HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Wednesday 30 October 2013
Thursday 24 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: Man Boobs
Helloooo Newman: Man Boobs: Readers should be aware that I am a male. While I consider myself a male that has progressed out of the Cro Magnon stage, nature made me a m...
Man Boobs
Readers should be aware that I am a male. While I consider myself a male that has progressed out of the Cro Magnon stage, nature made me a male and that means I am, by genetics and social training, part pig.
The pig part of me has always wondered what it would be like to have breasts. Would I do anything other than play with them all day? I think not.
Well, in the last few days I almost had a chance to find out what it would be like to have man boobs. And I don't mean the man boobs developed by consuming too many chicken wings and beer.
The last few days I have had a continuous headache. I believe it is caused by issues I am having with M, who you can learn about in an earlier blog. I will speak no further on M.
But I will on the breasts. Breasts are a marvel of engineering. So simple in design and very easy to use. I'm pretty sure Steve Jobs (and his team) at Apple had a hand in designing the breast way back. It is just too sleek and user-friendly not to be so. I would like to have been one of those hands, let me tell you.
What a laugh if Bill Gates got to the breast first. Males today would be caressing something resembling an appendix and these "breasts" would take many minutes to expand just so you could use them. There would be all kinds of incomprehensible security features in the way of enjoying them and, of course, once you finally got going and "using" them they would crash.
Excellent Job(s), Steve.
Back to the headache, Mr. Pig. I have been trying all kinds of different types of pain killers to try and get back to my joyful self. Nothing worked permanently.
In the past I have found that the gel caps work nicely. You shouldn't confuse these with the gel PACKS that are used in breast enlargement work. The caps are way too small for that.
Alas, my search of the house turned up some caps. I consumed them at a dosage that would more suit a Haflinger horse.
They started to do the job so I continued in my consumption. Two hours ago I reached for a handful of caps when suddenly my wife asked me what I was up to? Did she find my porn collection? Do I have a porn collection? As if!
She was concerned because the gels caps I was ingesting were not aspirin. Oh no they weren't.
They were a medicinal pill to treat menopause. When I heard the word menopause, I paused.
I suddenly felt 6 pounds heavier on my chest. These hormone boosters were coursing through my veins on their way to my nipples. My headache returned. But I also felt a tad excited. Think of the possibilities.
At the nursery school where I play piano every day all the children call me Mrs. Hardie. Suddenly that would make sense.
I'm still watching and waiting. I guess I'm in a bit of a competition with my daughter.
I wonder who will win?
The pig part of me has always wondered what it would be like to have breasts. Would I do anything other than play with them all day? I think not.
Well, in the last few days I almost had a chance to find out what it would be like to have man boobs. And I don't mean the man boobs developed by consuming too many chicken wings and beer.
The last few days I have had a continuous headache. I believe it is caused by issues I am having with M, who you can learn about in an earlier blog. I will speak no further on M.
But I will on the breasts. Breasts are a marvel of engineering. So simple in design and very easy to use. I'm pretty sure Steve Jobs (and his team) at Apple had a hand in designing the breast way back. It is just too sleek and user-friendly not to be so. I would like to have been one of those hands, let me tell you.
What a laugh if Bill Gates got to the breast first. Males today would be caressing something resembling an appendix and these "breasts" would take many minutes to expand just so you could use them. There would be all kinds of incomprehensible security features in the way of enjoying them and, of course, once you finally got going and "using" them they would crash.
Excellent Job(s), Steve.
Back to the headache, Mr. Pig. I have been trying all kinds of different types of pain killers to try and get back to my joyful self. Nothing worked permanently.
In the past I have found that the gel caps work nicely. You shouldn't confuse these with the gel PACKS that are used in breast enlargement work. The caps are way too small for that.
Alas, my search of the house turned up some caps. I consumed them at a dosage that would more suit a Haflinger horse.
They started to do the job so I continued in my consumption. Two hours ago I reached for a handful of caps when suddenly my wife asked me what I was up to? Did she find my porn collection? Do I have a porn collection? As if!
