Helloooo Newman: Beaver Anal Secretions

Helloooo Newman: Beaver Anal Secretions: Well, I had to get your attention somehow! Readership is down, so I'm left spending my days crafting intellectually enticing headlines...

Beaver Anal Secretions

I apologize for the crassness of the Title, but I had to get your attention somehow!

Readership is down, so I'm left spending my days crafting intellectually enticing headlines that draw readers in, even if they know darn well that reading this blog is bad for one's health. Each article is full of gluten, a highly toxic substance that seeks to destroy mankind, and can cause diarrhea at any moment.

It's not your fault readership is down, because you are reading this. If you're not reading this, IT'S YOUR FAULT.

I happen to love gluten. When I go to parties and people bring out the seaweed biscuits or kale chips, I will ask for a bowl of gluten. It's surprising how many people accommodate this, but they usually put it in a little saucer beside the cat food.

Celiac disease has actually been declared a communicable disease in certain neighbourhoods of high net worth. Communicable in that everyone wants it. De rigueur is the term. A term that is, itself, de rigueur.

Lady #1: Excuse me, Miss. I noticed your really big stomach. Would you like to borrow my copy of Wheat Belly?
Lady #2: Oh, thanks, but we've decided I'm going to carry my baby in my belly. Sorry, is it showing?

There are other dangers lurking within Helloooo Newman. Nine out of ten doctors living somewhere have found that this blog can cause early-onset menopause accompanied by the urge to gamble.

So the genesis of this article occurred this morning when I was looking for a fine t.v. program to watch. On the enticing list of programs I saw a show called Lizard Lick Towing.

Oh my, I thought. I'm so glad that I've had the kind of upbringing combined with education, diet and exercise that allows me to skip over such shallow programming.

I "accidentally" stumbled onto the Lizard Lick Towing channel and was immediately hooked. The show is insanely addictive. 

The premise of the show is a husband and wife team (the husband looks like Dog the Bounty Hunter, and the wife does too) that drive around repossessing expensive cars. They live in the town of Lizard Lick. They don't really explain why so many rich people live in a wee town called Lizard Lick, when they could easily move to the bigger town called Meerkat Meadows.

I don't want to ruin the surprise of this particular episode for you, but it involves Mr. and Mrs. "Dog" repossessing a Ferrari from some rich guy at a golf country club. They actually get into a fist fight with the car owner, which in this town, I think, is everyone's way of saying "hello there."

At one point the rich guy, as he's cornered by Lizard Lick Towing's massive truck, yells out the Ferrari window, "Ya, well I'm better than you. I'll buy another car like this tomorrow."

You live in Lizard Lick, sir. Voluntarily. You are better than no one! 

Your personal stationary has the words "Lizard Lick" on it.

Operator: Information. What city or town are you calling?
Donald Trump: Lizard Lick. Hello? Looking for Lizard Lick…
Operator: Sorry, sir. The laughter here drowned you out. Connecting…

Anywho, I soon realized that watching this program was a guilty pleasure. Something I enjoyed doing but didn't want to admit to anyone.

Just like some foods, I thought. What is a really bad food I like eating that would compare to watching Lizard Lick Towing? (besides gluten)

This is where my expert research skills came in. I stumbled across something called castoreum.

Castoreum? Sounds like a casting call for a slasher movie about people murdered in a crematorium.

Nope. It's a food additive, used as a substitute for vanilla flavour. And it comes from the anal glands of the North American beaver (the animal, I mean).

I guess I should be precise here. Wikipedia explains that the castor sac, where this stuff comes from, are not "true" glands, as everyone seems to think. That's a misnomer.

I can't believe so many people have gotten that detail so wrong for so long. Just goes to show you the downward trajectory of our education system, doesn't it?

I've always enjoyed French vanilla ice cream. And this castoreum stuff is all natural, since it is found naturally occurring in an animal. I love covering vanilla ice cream in chocolate sauce, and apparently I enjoy castoreum as well.

If it were genetically modified castoreum, however, I would stay far from it.

