two things that always smell the same, no matter what they contain. Garbage and anything from Red Lobster.

While I was eating my steak and lobster, they gave me a lobster-shaped bib. After the meal I was thinking, why not a lobster-shaped diaper for the diarrhea later on.

I got to pick my own lobster. Can I pick the stomach ailment I'll get as well? Can I pick the bill I pay?

Everyone who eats there looks like that first creature that crawled out of the ocean. Something not quite meant to be on land yet.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the skinny on fat

The Regifted List

Last week I visited my very old high school, which is now a brand new high school, and found out one of my closest friends received a university scholarship after grade 13.

His name is on a plaque. The plaque came alive, reached out and burned into my forehead the words "Hey Paul, look what I got, you loser."

I wanted to burn the school down. It's really hard to set brick on fire, let alone get the high temperature needed to melt a plaque.

I suppose my friend is gifted, like so many other people walking around these days.

I can't stand gifted people. Okay, I don't really mind them. It's more like trying to mix O.J. and milk. Bleueeckkk.

You see, I'm on a rarely-talked about list.

I was born re-gifted.

Yup – I'm like that bottle of wine that no one wants. Hey, here's some wine from the Gobi Desert. Just add water and shake.

It's passed 'round and 'round until finally someone needs to clean their silver with something very acidic.

You can always tell the regifted wine bottles. They're either still in that thin, tall bag or people separate them out from the fine wine.

Same happened to me. If you look at the family photos you'll notice I'm always on the side, a bit away from everyone else.

That's Paul. He's over there because we'll probably regift him soon.

Too bad it's against the law to pass on re-gifted children like they're a wine bottle.

Hey Frank, I brought a little kid with me in case Janice can't get pregnant. Go ahead, keep him. You can always unload him later.

If I were a math symbol I would be the less than symbol (<). Gifted people are, of course the greater than symbol (>). Beats being zero, which means you're dead.

Other symbols that describe me: square root. Whatever you expect of me, take the square root and that's what you'll get.

I walked by an ex-toggery and all the employees came out and cooed – oh, there goes a re-gifted person. They know re-gifts when they see them. Let's put him on the rack, maybe someone will take him.

They don't even offer me gift receipts at the store. Ha ha ha, look at the poor regifted person. Probably buying that for himself.

Maybe calling myself regifted is a little too ambitious. I'm more like a loot bag from a snotty-nosed kid's party.

One thing I never do is buy gifted people Christmas or birthday presents. They've been gifted enough.

Regifteds don't find girlfriends. They are regifted girlfriends. All the single girls I ever met were girls my brother turned down. I assumed those girls learned how to turn me down from my brother.

Why was I born regifted? Most likely because my mom smoked and drank way more during my gestation than for the others. I was the last child of five, and not really wanted or expected. I was a regift from God. Yes, even the Man with everything regifts once in a while.

Know your gestation in life – that's what my mom always said.

I researched some of the qualities of gifted adults and I seem to fit right in.

Some of the qualities are:

Do you have a good long term memory?
Yes, there are several kids from grade school I still want to beat up

Do you have a vivid imagination?
I was single through my 20s and 30 so yes, I developed a very good imagination. In HD, in colour, no commercials, can pause it at any time. It's called Sexflix.

Can you concentrate for long periods of time?
Sometimes at a bar I have to spend a lot of time choosing a beer. That requires focus.

Are you very curious?
Yes. Why do celebrity women want their lips to look like inner tubes from a large truck? Marie Osmond's face looks like an upside down Hummer.

Thankfully, RE-gifted people look very forward to RE-incarnation!

Helloooo Newman: Talk To You escaLATER

Helloooo Newman: Talk To You escaLATER: Here's an interesting topic I must confess I've never given much thought. Until this Christmas. When you step onto an escalator, w...

Talk To You escaLATER

Here's an interesting topic I must confess I've never given much thought. Until this Christmas.

When you step onto an escalator, what is the proper stair distance you should keep from the person in front of you?

I was shopping over the holidays and as I stepped onto the escalator stair, a person inserted themselves in a rather pell mell manner onto the step right behind mine. We were the only two people on the escalator.

For a short while it was a tense ride. I did what any clear thinking person would do in this situation. I farted.

Slowly and silently.

For a few seconds I think the entire mall believed the movie The Interview was playing nearby and this was a North Korean gas attack.

Nope. Just me defending my territory.

Perhaps he was a prying proctologist and he was assessing me as a potential client.

Tough day at the orifice, honey? Maybe he felt a little down in the "dumps" and needed some company.

