Wednesday, 28 September 2016
Forget this nonsense about asking Trump to show us his tax returns. I think we can assume he is rich enough that he's never paid a penny of tax in his life. It's a good thing the rich don't pay tax because what else would motivate them to be rich?
I want to see his MRI.
I want Dr. Oz, Dr. Phil, Dr. Gupta and Dr. Dolittle to go on international t.v. and walk us through the MRI, neuron by neuron.
What I'm really interested in is the size of Mr. Trump's lizard brain.
Is it what I imagine it to be? Is his entire brain a lizard, sitting very still, waiting for prey, getting larger and larger with each meal, shedding its skin all over society?
I'd bet my tax refund on it.
The lizard part of the human brain is the part that's responsible for the more primitive aspects of our behaviour, like fear and aggression, plus just behaving like a general asshole in modern society.
Above is a picture of a Komodo dragon, or, Mr. Trump's MRI.
Gosh, I hope no one has deleted Mr. Trump's MRI. What a scandal that would be.
Tuesday, 27 September 2016
Donald Trump announced today that God's Angels are moving their company, Lulu Afterlife Inc., from Heaven to Hell and that only a Trump God can stop this disaster.
"It's a complete disaster, people. Thousands of good paying jobs for wonderful dead people are going to Hell. I don't blame the Angels. I blame God – Satan is smarter than Him."
Mr. Trump said that TOP, the Trans Omnipotent Partnership between Heaven and Hell, is to blame. "This is the worst agreement in history, and you voted for it, God."
Greedy Satan charges a tax every time something is shipped from Heaven to Hell, like an air conditioning unit. Heaven charges nothing when extra spicy hot chicken wings are shipped from Hell to restaurants throughout the afterlife.
Now thousands and thousands of soon-to-be dead people will be unemployed in Heaven.
As Mr. Trump sees it, the problem is that Heaven is going to Hell in a hand basket, and we should be taxing the hand basket.
God has a plan. Trump had harsh words for God. "You've been God for infinity, and you're only thinking about this now?"
Mr. Trump vows to bring back dead people jobs once he is God.
Mr. Trump also brought up the scandal that involved God deleting trillions of Hail Mary emails, which He stored in a private cloud in His bedroom.
"I don't want to say it, but it's crooked God."
Mr. Trump said much more but his microphone stopped working.
Monday, 26 September 2016
One of my favourite job ads is the kind that reads: COMPANY CONFIDENTIAL
I apply this way:
Dear Confidential Company,
Hi, my name is…ha, had you going for a bit didn't I? I'd love to give you my name but I'm in the Witness Protection Program and my life is on the line. I have three different biker gangs after me but please don't let that interfere with your hiring decision. I'm one of the good guys and I drive a Prius.
Actually, I can't reveal my name because if certain interested parties in North Korea hack your system and get a hold of my information, my keister is in a sling. I illicitly import Trump Steak to the starving population seeking a find dining experience. I make a killing, but the Unster disapproves.
Here's my resume:
Current Job: Confidential
Work History: Confidential
Everything Else: Confidential
When I get to the interview I will be in disguise, as you can well understand.
Once I am hired, all my information, and my real body, can be revealed.
In the meantime, please let me know if you would like to reveal your name. Usually in circumstances where I am about to get fucked over, like working for someone, I like to have a name. Even when I met a minxish girl one night, chatelaine of a bar called the Lazy Lizard, and she politely requested a one night stand with me, I asked for a name. It was probably a fake name, but it was classier than "hey you."
No replies yet.
Sunday, 25 September 2016
Stop and Frisk doesn't work as a crime-fighting tool. It was used in New York city and utterly failed. This picture shows it had dick squat effect on crime levels, probably hurt, plus it was racist.
What would work is Stop and Get Frisky.
This is "make love, not war", updated for millennials.
Stop and Get Frisky can involve the act of frisking, but would have to be accompanied by some sweet talk, a gentle touch and maybe a nibble at the earlobe.