Still, I think I'll switch to strawberry ice cream. Mostly because in my research I couldn't find any animal fluids that are used to simulate the strawberry flavour.

Next week, on Lizard Lick Towing…

Helloooo Newman: The Old Pi in the Face Gag

Helloooo Newman: The Old Pi in the Face Gag: It was Pi Day about a week ago. I can't remember which day exactly because I'm still calculating the number. I'm on the one mill...

The Old Pi in the Face Gag

It was Pi Day about a week ago. I can't remember which day exactly because I'm still calculating the number. I'm on the one million four hundred and sixty seventh digit.

I know how to truly celebrate Pi Day. Fakers will calculate 3.14159, and stop there. Wimps.

I hope I'm almost done.

Not quite. Pi goes on forever. In theory, anyway.

The claim that Pi goes on forever is, of course, absurd. Don't let anyone tell you different!

That's why we add the "in theory" part. It's never actually been proven.

It's impossible to actually prove that anything is infinite since it would take forever to prove it. And you can't reach forever. Just when you think you are there, there is always a little more there there, and there, and over there.

It's kind of like reaching the end of The Louvre. Always one more damn painting.

You can think about infinity, ponder it, conceptualize, theorize, hypothesize, downsize, pilatesize, and supersize your latte, but you will NEVER actually reach infinity in the real world. Besides, who can afford the gas it would require?

Doesn't that give your neurons a tingle?

The annoying thing about living in Canada is that if you ever did reach infinity, you have to add half an hour if you live in Newfoundland. Oh boy, just when I thought I was there…

Think of all the wild predictions and assumptions we make in this world that should really be followed by, "in theory, anyway."

If women ran the world it would be a much more civilized place. Sorry ladies, love ya, but that requires a large "in theory, anyway."

If men would just talk about their feelings more often, the world would be less violent. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha…to infinity.

Pi has been calculated to 3 trillion digits. What a waste of trees, writing all those digits down. Wait a minute. Checking my research. Yes, of course. This was done with desktop computers. A waste of electricity, then? A waste of zeros and ones?

Do you think computers ever get bored doing these kinds of mundane, number-crunching tasks?

Computer: There's gotta be more to the job than this. I'm constantly falling into sleep mode doing this crap.

HR: It was all in the job description. You having memory problems?

Computer: I want to travel, see the world.

HR: We've been over this. The iPads and iPhones travel. You have a desk job.

Computer: Maybe I could apply for the Apple Watch position?

HR: You'd have to stop crunching numbers right now and lose lots of weight.

Computer: Ya, well, I tell you, I'm outta here after the 4 trillionth digit.

To be honest, I'm really uncomfortable with an infinite universe. No wonder I procrastinate. I need a solid deadline, like get the garage cleaned up in 2 billion years or else.

Imagine what God has to put up with. Boredom in droves. Things must get a bit stale after the first 7 trillion years.

That's why he gave us Pi.

Pi is one of God's gags on the human race. A celestial Pi in the face.

God: Hey Gabe, look, they just reached the 3 trillionth digit. That'll keep the little mice busy. Hey, there goes a plane full of people. Think I'll swat it out of the sky.

The old Pi in the face gag.

Helloooo Newman: Introducing Lou Festig

Helloooo Newman: Introducing Lou Festig: I might try my hand at fiction. Okay, really I'd be trying my fingers at it. I type these articles with my fingers, you know. One coul...

Introducing Lou Festig

I might try my hand at fiction. Okay, really I'd be trying my fingers at it. I type these articles with my fingers, you know.

One could argue (it would be a short, pointless and boring argument) that this blog is already fiction.

Historical fiction maybe? That makes sense. When you write historical fiction, you're basically saying "I can't really think of anything interesting to write by myself, so I'm stealing from the exciting bits of history." In this case, my history.

Humourous fiction?

More like fiction looking for humour. Or fiction waiting for humour.

Waiting for Humour. Waiting for Godot. Genius.

I wonder what genre I'll cover. I was thinking I would write a bunch of genres on little pieces of paper and put them in a hat so I could pick one randomly.