She was concerned because the gels caps I was ingesting were not aspirin. Oh no they weren't.
They were a medicinal pill to treat menopause. When I heard the word menopause, I paused.
I suddenly felt 6 pounds heavier on my chest. These hormone boosters were coursing through my veins on their way to my nipples. My headache returned. But I also felt a tad excited. Think of the possibilities.
At the nursery school where I play piano every day all the children call me Mrs. Hardie. Suddenly that would make sense.
I'm still watching and waiting. I guess I'm in a bit of a competition with my daughter.
I wonder who will win?
Helloooo Newman: Newman loves to run these days
Helloooo Newman: Newman loves to run these days: That's a strange title. Of course Newman loves to run. What would be all of a sudden about it? And what dog doesn't love to run? Exc...
Newman loves to run these days
That's a strange title. Of course Newman loves to run. What would be all of a sudden about it? And what dog doesn't love to run? Except, maybe, for those tiny lap dogs that love the feel of fur coats on their belly.
Unfortunately, I don't mean "run", I mean "the runs".
For about a week now, Newman has not been spitting out poop popsicles but more like poop shakes.
This means getting up 3-4 times a night so he can go and mix another shake outside.
Our expert sources tell us that eating rice might help. That would be plain rice. I gave him spicy rice. Nice.
So now it's PLAIN rice every day until this madness stops. The toughest part has been teaching him how to use chop sticks. Even I have trouble with this.
The thing that really irks me is where Newman chooses to drop a shake when he can't hold it long enough to get outside. He drops it under the piano every time.
Is this a message? A comment on my musical skills? My teaching abilities?
Why not go near the t.v.? There's lots of crap on the t.v. Or the garbage? Poop and garbage kinda belong together.
It reminds me of that Sesame Street game, which one of these things doesn't belong with the other. I happen to think dog poop (any poop, really) and my musical abilities don't go together, thank you very much.
Tomorrow, kids, we'll learn about the time Mr. Snuffleupagus had the runs. Now that's scary.
Unfortunately, I don't mean "run", I mean "the runs".
For about a week now, Newman has not been spitting out poop popsicles but more like poop shakes.
This means getting up 3-4 times a night so he can go and mix another shake outside.
Our expert sources tell us that eating rice might help. That would be plain rice. I gave him spicy rice. Nice.
So now it's PLAIN rice every day until this madness stops. The toughest part has been teaching him how to use chop sticks. Even I have trouble with this.
The thing that really irks me is where Newman chooses to drop a shake when he can't hold it long enough to get outside. He drops it under the piano every time.
Is this a message? A comment on my musical skills? My teaching abilities?
Why not go near the t.v.? There's lots of crap on the t.v. Or the garbage? Poop and garbage kinda belong together.
It reminds me of that Sesame Street game, which one of these things doesn't belong with the other. I happen to think dog poop (any poop, really) and my musical abilities don't go together, thank you very much.
Tomorrow, kids, we'll learn about the time Mr. Snuffleupagus had the runs. Now that's scary.
Monday 21 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: Dog Raising Mistakes 101
Helloooo Newman: Dog Raising Mistakes 101: When a dog is very well behaved for a long period of time, it presents a real danger to the owner. I know it sounds contradictory, but thi...
Dog Raising Mistakes 101
When a dog is very well behaved for a long period of time, it presents a real danger to the owner.
I know it sounds contradictory, but this is the time to be on your guard.
As usual, it has nothing to do with the dog, but with human psychology. Or at least my psychology, as warped a sample as it is.
Up until now, Newman has been quite well behaved. Especially in the one activity that all dogs seem to get off on doing, which is rolling in the grass. if it weren't for the missing gonads, I guess that might be a roll in the hay.
Newman looooves to roll in grass. And not once have I ever, ever had to worry that he would choose any other grass than clean, fresh, plump grass.
This goodness is quite deceiving. It led me to believe, fall for, the idea that Newman is a human being and thinks like one too. A good, reasonable human being, of which there may not be many, but he is one of them for sure.