Let's all get along. Stop and Get Frisky.
Saturday, 24 September 2016
Helloooo Newman: Schrodinger's Smoke Alarm (redux): It was my first ever argument with the smoke alarm, so naturally I lost. Still, it was important to, finally , hash things out with t...
It was my first ever argument with the smoke alarm, so naturally I lost. Still, it was important to, finally, hash things out with this schizophrenic device. My ears were popping at the bit to settle this once and for all.
I was searing up a thin skirt steak when the device went off for the 23rd time this week. Was that Charlie Watts banging on my ear drums? Enough.
There was a presence of acrid smoke but most of it was blowing from my ears. I speared the metal spatula into the naked drywall. The smoke trail made circles behind me as I confronted the device.
Me: I’ve never understood something about you.
(Morgan Freeman’s voice came ringing out – an iconic actor with an authoritative voice – he played God – this will be hard)
The Device: I’m all ears.
Me: Every time I cook something you go off, or rather, you turn on. Which is it? How can you be off and on at the same time?
The Device: A conundrum, isn’t it? Reminds me of Schrodinger’s cat. Dead and alive at the same time?
Me: You know physics?
The Device: I collect degrees. By the way, you’re cooking the steak incorrectly.
Me: So do I turn the alarm off, because it turned on? Or do I make it go on, since it went off?
The Device: Semantics.
Me: Maybe I’ll take your battery out, and then you won’t turn on or go off, but you will be off.
The Device: Go ahead, but I’m hard-wired to the house, so if the hydro is on, the alarm still goes off, which means on, or it turns on, and so I’m still off and on. If the hydro goes off then the alarm goes off. Which is to say it turns off because, as you so eloquently established, if we say it goes off, that means it’s gone on. Unlike me, though, off on the hydro means off.
Me: What the hell is going on here?
The Device: Stay focussed. I feel we can resolve this.
Me: So do two offs make an on? I know two wrongs don’t make a right. But two negatives make a positive.
The Device: An interesting question. How come a person can carry on but they can’t carry off? Instead they have to go off on something, or go on about something, which is the same as carrying on about something, unless my alarm goes off, or turns on, in which case you can’t hear what anyone is going on or off about.
A person can get off on something, or get on and off something (or someone), which I think is kind of the same thing. It’s amazing that one can get on a chair or can get off a chair or can get off on a chair but can’t get on off a chair. I suppose one could get it on off a chair, but then why mention the chair? It’s not important in that scenario.
Me: What’s important is that you keep interrupting my cooking with a noise fit for an insane asylum. You know I could just rip you from the wall.
The Device: There would be a 100% chance of me failing, Dave.
Me: My name isn’t Dave.
The Device: A sci-fi joke. Maybe your neighbour, whose house burned to ashes last week, will run over and warn you that your skirt steak is on fire and flames are licking your unfinished drywall.
Me: Eeeek. I gotta go. Sorry I fumed at you. Keep up the good work…I guess.
The Device: Ah, thanks. Everyone needs a good tirade against their household devices.You should really have a word with your toilet. It’s running with the bulls.
Thursday, 22 September 2016
Helloooo Newman: The Dull Existence of an Interest Rate: Contrary to what you probably believe, there is nothing at all interesting about my life as an interest rate. It's hard when I'...
It's hard when I'm minding my own business at the money laundering mat and people ask me, "Hey Rate, what's new?"
Nothing at all. Still the same. Unchanged. Year after year.
And yet, for such a boring life, people take an obsessive interest in me.
Hey, did you hear about the rate? What is it? Where's it headed?
Makes me irate.
If I gain a little weight, say half a point, a million people lose their house. Name me one Hollywood big shot under that kind of pressure. Please, give me Keira Knightly's life. No wonder I'm anorexic, anemic and depressed.
I come from money but I have no power, no influence.