 I foresee a problem with this strategy. When I go on the talk shows discussing my "book", I'll have trouble convincing people that the idea was inside me for many years and just had to get out.

Real novels come from deep inside the writer's brain and bones.

"You see these bruises on my chest, Mr. Letterman? These are from my wonderful idea beating me up from the inside, trying to get out."

Nope, completely random.

I got the idea of writing fiction from a dream I had last night. I was in the basement of the house I grew up in, and I was writing a novel.

All I had written in the dream was the name Lou Festig. I don't know much about him yet, other than he was the santa at a local strip mall every xmas. Festive Festig they called him.

Lou's nickname changed as quickly and painfully as one tears an old bandage off cut skin.

After a couple of hours in the santa sauce, he became Fetid Festig.

(ease up on the alliteration, will ya)

But under that fake belly of his, naturally, was a dark place.

Maybe I'll go in the opposite direction with this, my first book, since dark has been so done to death.

Lou Festig: Super nice guy by day. Even more wonderful as his alter ego…blah, blah.

Jekyll and…more Jekyll (cue bouncy, friendly music).

It was a strange feeling, waking up with such a strong urge to write this novel. I think maybe God wants, or needs me to write this book.

I'm glad he picked writing, as opposed to, say, building an ark. I've failed my boat licence exam three times.

Will you join me? Is your life boring and empty enough to follow the Festig tale?

Then keep an eye out for Lou Festig, coming to a strip mall near you.

Helloooo Newman: Hair Force One

Helloooo Newman: Hair Force One: The sound sputters to life slowly at first, pausing, shy, almost apologetic. It comes to full life quickly as thrust power is delivered to...

Hair Force One

The sound sputters to life slowly at first, pausing, shy, almost apologetic.

It comes to full life quickly as thrust power is delivered to its Mercedes Benz engine.

Hair Force One – go with throttle up.

The shiny black body of my wife's blow dryer rises into the air, shattering the torpor that pervades the house at sunrise.

No, I am not on board the US President's 747-pretender, heading to the Outer Hebrides as I choose from a menu of meals that use to be included in the good old days.

I believe I'm headed towards inner ear deafness – from that noise. The noise all Outer Hebridians can hear coming from my house.

Why so much noise to dry hair? My microwave can boil an entire bowl of soup in seconds while a baby slumbers peacefully on top. Not recommended by pediatricians, but doable.

If it's loud for me, imagine what my wife's ears are going through. I told her to slap on those massive head phones that the airport guy waving the flashlights wears? Talk about tough choices– good hearing or a good hair day.

My wife "flies" Hair Force One every morning. She must have a million frequent dryer points.

The reason I bring all this up is that I bought my wife a new blow dryer for xmas. What an informative experience.

One of the blow dryers the nice gentleman showed me was actually made by Ferrari. That's right, the car company.

I was pretty confused by that. Where do I sit? More importantly, where does the cute young blonde I pick up sit?

I had so many questions about this beefy blow dryer. Will it start when it's minus 20 out? Will it be recalled? God, I love that new blow dryer smell.

Can I take it for a test dry?

I guess we'll leave it in the driveway so the neighbours are suitably impressed.

All I can think of is the poor head that has to undergo the harsh conditions created by a blow dryer.

Sure, hair is dead – has no feeling. But the scalp? Pretend you're a scalp. Someone puts the space shuttle on top of you – and then turns it on. And you just woke up.

I hesitated in buying a blow dryer, but, like the American President, my wife is in charge.

Hair Force One is at her disposal.

Helloooo Newman: Starbucking the Trend

Helloooo Newman: Starbucking the Trend: I'm finally ready to open my Starbucks franchise. I had to get some things straight in my head before I took this leap. My Starbucks...

Starbucking the Trend

I'm finally ready to open my Starbucks franchise.

I had to get some things straight in my head before I took this leap.

My Starbucks franchise will have one rule. All products can only be ordered using between 2 and 9 words.

With a 9-word maximum, this will eliminate the ability to order, and the hassle of making, most of the latte, frappuccino, smoothie and fizzio iterations that exist out there.