I did the math and concluded you should be one and a half steps from the other person when the escalator is a moving sardine can, and at least 10 steps when there are only two people riding.

You're right, I could have just started walking up the escalator to extricate myself from the awkward ride. Farting was so much more fun, though.

Helloooo Newman: Idearrhea

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

Idearrhea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kind that does not make me smile.

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

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

I'll stop there.

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

To recover I ingurgitated several beers.

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

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

Helloooo Newman: The Tired Chicken

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

Helloooo Newman: The Resting Chicken

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

The Tired Chicken

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

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

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

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

And I haven't even started chewing.

The meat just lies there.

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

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

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

"Where's the chicken?"

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

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

"Pay attention, I'm eating you."

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

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

Compare a chicken before and after it's cooked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please, give me some of that treatment.

I wish I were a nice piece of meat.

Helloooo Newman: The I Don't Know List

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

The "I Don't Know" List

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

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

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

Here are some things I know:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there's a problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God Is Going On Vacation, But Where?

God appeared on Fox-TV yesterday.

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

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

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

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

He was actually packing a bag during the interview.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Helloooo Newman: Does Every Dog Really Have His Day?

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

Does Every Dog Really Have His Day?

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

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

My dog days began at the adoption.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am not an archaeologist, he reminded me.

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

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

He is still crying and I'm still pooping.

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

Helloooo Newman: The Evidence is In

Helloooo Newman: The Evidence is In: One Saturday afternoon, while the girls were on one of their endless shopping tours, I found the time in my busy schedule to read an interes...

The Evidence is In

One Saturday afternoon, while the girls were on one of their endless shopping tours, I found the time in my busy schedule to read an interesting "scientific" study.

The bed sheets were being washed. That's what gave me the break in my busy napping schedule to read. Sleeping on a bare mattress? NO. Sounds like Guantanamo Bay.

The "scientific" study involved a bunch of scientists researching near death experiences, or more accurately, dead for just a short while experiences.

I'll précis the article. I have to, actually, because I didn't read most of it. Just the headline and the conclusion. Okay, a bit in the middle too. The bed sheets were now dry so I had to finish up reading quickly and get back to my scheduled activities.

These "scientists" looked at various studies of people who died (as in their heart stopped beating) for 20 minutes to half an hour. I could use a good solid nap like that.

They found that a healthy portion of these dead "temps" reported wonderful afterlife experiences while they were dead, and the experiences were all very similar.

From this they confidently concluded that there is no death as many traditionally view it – rotting corpse, no taxes and nothingness.

We can all expect an afterlife, and a pleasant one at that. A bold and brash conclusion, for sure.

Well, I have a few questions, thank you.

I think most of us, while we're alive, subscribe to the too-good-to-be-true point of view when it comes to a lot of everyday things.

Eat those love handles away with endless diet fries, the taxman made a mistake in your favour to the tune of $1,000,000, Charlize Theron asks where you've been all her life, Brad Pitt leaves his Queen of cinema for you and a backsplit in Don Mills. All too-good-to-be-true.

The joyful, no traffic, no job to get to, no kid's ass to wipe and FREE lifestyle, however, awaits your death.

Is this not the ethereal equivalent of Floridian swamp land?

Another, rather obvious question is why not skip the sucky life and go directly to the after sucky life?

The off-the-rack answer is you can't possibly enjoy the good without the bad to remind you that the good is, ah, actually good.

The afterlife, as advertised, is nothing but good. How do we know it's all good, when it is, ah, all good? Maybe there's just a tad bad, like a charge for the infinite buffet.

Who were these dead-for-a-while people? It sounds like ALL of them were headed to Heaven, seeing as they all reported finding their G(od) spot. But I'm thinking when you take a random sampling of the population, chances are there will be a pedophile or two in the mix.

Why didn't we hear a story of a guy having his scrotum slowly cut off with a dull blade and fed to him through one of those cake decoration tubes, as all pedophiles deserve? The bad with the good, right?

I find something even more disturbing in this afterlife sales job. Suppose you (a good person) are at a soccer game in Pakistan and a disgruntled religious fanatic sits down beside you and detonates his backpack.

Great, now you're both dead. Except you can't die, remember? As you both float into the afterlife, will you be beside each other, like you were at the soccer game?

Now that's awkward. Should the terrorist apologize? "Ya, about that explosion. Hey how 'bout a year's worth of free infinite buffet?