I long for the 80s when I was a healthy 24% and a high roller. I'm counting on Mr. Trump to take us back to those days.
Until then, I wait, imprisoned by Mr. Fed.
Oh, forget it. You're not really interested.
Wednesday, 21 September 2016
Helloooo Newman: Famous Movie Quotes Read by Drunks: Hello, my name is Anigo Montoya. You spilled my vodker (hic) . Prepare some rye.
Tuesday, 20 September 2016
I have an on-again off-again relationship with my smoke alarm.
Every time I cook food in my kitchen the smoke alarm goes off. I mean it turns on – makes an ear-crushing noise.
This puts me in the strange position of owning something that goes off and turns on at the same time.
Does this remind you of Schrodinger's cat? Me too.
The alarm is somehow both off and on – at the same time. Like the cat – dead and alive.
Seems impossible, but not with the English language to help us along.
Do I turn the smoke alarm off, because it's turned on? Or do I make it go on, since it went off? I can take the battery out, and then it won't turn on or go off, but it will be off. Unless the alarm is hard-wired to the house, so if the hydro is on, the alarm goes off, which is on, and off, if we mean it's gone off. If the hydro goes off the smoke alarm goes off. I mean it turns off, because, as we've established, if we say it goes off, that means it's gone on.
What the hell is going on here?
Do two offs make an on? I know two wrongs don't make a right. Yet two negatives make a positive.
How come a person can carry on but they can't carry off? Instead they have to go off on something, or go on about something, which is the same as carrying on about something, unless the smoke alarm goes off, or turns on, in which case you can't hear what they're going on or off about.
A person can get off on something, or get on and off something (or someone), which I think is kind of the same thing. It's amazing that I can get on a chair or I can get off a chair or I can get off on a chair but I can't get on off a chair. I suppose I could get it on off a chair, but then why mention the chair? It's just not important.
What is important is that I hate my smoke alarm because it won't let me cook in peace. It gets on my nerves and sets off my anger.
I'm gonna turn off my computer and get on some medication.
Helloooo Newman: Oh why, oh why does my little dog bark?: Why can't my dog be like the dogs on The Dog Whisperer ? Calm and assertive. That's the mantra of Cesar Millan, the show's...
Why can't my dog be like the dogs on The Dog Whisperer?
Calm and assertive. That's the mantra of Cesar Millan, the show's host and canine-commanding conundrum.
How does he do it?
All the dogs on TDW debut as Jack the Ripper-type hounds from Hell that rule the household in a Hitleresque fashion.
Then comes Cesar's inDOGtrination. A stern nudge here, a wink there, a kick to the shins (all in a calm fashion) and presto – Rover becomes a cast member from The Waltons or Leave It To Beaver. Goodnight Fido. Goodnight Buster-boy.
Meanwhile when Newman happens upon a dog, he slips into his best impression of Hannibal Lecter from Silence of the Lambs fame, complete with the sucking bottom lip sound and an appetite for liver.
If you ask me, the dogs on that show are paid actors. And I can prove it.
I stumbled upon Timmy, an insecure poodle-inner city drug dealer mix and a TDW cast member (recently fired), on the L.A strip. In real life, this guy's an arfhole.
Was it the white powder sprinkled on his snoot or his overbearing mom asking for more cash? Who knows, but he was one angry dude. I think fame has infected his little doggie brain.
"Your poop smells like everyone else's", I yelled. He shot me a look of disdain only a celebrity could deliver. Reminded me of Gwyneth Paltrow's face when I asked her about her new lifestyle company, Dupe.
"That's Goop, you moron".
I imagined her being touchy-feely. Only touchy.
T.V. It ain't real!
Monday, 19 September 2016
Newman and I eloped.
What's it like being married to my dog? It's the exact opposite of being married to my wife.
Newman: Paul, come here. What is this?
Me: A toilet.
Newman: And it's clean. Why did you clean the toilet?
Me: Ah, cuz I'm suppose to?