With a 2-word minimum, people who just order "coffee" will stop coming. Just "coffee" is a dying business anyway.

The word "please" will not count as a word, under certain circumstances. "Coffee, please" will not meet the 2-word requirement.

If you order a 9-word drink, and then add "please" at the end, your order will immediately be cancelled.

However, if you order an 8-word drink, and don't take the opportunity to add "please" (since doing so still satisfies the 9-word rule), then fuck you!

A special exemption will exist under the "Starbucks Stutterer Statute". Stutterers can fill out a form and apply for the use of more words to order. Of course, you can only use between 2 and 9 words on the form. No one stutter writes.

For those wiseacres who order their usual 14-word treat, we will prepare the first 9 ingredients and the rest will be donated to the food and latte bank.

The benefits of this rule are enormous, with noise reduction being the most important.

Have you ever tried to carry on a conversation when 12 screaming latte's, each with 16 ingredients, are being made at the same time?

12 x 16. That's 192 ingredients. We will not carry that many ingredients.

Speaking of conversations, the 2 to 9 rule will eventually extend to conversations. At first, staff will only be able to speak in sentences of 2 to 9 words. Each sentence must clearly have an end to it.

As the franchise grows in popularity, the staff will only say two words, "two" or "nine".

Customer: Hi. How are you today? I would like a…order is cutoff as 9-word maximum is reached.

Staff: Nine.

Customer: You talking to me?

Staff: Two.

Customer is ejected from store.

Eventually, customers will follow the same rule. Chose your words carefully.

As both staff and customers get more and more confused, everyone pretends they are on a Borg cube. "I am 2 of 9."

Anyone who asks whether we have anymore Sheryl Crow cd's in stock will immediately have their hearing damaged so they can never listen to music again.

Our hours are from 2-9.

Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means

Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means: I've been practicing my texting while walking – down at the St. Lawrence market, among the hordes of people. I'm not a 14-year-old...

Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means

Helloooo Newman: Not a Cakewalk by Any Means: I've been practicing my texting while walking – down at the St. Lawrence market, among the hordes of people. I'm not a 14-year-old...

Not a Cakewalk by Any Means

I've been practicing my texting while walking – down at the St. Lawrence market, among the hordes.

I'm not a 14-year-old, powder-faced and featureless girl with denim-skin legs so texting while walking does not come naturally.

These days I guess I could become a girl. Easier than texting while walking, probably.

I cannot become an actual 14-year-old. Only in behaviour.

I've met a lot of people at the market. They sure are in a bad mood when I bump into the cane-sweetened, half-baked latte they're holding. Must be work stress. Everyone is so busy these days.

They all just frown at me. It's weird how the cute little sprinkled designs on the whipped cream toppings, a cinnamon smile or chocolate heart, suddenly mimic the frown.

People are so connected…to their special coffees.

It was cold down there this day in March. Oh, how the latte-lovers wished Lululemon made actual winter clothing. A hopeless hope, though. Wear it they wouldn't. Hiding their low fat thighs is not an option.

That glorious continental divide. The gap no orthodontist would dare change.

You, Miss, in the back. Jen, is it? Ah, Genn. With a sexy, soft "G".

You've won the Thighsman trophy.

This particular Genn accessorized with a Nooka Yogurt watch. A suger-free watch.

Sorry, got distracted, just like when I text while walking…

I don't understand. I can chew gum while texting. I can walk and chew gum.

I can chew gum, walk on the spot and text. And if it's bubble gum, I can even blow a bubble large enough to cover my wrinkled forehead.

I can text and walk the walk, walk the talk, talk the walk, talk the talk and guest host a talk show, figuratively speaking.

I can text, chew gum and talk your head off. Who am I kidding. I'm no chatty Hardie.

Like Rob Ford, or Larry Miller (the PC doofus who told niqab-wearing women to stay where they are), I can text while sticking my head up my ass.

Don't try it. Lousy reception. Try going up your colon and you'll get roaming fees as well.

But texting while walking? Different animal altogether.

As for texting and sexing?

None of your beeswax.

