Tuesday, 28 March 2017
|Pictures of lil ol me?|
Dammit! Why don't I have nude selfies hidden online somewhere?
Every day I read how celebrity after celebrity has their nude photos hacked and all the wonderful attention they get for it. Then I think to myself, boy, I could use some of that attention. What a great way to launch a serious writing career.
Okay, I know I don't have a body anywhere resembling Scarlett Johansson, the latest victim of birthday suit hacking. The headline for my hacked photos: Zoo photos hacked, orangutan cage.
You're probably surprised that I don't already have a stash of nude selfies ripe for the exposure. Right now all I have are selfie sketches, all in various poses akin to V. Putin: riding Newman bareback (I'm shirtless), wrestling Newman in the shower with a steak knife etc. Do you know how hard it is to sketch yourself wrestling a 35-pound Aussie-Shepherd mix? And everything's wet.
By the way, I have an excellent hypnotist if you need the previous image erased from your memory.
I suppose the ultimate hacking dream is V. Putin himself snatching my photos and slowly releasing them to destroy my writing career, but building it up instead. Me, with my desperate ego, would proclaim, "Yes, that's me. It's real news."
The best I can hope for is to be hacked by someone handy with Photoshop so they can apply some male gender filters: convex chest filter, Kardashain butt filter.
Can Scarlett really be that surprised that her nudies were pilfered and exposed? Did she think the next hacking victims would be Michael Caine (84 years old), Morgan Freeman (79 years old) or Danny DeVito (72 years old)? Silly girl.
I wonder which celebrity will be the first to not keep their birthday suit photos on some device for weasels to hack.
Sunday, 26 March 2017
I read that all of our devices are spying on us with tiny cameras and bluetooth sensors. They said I should put a piece of tape over my computer camera.
Coincidentally, yesterday I discovered a camera in one of my fillings. Well, I've taken care of that. I keep a piece of duct tape over my mouth.
Saturday, 25 March 2017
|The average Helloooo Newman fan.|
Dear Helloooo Newman readers…are you finding the blogs too funny?
Lately I've had crowds of 1 or 2 people rush me, complaining that they are laughing too hard at the articles.
They suffered from "too funny", also known as being "over-funnied" and "over-entertained". Just like being "over-tired", and you can't sleep, when you are "over-entertained" you can't laugh anymore, and you actually forget what you are laughing at.
There are real dangers in "too funny".
As my brain lays awake every night delicately constructing brilliant articles (and I sleep), I've always been careful not to make things "too funny".
Do I really want to put a warning on every blog that says, "Caution: severe laughter may exacerbate certain medical conditions"? I really don't want to worsen your IBS. The word "exacerbate" makes me squirm.
Or, "Warning: brilliance and funny are closer than they appear".
All very awkward. That's why I tone down the funny. Way below 11. It's for your safety.
Like Nigel in Spinal Tap, who asked us not to look at his favourite guitar, I have locked away my best material, only to be revealed upon my death by Geraldo Rivera. Please, don't feel badly if you wish me to die soon so this "11, 12 and 13…1000" material can be revealed. All in good time.
I also stay away from "too funny" because, frankly, I don't want to steal success away from other struggling comedians, like Louis C.K., Amy Schumer and Jim Gaffigan. Struggling in the sense that they're struggling with fame and shitloads of money. I shudder at those kinds of problems.
So, the next time you visit Helloooo Newman, don't worry. I am keeping the funny down for your well being.
Friday, 24 March 2017
I was food shopping the other day and I saw a chicken "raised without antibiotics".
I immediately felt sorry for the big sucker.
What did she do when she was a little chicklet and got the flu or some other really bad virus? No antibiotics?
"Mom, I feel really sick."
"Shut up and learn to swallow that sputum you little brat. You're gonna grow up to be a nice healthy chicken that food freaks will love to eat."
"I'm coughing up blood."
"Wait 'til they tear off your wings and sell them to the local bar. Then you'll see blood, you monster."
"I think I have strep neck."
"Your neck will be soup stock one day. Your feet will be used in a weird devil/sex ritual. It's not about you ya dumbass. It's about the people that buy you. Now go run around, you free range freak."
Life can be so harsh.
Thursday, 23 March 2017
Selling houses really is a unique phenomenon in our economy.
In my neighbourhood, many of the "Sold" signs have an extra sign attached to it, reading "sold over asking".
I can't think of another product or service that could advertise this.
Store sign: Yarn for sale. 500 bundles of yarn sold over asking last week.
The only place where we bid on things and the price goes up is an auction. Selling houses is an auction, without the annoying, toothless, southern-accented redneck squealing gibberish into a microphone.
I can understand why the house seller is happy to sell for over asking. But does the buyer really want everyone reading the "sold over asking" sign?
"Welcome to the hood, neighbour. You must be the dufus who overpaid for this house."
"Sure am. Boy did we luck out."
"I have a used lawnmower I'm selling for $25,000. Interested?"
"Will you take $30,000?"
Tuesday, 21 March 2017
"Are you carrying any fruits or vegetables?", the American customs official officially asked.
A soldier of Homeland Security, or perhaps Homeland Peculiarity.
"Three apples", was our response.
Alarm bells went off. Not real alarm bells that everyone could hear, but alarm bells the customs official had installed in his head, replacing his cerebral cortex.
We were travelling from Toronto to Florida with three apples in our carry-on, so that we could eat something while imprisoned in a flying metal tube where sewer effluent acting as a ham sandwich (it won a Tony) sells on the black market for $50 U.S. (about $1,200 Canadian).
"Please see the officials in secondary", the official officially officialled.
And then it was official. Our apples were confiscated. Thrown out, in an American nod to curing world hunger.