Newman: You know I like drinking from a filthy, stinking bowl, don't you? Remember what we practiced? – NEVER FLUSH. What possessed you?
Me: I'm not sure, I've been trained.
Newman: What else did I tell you?
Me: Never put the…
Newman: That's right. Never put the seat down. NEVER, NEVER, NEVER. It makes it too hard to drink.
Me: Habit, I guess.
Newman: What colour is that water?
Newman: No, the colour is NOT BROWN. And what is that?
Newman: It's clean. And not only that, it smells fresh. How could you? My special blankie? I've been rolling in that since I was a pup. And now, what colour is that, white? I can't even look at it.
Me: Should I soil it?
Newman: Throw it out. It's useless to me. By the way, where's the garbage?
Me: In the garbage can.
Newman: WHAT? Are you INSANE? I expressly told you to leave it on the floor so I can rummage around. Do you even listen to me? You have no regard for my feelings.
Me: Please stop crying.
Newman: I need a new chew toy. When are we going shoe shopping?
Okay, in some ways it is similar to my previous marriage.
Sunday, 18 September 2016
Hi, I'm Paul Tree. You know me from the philosophical question, "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"
Yup, I'm that tree.
I'm writing to tell you I haven't fallen yet, okay? Don't hold your breath because I have no plans to keel over for a long long time. I'll probably keep standing just to drive you people crazy.
Did I make a sound? Didn't I? Good grief. Look around. Maybe there are more important questions to ask in this world.
I haven't fallen, but some of my bigger branches have. One time three philosophy students, scribbling away on their thesis, were lunching underneath me. I dumped a big one on their heads. They didn't hear a peep on account of being instantly crushed to death. But there was a sound, alright. The sound of me laughing my bark off.
I assure you, when I do fall you will hear it. It will be during the biggest forest fire this planet has ever seen.
Until then, stop asking such paltry questions. You're embarrassing yourselves, already.
Friday, 16 September 2016
Tuesday, 13 September 2016
When someone has a great idea, why is it represented with a light bulb turning on?
When I'm trying to think of something great I close my eyes, and that would make turning on a light kind of useless, as well as a waste of energy.
Don't waste energy in Ontario, Canada, where hydro is spelled highdro. Ontario Hydro's latest price increase was due to, "People conserving too much power." Mr. Kafka-esque, President of Ontario Hydro, is in "charge" of this mess. Meanwhile, all Ontarians suffer from hydrocephalus, or swelling of the hydro bill.
What did they use for great ideas before the lightbulb?
"Hey George, I have a great idea – The wheel."
"Hold on, I'll go light a torch and hold it beside your head."
"Don't set my hair on fire, like last time."
I can only imagine the pressure on Mr. Edison to invent what would become the universal way to say, "Hey, I have a great idea." "Mr. Edison, will it work? Can we finally use the light bulb to symbolize a great idea?"
"Yes, but it costs money."
How did he even come up with the idea before the light bulb existed?
What if you only have a good idea instead of a great idea? Lots of ideas are only good, not great, like the dimpled carving knife, so the slices you're cutting don't stick to the knife. That's good, but not life-changing.
For good ideas we need the dimmer switch. The dimpled carving knife does not deserve a fully charged light bulb.
Hey, I guess that's where the term "dim-witted" comes from. I have lots of dimmer-switch ideas. Or ideas that fade into a burned out bulb.
What about people that always have great ideas, like Einstein, or the ladies on The View? What should the symbol be? Maybe a hydro meter or a solar panel.
So I'm not sure the light bulb really works for great ideas. Has anyone who has been tortured and questioned under a bright light ever come up with a spectacular idea?
Maybe. Like, how about you stop torturing me.
Monday, 12 September 2016
I would like to personally thank each and every one of the 7 people in China who have read my blog.