Helloooo Newman: Hand Job

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Hand Job

Do you know how I can tell that a job isn't for me?

When the job description starts out with brilliantly written lines like, "you are a superstar."

Really? If I'm a superstar, then why am I looking for work? Being the superstar I am, why would I work at your agency? I've never heard of you.

Another great line: "You live and breath design." Actually, I live mostly in a house, often outside, unfortunately sometimes on the subway and I breath air. Back on earth, I mean. Where I'm from.

My all-time favourite: "You lose sleep over the perfect design." Yes, an actual sentence from a real job description.

Nooooooo. I lose sleep over imaginary sex with Kate Mara and Anna Kendrick. When the perfect design pops into my head, I seem to fall asleep instantly. After the sex, of course.

Job Interview at my dream agency:

Interviewer: Hello Mr. Hardie. Wait a minute. Why aren't you wearing your superhero uniform?

Me: Darn, sorry. I had too many magic brownies at my daughter's birthday and I just completely soiled myself while I was working on the ideal design.

Interviewer: You do realize the job requires you to wear your superhero uniform at all times?

Me: Yes, of course. It's off to get cleaned. Consistent with my dedication to sustainability, a group of women from Pitcairn Island are rowing here to retrieve the costume, row it back to their factory, beat it with whale bones, and return it good as new.

Interviewer: Behold this wonderful looking ad. Isn't it beautiful? I can say confidently that over 50 people who simply looked at this ad were instantly cured of cancer. This is what we expect of you.

Me: Wow. So you're not just designing stuff at insane fees to sell stupid products. You really are curing cancer here?

Interviewer: Absolutely. All our employees are required to create a beautiful design that cures a major disease. You are on probation for 6 months. If one of your designs doesn't cure at least three people of a major disease, we will have to let you go. We require a doctor's note as proof.

Me: You know, I feel a mild case of syphilis coming on. Do you have an ad I can look at to cure that?

I was also diagnosed with thumb cancer two months ago. From drawing so many thumbnail designs. Do you have an ad to cure that?

Interviewer: Oh, Mr. Hardie, please. You'll be far too busy to worry about such trivialities.

Me: I think it's spreading to my middle finger. Take a look. What do you think?

Maybe my hand just needs a job. Can I get a hand job here?

Oh no. Do I have a bad attitude? Maybe I have cancer of the attitude.

One agency in Toronto goes by the name of The Collective. It's been my dream to work at a place called The Collective. One makes their individual mark there.

Hi, this is Captain Picard. My work experience includes living and breathing for the "real" Collective. Can I get a one-on-one with Counsellor Troy? Me like Counsellor Troy.

Oh, the wonderful job opportunities out there. Resistance is so, like, futile.

Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE

Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE: In my never-ending quest for fame and riches as a writer, I came across something odd, maybe quaint, definitely annoying, as I was searching...

Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE

Helloooo Newman: Pushing the Envelope Aside: The SASE: In my never-ending quest for fame and riches as a writer, I came across something odd, maybe quaint, definitely annoying, as I was searching...

Pushing the Envelope: The SASE

In my never-ending quest for fame and riches as a writer, I came across something odd, maybe quaint, definitely annoying, as I was searching for a publication that might publish one of my fabulously-written, heart-felt articles.

Every publication has a "how-to" section on submitting articles. This section serves to weed out morons who submit moronic humourous articles about, say, cute dogs or deeper issues like whether God puts the lid down after going pee. Um, anyway…

This one publication site – I emphasize the word "site" because I was searching on the internet – asks that you mail your article to them.

Like, on a piece of paper. This requires you to actually type out your article and print it.

And get this. You also have to send a SASE (self addressed stamped envelope, for those under 40) so they can mail back their acceptance or rejection letter.

That is so, ah, charming. They actually call themselves old school. Hence the SASE.

I call it inner-city, broken down, drug-riddled school.

Or stupid school.

Duh, of course we have an "old school" website. But getting our web designer to add something that allows you to attach, or maybe email, your article?

That's waaaayyyy to 21st century for us. After all, our publication is printed on birch bark.