Should you demand an apology and some kind of compensation? Why, when we've "scientifically" established you're in for a much better time than lousy seats at a sporting event. Maybe a thank you is in order.

Is there really an afterlife? Sooner or later we're all experts on the subject.

Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times

Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times: As I was driving along Eglinton Avenue in me car, I saw a strange road sign. The sign read: Left Lane Exists . Really and truthfully, that...

Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times

Helloooo Newman: Traffic sign of the times: As I was driving along Eglinton Avenue in me car, I saw a strange road sign. The sign read: Left Lane Exists . Really and truthfully, that...

Traffic sign of the times

As I was driving along Eglinton Avenue in me car, I saw a strange road sign.

The sign read: Left Lane Exists. Really and truthfully, that is how it read.

I was immediately curious. Having too much curiosity about a road sign, by the way, can be bad for your health. As I studied the sign to make sure of what I was reading, a bus almost rearranged my front hood, along with my face.

Left Lane Exists, you say?

I seem to remember in 1966 Time magazine questioned the existence of the left lane on the cover.

Is the left lane dead? asked the headline.

Oh, wait a minute. That was about God. Is God Dead? Time asked. Sorry, got confused.

The great philosopher Frederich Nietzsche said the left lane was dead. He didn't mean a literal left lane, but a metaphorical left lane, which makes it hard to pass slow cars.

What? Oh, ya. Fred was talking about God too.

Still, I'm not convinced the left lane exists. I didn't actually see it, although some signs were there.

Every once in a while I had the feeling a left lane must exist because I wanted to pass the old lady in front of me. I was sure this deep feeling to pass must signify the presence of a left lane.

I got into an argument with a guy claiming to be a Buddhist. He said there were many left lanes that existed. I questioned whether we have that much asphalt.

A bunch of guys in robes pulled me over and tried to convince me that the left lane did exist and could I give them money. I guess to repave the left lane? To build more?

A Hindu guy I ran into said there were many, many left lanes, and I should be careful not to speed in my carma because it will come back to me.

I guess I haven't decided yet if I believe that a left lane exists or not. There should be a word for people who are sitting in the middle of the road, not sure if there really is a left lane out there.

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?: Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to customers as "boss"? I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me bo...

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep  always  goes on top. And she doesn&...

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza: Glory be to Dr. Oetker. God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza. He must be readin...

Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul

Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul: I few weeks ago we went to a wedding. I don't attend a lot of weddings. If people celebrated divorces, I would be very busy with that....

Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul

Helloooo Newman: Shoeless Paul: I few weeks ago we went to a wedding. I don't attend a lot of weddings. If people celebrated divorces, I would be very busy with that....

Shoeless Paul

I few weeks ago we went to a wedding.

I don't attend a lot of weddings. If people celebrated divorces, I would be very busy with that.

My first reaction to the wedding was, well, at least it's not a funeral.

My second reaction? Oh God, how do I break the news to the moths that I need my suit for an evening?

The moths that survived took it well.

I wished we lived in a world where one could wear very comfortable running shoes with a suit and tie. People look at me like I'm from another planet, or they think I have the reverse aging disease.

So off I went to look for my dress shoes. I opened our front hall closet thinking they must be in there. Shoes poured out of what seemed like a black hole belonging to Fendi.

Fifteen minutes later, when I regained consciousness, I called TeleHealth and got a woman on the line. She insisted she needed to know the make and model of the shoes before she could treat me properly. Were they pumps or flats? Stilettos are very bad for the eyes. Did you pay retail? I hung up and covered my cuts with brown shoe polish. Weird tan, Paul.

Screaming in pain, I also almost swallowed my tongue. Quick work with a shoe horn saved me.

Subsequent forensic analysis revealed there were 1200 pairs of shoes, 1100 belonging to my wife and 100 to my daughter.

No sign of my shoes.

Long and sad story short. My shoes were buried away in the basement, obviously in a place that would survive a nuclear blast so we could enjoy a nice dinner out after the fallout.

I asked my wife, like, seriously, why were my shoes buried in Hell?

"Oh dear, it's so obvious. There was no room in the closet."

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?: Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to the customer as "boss"? I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me...

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?

Helloooo Newman: Who's the Boss?: Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to the customer as "boss"? I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me...

Who's the Boss?

Why is it that only blue collar workers refer to customers as "boss"?

I was at the mechanic and the attendant kept calling me boss. "Your car is ready, boss." He had to say it three times because my name is not boss and I didn't know he was talking to me. I was busy lying on the floor checking the differentials on various trucks. They were all…um…the same?