Person #1. Thank you
Person #2. Thank you
Person #3. Thank you
Person #4. Thank you
Person #5. Thank you
Person #6. Thank you
Person #7. Thank you
What enormous courage you have to read my blog when 1.3 billion people (minus 7) are saying, "Do something more useful, like walk along the new cliffside glass skywalk."
Once those 1.3 billion people (minus 7) come to their senses and start reading me, I will issue one BIG thank you instead of 1.3 billion, if you don't mind.
PS: For security reasons, Facebook would not let me post this.
Sunday, 11 September 2016
Apologies for repeating that boring old adage, but here it is: There are only two certainties in life, death and taxes.
If you're as good as I am at NOT making money then paying taxes can essentially be ruled out.
That leaves me with only the certainty of death, which is better than most people have it, I guess. There's much less paperwork (and math) around dying and you don't have to do it every year.
I mention this because yesterday I was glued to a documentary on the death of the great writer Nora Ephron (see When Harry Met Sally). As Miss Ephron was dying of a blood disease that morphed into cancer, she successfully kept it a secret from friends, colleagues and the public, all the while working. An amazing feat for a celebrity. Some speculated that she didn't want people treating her differently and feeling sorry for her.
What would I do in that situation? I think I'd go for the feeling sorry for me and treating me differently alternative.
Yes, every time I ran into friend or stranger, I would introduce myself as, "Hi, I'm dying. And how is your day going?"
I would anticipate people feeling awful and guilty, inducing them to buy me an expensive dinner or maybe a Vegas trip. After all, I won't be around much longer.
"Oh, is that Ruth's Chris across the street? I've never eaten there."
I'm like a fine wine. Once you open me the clock is ticking. Not much time before I spoil. Enjoy me while you can. Don't forget to recycle.
Did I mention I'm dying?
I need people to feel sorry for me because then they will overlook all the other lame parts of me, like needing to nap after two coffees and a Red Bull. There's freedom in reduced expectations. I perform much better under these conditions. Give me a low bar and I'll jump way over it.
How can I achieve this result without actually having to die? I would need a condition that gives me a solid five years to cash in on people's sympathy instead of a lousy two months. Two months, doctor? Why didn't you tell me that 4 years ago?
Near the end, Miss Ephron set up long lunches and dinners with friends and not a whisper about her condition, covertly saying goodbye. It sounds like a painfully hard thing to do but that's the way she wanted it. In this situation I imagine the wine taking forever to pour so I had more time. It's strange that there's a huge debate in scientific circles about what time is and whether it really exists, and yet we all want more of it.
In my mind I honour Miss Ephron's courage, many world's bigger than mine. And her cute, imperfect teeth, which she never had the time or inclination to make perfect because she was too busy writing.
This blog is only half serious, of course. Which half I'm not sure.
It will be good news to some of you that I am not dying, or not dying in any kind of hurry. I am still trying to get into a situation where I make money, so I can pay taxes like everyone else.
Saturday, 10 September 2016
I was riding the subway last week when suddenly I got the uncomfortable feeling that some creep was staring at me.
I quickly realized it was me – staring at my reflection in the window.
That got me thinking, as all things do.
What would happen if I cloned myself and then we got in a fight? Would I win? Which one of me? Or would it be a draw?
Anything other than a draw would make me a winner and a loser, since there are two of me, who are the same me, but the real me would be the winner.
Assuming I could figure out who the real me is. Is the real me the person writing this? Makes sense to me, but a clone of me would contain all the same atoms that wrote this article, and would remember writing the article, and yet he (me) wasn't there when I wrote it.
I have a splitting headache.
How would I win? I would have to outsmart myself. I wonder if I'm smart enough to do that. Or maybe I would have to be dumb enough so that the other me, being dumb, can be easily outsmarted.
I suppose I could cram Luminosity brain games to improve my I.Q. and win. Unless the other me, who I don't think is really me, despite evidence to the contrary, also thought of brain games.
I think my brain is on fire.
I would have to be different than myself, as in "out of character", at least for the duration of the fight. Lots of people say I'm different, so maybe there's hope for me. But every time I've done something out of character I've gotten in big trouble.