The terrorist-seeking experts outed us. Our plan: smuggle Canadian apples into America, visit an Applebee's restaurant, thinly slice the apples and slip them into mom's apple pie while the pimply salad bar attendant was busy removing boogers from the bacon bits, where a deadly virus would take hold and spread. The virus was called "socialized medicine" and it would have destroyed America as we know it, if not for Homeland Insecurity, and some help from Paul Ryan.
After the trip, I canoed back to my terrorist training camp tucked away in Algonquin Park for a brush up and have hatched another plan.
I Googled "the largest fruit in the world" and got Jackfruit. Never heard of it. Is it from Jack and the Beanstalk?
I know what you mean. Can that really be fruit? It looks like the testes from one of the giants Jack battled.
My next American visit will include a cart of jackfruit. I bet Homeland Peculiarity isn't aware that each piece of jackfruit can weigh up to 100 lbs's. Will it break their scanner?
"Are you carrying any fruits or vegetables?", the American customs official officially asked.
"Oh yes", I answer with a Cheshire smile. "Can you help me with these, I have a bad back from picking fruit."
Monday, 20 March 2017
Sunday, 19 March 2017
Helloooo Newman is back in action.
If you're Facebook friends with me, you know just how wonderful my life was last week.
Every day was a sungasm. And fifty cents a beer. Jesus, what a great country.
But you know that already, because we used Facebook for its ultimate purpose. To let you know how wonderful our life was.
I can only hope you sat in tears and regret that your life wasn't mine, at least for last week.
By the way, you can do the same to me if you want.
Don't worry, your life is about to get much better, because Helloooo Newman is up and running again.
Thursday, 9 March 2017
There will be no new Helloooo Newman blogs next week.
Newman and I are on high-ate-us.
While we are high, you will be depressed sans your daily dose of humour.
Helloooo Newman is read in 14 different countries, and on 5 exo-planets, 3 large suns, 17 moons, 12 comets, 102 asteroids (none heading for earth), 4 parallel universes, 9 dimensions, and is coming soon to a black hole near you.
We are also available in 12 languages, as long as they are all English.
Enough about the amazing us. What about you?
Take two of the pills above every day, wait patiently, and don't call me.
Come on now, let out a hearty laugh. You'll be dry for a week.
Let's sing together from the Sound of Music: zoloft, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu
I have a great idea for a new board game.
It combines Scrabble and Perquackey.
Wait a minute, no. That was my old idea.
It's a combo of chess and Twister. Was that it? Now I'm not sure.
Let's see. I was doing laundry, the phone rang, and my bundt cake was ready, all at the same time. I ran up the stairs, forgot I had left the iron on, and quickly washed some dishes from last month. I forgot about my poor bundt cake, and suddenly noticed I hadn't fed the dog in a week.
I tripped on the iron cord and hit my head, and then…that's it. The new idea!
It combines Scattergories and Cranium.
It's called Scatterbrain.
Weird that a guy like me would get an idea like that.
What does the brain do when it asks the questions, "Who am I" and "What makes me tick?"
It gets an MRI.
That's the brain's way of getting to know itself.
This is what a brain is really thinking all day long: I'm tired of lugging this bulky body around all the time. Do I really need it? It just slows me down.
Damn! I should have developed my own legs 10 million years ago when I had the chance. What was I thinking?
Does this MRI make me look fat?
Tuesday, 7 March 2017
Here's a weird scenario.
You know how in movies when someone is losing their marbles, and to see if they have any marbles left in their marble bag, the psychiatrist asks them, "Who is the current President of the United States?"
And you have to pick the right President, or you're locked in the loony bin for life.
Today, in order to appear sane, you have to answer, "The President of the United States is Donald Trump."
To be sane, that's the correct answer. Yet the fact that he's President is insane. You've said something both sane and insane.
So in a way you are both sane and insane at the same time. So is the world.
Monday, 6 March 2017
Sunday, 5 March 2017
The next Lego movie is entitled Mar-A-Lego.
Playing a round of golf at Mar-A-Lego, Lego Trump and an indestructible Meccano Putin conspire to topple the Liberal establishment, played by Jenga.
Currently auditioning to play the resulting world order is Snakes and Ladders and Cards Against Humanity.
Saturday, 4 March 2017
Friday, 3 March 2017
They say that things are "easier said than done". Then they say, "easy does it". Well, which is it?
In light of things being so much harder to do than say, Nike is changing its slogan to "Just Say It"
It's not fair that things are easier said than done. That's why I drink alcohol. Things become equally hard to say and do. It puts saying and doing on a level playing field. It's only fair.
You know what I wonder? When a judge sentences a man to three life terms for murder, does that mean the judge believes in reincarnation, and that the man will spend the next two lifetimes in jail?
So when he's born as a baby again, the guilty man immediately has Fisher-Price handcuffs slapped on and he's taken to prison in the paddy wagon, riding in a child's car seat, of course.
That's harsh. On that basis alone, I wouldn't commit murder.
Thursday, 2 March 2017
Wednesday, 1 March 2017
Just about every week I report one of these little plastic tabs as missing. I open a loaf of bread and poof! Gone almost as fast as my PB&J sandwich.
Yesterday I hunted them down. They were ganging with my missing socks, underwear, paper clips, spare change, various screws, dry cleaning tags, Victoria's Secret receipts, dog hair, stale Cheerios, staples, boogers, Hershey's Kiss foil wrappers, beer bottle caps, floss and much more.
They were conspiring with the X-acto knife blades to stage a coup and take over the house. One of my chef's knives was there too. Apparently a small corner in the basement wasn't enough for them.
They are being held prisoner in a vacuum bag. Except for the chef's knife. I dulled his edge and hung him on the kitchen wall as an example to the other knives.
But still, some of those tabs are missing…