I suppose he is right, though. At least temporarily, I am his boss in that I have "hired" him for a short time to attend to my needs.

He was a nice guy so I wanted to give him a raise, maybe an extra week of vacation or up his pee breaks to four a day. Technically I could have, since I was his boss, but he would only enjoy that for about an hour. Then I resign as his boss (a.k.a. leaving the store) and he starts all over with a new boss. Imagine breaking in a new boss every hour.

That last sentence reminds me of the time my brother and I broke into a vibrating bed machine at a motel. We cracked open this little metal case and kept re-feeding it quarters every hour so the bed shook all night. I guess bosses are like perpetually vibrating beds. Fun for a while, you don't get much sleep, and then you want to smash the metal case with a blunt instrument.

So why don't other professionals I use call me boss?

Why have I not heard my surgeon say: "Okay, boss, I changed up your spleen, aligned your joints, cleared your manifold veins, changed your speech filter, purged your heart valves and oiled your love handles. You should really get a new timing belt. It's choking your ball joints."

"All under warranty, boss."

That'll do, employee.

What about your priest. "Hey boss, I don't blame you for layin' a little pipe with the neighbour. She comes to this church and she's a hot one."

This would never happen, obviously, because the priest knows who's the REAL boss.

Imagine how confused I was when I overheard another customer complaining about the service. "I WANT TO SEE YOUR BOSS!"

He must mean me, I thought. I'm the boss. Or is the other customer? Are they calling him boss too?

Does this mean he's my boss? Where am I in the organizational chart?

Who's the boss here? I have to pee.

Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet

Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet: I guess now is a good time to admit to my loyal readers a secret I've been shouldering for a while now. Actually, forget my shoulders....

Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet

Helloooo Newman: My head is coming out of the closet: I guess now is a good time to admit to my loyal readers a secret I've been shouldering for a while now. Actually, forget my shoulders....

My head is coming out of the closet

I guess now is a good time to admit to my loyal readers a secret I've been shouldering for a while now.

Actually, forget my shoulders. It's about my head. I'm coming out of the closet about my head.

Yes, I use Product on my hair. With a capital "P". That rhymes with "G". G, that's expensive Product. Is there Cocaine in it?

The secret, really, is that my hair is thinning and the Product is suppose to thicken things up.

I know, the thinning part isn't so much a secret. Only to my self-esteem.

The Product comes in three varieties.

1: Helps just-starting-to-thin hair
2: For noticeably thinning hair
3: Helps grow a penis on your head so people don't notice the absence of hair. A Hair Distraction System.

Oh, look at that gentleman. So old and not balding. What an attractive penis on his head.

Actually, I use number two. I'm not sure if it works yet, but last week as I was massaging some into my scalp, a drop fell onto my lips and I had to shave them the next morning. Glad I wasn't using number three! I'm, um, not into that.

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza: Glory be to Dr. Oetker. God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza. He is reading my ...

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza

Helloooo Newman: The Shroud of Pizza: Glory be to Dr. Oetker. God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza. He is reading my ...

The Shroud of Pizza

Glory be to Dr. Oetker.

God knows I love my pizza. So imagine my reaction when God sent me this message in a pizza.

He must be reading my blog after all.

This holy piece of parchment above came with my Dr. Oetker pizza. I followed the instructions carefully: Place pizza and parchment tray in oven at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. Genuflect. Pray.

And look what appeared. The face of Jesus in a pizza. Well, on the under-wrapping anyway.

It's a lucky bonus that this showed up in a "healthy" Dr. Oetker pizza, with only 15,000 calories (even after I added the maple bacon) instead of the normal 35,000

Oh, I get it. You think it's a fake? You want to carbon date it?

I really thought after all these years we had built up more trust.

I realize this image can be interpreted in many ways. Some of them occurred to me as well:

• Maybe the Fathers at the Vatican were a little distracted while the hosts baked too long in the oven. Boys will do that to you.

• Maybe the Vatican ovens broke down so they were forced to order hosts from the Waffle House down the street.

• Looks a bit like my underwear after I finish ironing it.

• Reminds me of a Timbit run over by a bus.

• Perhaps it's Al Jolson's cleansing pad (wow, you're aging yourself there, Paul)

• More currently, I might guess it's the resulting hickey from a date with Jian Ghomeshi

Nope, this is the one AND ONLY shroud of pizza, which means the J man (not Jian) was there in the oven while it was cooking.

If you zoom in about one million percent, His lips seem to be whispering my name. I don't know, maybe He's just saying, "more maple bacon."