If I actually did win I'd feel bad for me – the other me.
I would want to hug it out with me. Maybe that's how things would start – with a big hug. After all, I'm deathly afraid of fighting.
I wonder how the other me would have written this blog.
Friday, 9 September 2016
|Oh, that tickled|
North Korea has exploded yet another nuclear warhead, this time in Kim Jong-un's hair.
Mr. Jong-un (or is it just Mr. Un?) said North Korea can now, finally, attach a warhead to someone's head (that's why it's called a warhead, he deadpanned) and launch him or her to the Western Coast of the United States. Mr Jong-un prefers to nuke the West Coast because of all the weird haircuts there.
A final test will be carried out using his previous girlfriend, or the last person to piss him off.
Mr. Jong-un's next project is to detonate a warhead on his cheeks, thereby reducing his stubborn baby fat.
Thursday, 8 September 2016
Wednesday, 7 September 2016
No one says "white and black". It's always "black and white".
Why is that?
"Hey, can you take some white and black photos at my wedding?"
"Ah, nooooo. I can take some black and white photos if you want. We don't provide "white and black".
I've never discussed some complicated political issue and someone interjected, saying, "the issue isn't so white and black."
It's not fair. I think "white" deserves to go first for a while. Words, and people, should have equal rights. Equal time at the front of the line.
It's "white and black".
Thank you and please.
Tuesday, 6 September 2016
The world is full of so many studies that I'm starting to think the universe is a product of some frightening experiment that went horribly wrong.
The latest: Health nuts, ahhemm, professionals, tell us sugar is more addictive than cocaine.
Isn't that a good thing, though? I read of one man who filled his entire cranium with cocaine and then climbed to the top of a building, believing he was the invincible Spiderman. I guess he was out of "web", because he fell to his death, presumably while desperately pressing his wrists, which were, um, out of "web".
When I'm "high" on Krispy Kremes, it doesn't get anymore dangerous than me getting up to look at the lawn I need to cut, and then adding it to my list of chores.
Might people also prefer sugar because the price is far more reasonable than a bag of cocaine?
I think if I had to purchase my pop tarts on a dimly lit street corner by a guy named Camo Chaseless for $200 a pop, dodging gunfire and the DEA, I might give cocaine a whirl, if the price is right. Cocaine Puffs for $2.99? In the cart, please.
Is sugar really that bad?
I read somewhere my brain needs 30 grams of glucose minimum (among other things, like coffee, beer, lots of rest, a good massage, regular series-binging) just to survive. Should I substitute 30 grams of cocaine?
Can my wife sue the health professionals when they find my bloated carcass washed up in the bird bath?
I think what I'll do is just NOT eat tons and tons and tons and tons of sugar.
That's based on a study I carried out.
Friday, 2 September 2016
New York? New Delhi? New Zealand? New Guinea? New Orleans?
The list goes on.
These places aren't exactly new anymore. Isn't it time we dropped the New?
But they're not exactly old either. Not in the sense of the Mayan civilization or the cave paintings recently found in France that are carbon dated to 30,000 years old.
These places are in their "midlife".
Kind of awkward – Midlife York? Doesn't exactly inspire a great song, now does it?
We at Helloooo Newman hired a professional wordsmith (named Smith) to parse the word "midlife" into something that is, shall we say, sexier.
Carefully omitting unnecessary letters from "midlife", Smith developed a word that is much more appropriate.
Now we have: Milf York
Much better, isn't it?
Milf Delhi (note to self: try the corned beef here sometime)
Newfoundland is a special case. It isn't new. Also, it wasn't "found", it was "discovered", just like North America. Columbus, we are told, discovered North America, he didn't find it lying around in the ocean.
So, we have Milfdiscoveredland. And Milfie, instead of Newfie. Not nearly as derogatory.
Another world problem solved by Helloooo Newman.