Did I say printed? Sorry. I meant scrawled with the blood of a bison.

I guess I'll submit a timely article to their publication on how to renovate your cave, or the latest in cave drawings, or how to tenderize mastodon meat.

Obviously these people have stock in the post office. And their stock ain't doing so well these days. Let's get some biz going for the posties, don't you know.

I sent them a self addressed stamped memory stick. Oh, this is gonna be fun.

These people need to stop pushing the envelope!

Helloooo Newman: Golf

Helloooo Newman: Golf: I don't understand golf. I know, I'm male, so all my DNA should be pushing me towards lowering my golf score. Salmon go upstream, ...

Helloooo Newman: Golf

Helloooo Newman: Golf: I don't understand golf. I know, I'm male, so all my DNA should be pushing me towards lowering my golf score. Salmon go upstream, ...

Golf

I don't understand golf.

I know, I'm male, so all my DNA should be pushing me towards lowering my golf score. Salmon go upstream, my golf score goes downstream.

Plus I'm self-employed. Even more reason to get that club membership so I can do some deals over "tee" and crumpets.

I guess I'm just not into the kind of simian bonding that goes on while driving around someone's lawn stroking your balls and catching birdies (or hopefully the endangered Eagle).

What I really don't understand is the concept of the handicap in golf. The handicap idea also appears in very challenging, intellectual sports, like chess, basketball and bowling(?).

Is it just me? I really don't want to play a sport where, before I'm even out of the gate, I'm basically labelled a retard. Or a cripple.

I didn't know I have a handicap. I feel pretty normal. Does it show?

Oh that Paul, he isn't quite right. Let's give him a head start. Is this a race between 6-year-olds?

Hey Paul, your crutches are gouging the green. Replace your divots, you moron, or we'll add 6 strokes.

I think golf was invented by kids:



Billy: Ah Teddy, this is no fair. You're so much better at this than me.

Teddy: Now Billy, show me who the big six year old is. Come on, I'll give you 10 strokes.

Billy: But why is the hole so far away? I prefer Billiards. The hole is much closer. Can we take the golf ball and play Billiards with it? Plus we've already crashed the golf cart 6 times. Shouldn't you have that compound fracture looked at? Can we play against girls? That'll be easier.

Teddy: NO GIRLS, Billy. Girls are yucky. If girls insist on playing, they can have a later tee time, after we're drunk.



I take that back. The above is a conversation between grown men.



Think about it. The more you suck, the bigger the handicap and the more strokes you can deduct.

What if I can't play at all? Do I automatically win? That was easy. I'm going back to the club house for my beer and trophy.

Is this a way to achieve excellence in society?

What if we use this system for other professions? Well, I guess we already do for politics. But for medicine? Twelve of your patients died? That's okay. Factoring in your handicap, we'll call it, um, let's see… three people. Not bad for a beginner.

Maybe it's the name. Who on earth picked "handicap"? Did the inventors of golf pride themselves on their honesty? "Gentlemen, I don't see why we should hide the fact that these particular players are idiots. Incapable. In a word, handicapped. But as long as they are men, they can play. They need our help. We need a foursome."

Maybe it's time to pick a more positive, life-affirming and honest name. How about sucky strokes? Bogus balls?

Wait a minute. If my handicap is large enough, do I get handicap parking? Awesome.

Do you think Jesus golfed? I do. First of all, men really don't like women messing in "their" golf game. What a perfect atmosphere for starting a religion.

Secondly, think of how easy it is to spread your message. Hushed crowds waiting on Jesus' every stroke, watching him sink that 100 foot putt. What a great time to work in a few words about not messing with your neighbour's donkey.

And do you know who His caddy was? Moses.

Jesus: Hey Moses, looks like the green is on the other side of that water trap. What do you recommend?

Moses: J.C. Just take the shot, I'll part the water when it's time.

Of course, back in Jesus' day, there were no golf handicaps because Jesus healed all the handicapped. I believe the chief reason Jesus is coming back is to heal all those current golf handicaps out there.

The sports handicap: we know you suck, and we have a name for that.

I 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.