I know for sure He's saying "Thank God there isn't any broccoli on this pizza," because that's the devil's work.

I've always known at the core of my spiritual self that Jesus is a meat lover.

Maybe it works like this: God is love. But Jesus, who has actually taken the time to come down here and try our food, loves meat the best.

Where's the proof? Notice how a bit of the edge is crumbled away? I think Jesus got a bit hungry and nibbled at what He thought was the pizza. I'm sure after eating hosts and all He's use to that flavour.

What do you see?

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep  always  goes on top. And she doesn&...

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep  always  goes on top. And she doesn&...

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep  always  goes on top. And she doesn&...

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

Helloooo Newman: To sleep, perchance to sleep some more: I love sleep. I'm also in love with sleep. So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep  always  goes on top. And she doesn&...

To sleep, perchance to sleep some more

I love sleep.

I'm also in love with sleep.

So much so, we sleep together all the time. Sleep always goes on top.

And she doesn't mind if I fall asleep after.

I eat, breath and sleep sleep.

Shakespeare inspired the name of this blog because there's nothing like his writing to put me to sleep. Even when he's translated into English, I get snoozy.

Actually, all reading puts me to sleep. So does talking. Moving, eating…

I guess the only thing that doesn't make me sleepy is actually sleeping.

When I heard they have sleep studies I was amazed. I've been studying for that my whole life. I did the exam in my sleep.

The best part of sleeping, other than not being awake, is dreaming.

I'm just so successful in my dreams. It's where all my dreams come true.

My favourite dreams are the ones where I'm sleeping. I'll admit, though, some dreams are hard to decipher. One time I fell asleep skydiving (I can sleep anywhere) and dreamt that I was falling.

What does that mean? Just plain weird.

People warn me. Paul, if you sleep so much you'll never get any exercise. Are you kidding me? Have they not heard of the sleep cycle? I ride it all the time. That's why I sweat so much when I sleep.

I don't just sleep alone, either. I've slept with a lot of women in my days. A lot. After we woke up, I would ask every one of them, listen, are we going to have sex or not?

Sleep is many things to me but it's especially my grade 9 math teacher. Just like my sleep, you never interrupt my grade 9 math teacher. If you did you suffered the 4 piece pencil trick.

He was a scary dude – he looked like Norman Schwarzkopf and had the demeanor of Norman Bates.

I aways wanted to show him the 4 piece collar bone trick. I've read collar bone fractures are quite painful.

You do not want to deprive me of sleep. Once I was in line to buy clothes. The line would just not move. The lady in front of me didn't move an inch and I couldn't believe how quiet she was about it. I was fuming under my breath. Then I realized I had lined up behind a mannequin.

Some of the things we buy to sleep are strange. Memory foam mattresses? Do I need my mattress to remember me? Will it soon talk to me?

Mattress: You Bill?
Me: No, Paul
Mattress: You look like a Bill.
Me: You look like a Matt-get it? Mattress?
Mattress: Clever! Where's Bill? Wait, don't answer that. I remember Bill. He tried me at the store. Nice guy. Small dick.
Me: How many people do you know?
Mattress: Thousands.
Me. I own you now.
Mattress: Can I see the Bill? Get it? Bill? Alrighty, hop in and let's get to know each other.

When I was a kid I played sleepy in a grade school production of Snow White. I was so excited to finally show my acting skills and this role was, of course, type casting.

I was so committed I gain 20 pounds for the role. I figured heavy people probably sleep more because they get tired of lugging around all that weight. I guess all the excitement and celebrity got to me because I was having great difficulty finding my character, even though I'm a natural sleeper.

I had to do something so I took some Nyquil before my big performance. I drank five ounces – because it comes with that little shot glass. I got the sleepy part perfect. I missed some of my lines – okay all of them. Hey, I was asleep. I guess the upsetting part for many people was the school having to remove me from the stage and put me in an ambulance. This kind of behaviour is what we now call performance art.

I've fallen asleep in many strange places. I worked at Sunoco for a time and would nap on the toilet. One time I accidentally hit the little handle and down the toilet went all my dreams.

People say sleeping is easy, takes no skill. Really? How come so many people have trouble achieving it? What about insomniacs? Losers. Now it's not looking so easy, eh?

Oh, another thing makes me sleepy. Writing…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Helloooo Newman: Bobble Dog Challenge

Helloooo Newman: Bobble Dog Challenge: Hi, I'm a dog bobble head. Former, actually. Those were the days, ridin' up there at the front of the car, screaming "I&#...