Your dog in no way whatsoever thinks like you. Write this wisdom on your walls, mirrors and forehead. Buy the t-shirt. Brand it into the backside of your dog. Say it to yourself over and over again while listening to Deepak Chopra pull you into a meditative trance and pick your pocket.
Keep an eye on Deepak while you're doing this. I once saw him in an interview wearing what looked like a $10,000 sweater with silk and gold and diamonds. Unusual apparel for a guy who says we're all just pure consciousness and consciousness doesn't need "things" to be happy. My consciousness once tried shopping at Holt's and left very depressed.
Sorry for the bad news, but your dog does not think like you and doesn't relate to anything you do. He or she just tries to follow incomprehensible rules in hopes of being fed.
Today Newman rolled in the plump grass. The two words missing here are clean and fresh. He now smells like a combination of pig vomit, rotting potatoes, skunk urine, ammonia and nail polish remover. I've smelled all of these one at a time, but never in a combo like this. I called Febreze to see if they'd put him in one of their commercials but they'd have to hurry because I'm putting him in the dishwasher. They declined on creative grounds.
Newman is happy as a clam smelling like death turned inside out. Surprising, but I don't think like that.
Your dog in no way whatsoever thinks like you. You've been warned.
I know it sounds contradictory, but this is the time to be on your guard.
As usual, it has nothing to do with the dog, but with human psychology. Or at least my psychology, as warped a sample as it is.
Up until now, Newman has been quite well behaved. Especially in the one activity that all dogs seem to get off on doing, which is rolling in the grass. if it weren't for the missing gonads, I guess that might be a roll in the hay.
Newman looooves to roll in grass. And not once have I ever, ever had to worry that he would choose any other grass than clean, fresh, plump grass.
This goodness is quite deceiving. It led me to believe, fall for, the idea that Newman is a human being and thinks like one too. A good, reasonable human being, of which there may not be many, but he is one of them for sure.
Your dog in no way whatsoever thinks like you. Write this wisdom on your walls, mirrors and forehead. Buy the t-shirt. Brand it into the backside of your dog. Say it to yourself over and over again while listening to Deepak Chopra pull you into a meditative trance and pick your pocket.
Keep an eye on Deepak while you're doing this. I once saw him in an interview wearing what looked like a $10,000 sweater with silk and gold and diamonds. Unusual apparel for a guy who says we're all just pure consciousness and consciousness doesn't need "things" to be happy. My consciousness once tried shopping at Holt's and left very depressed.
Sorry for the bad news, but your dog does not think like you and doesn't relate to anything you do. He or she just tries to follow incomprehensible rules in hopes of being fed.
Today Newman rolled in the plump grass. The two words missing here are clean and fresh. He now smells like a combination of pig vomit, rotting potatoes, skunk urine, ammonia and nail polish remover. I've smelled all of these one at a time, but never in a combo like this. I called Febreze to see if they'd put him in one of their commercials but they'd have to hurry because I'm putting him in the dishwasher. They declined on creative grounds.
Newman is happy as a clam smelling like death turned inside out. Surprising, but I don't think like that.
Your dog in no way whatsoever thinks like you. You've been warned.
Sunday 20 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: Blow your own whistle
Helloooo Newman: Blow your own whistle: Whistleblowing is really trendy these days. A whistleblower is someone who works at an institution like the government or a corporation an...
Blow your own whistle
Whistleblowing is really trendy these days.
A whistleblower is someone who works at an institution like the government or a corporation and who reveals secrets about the institution to expose, as the great philosopher George Bush terms them, evil doers.
Whistleblowers use to do their business in secret. I refer, of course, to the famous Deep Throat, a la Watergate, who only did his business in underground parking garages in half light and had the gall to always be standing in the handicap space.
We all know Deep Throat helped expose Richard Nixon, who I would accuse of having had narcissistic personality disorder, except it's hard to assign him any personality at all.
The current whistleblower of the month is Edward Snowden, a young guy who I don't think even has to shave yet. He did not meet in parking garages, probably because he doesn't have his licence yet, or only has the licence that lets him drive with an adult, and he couldn't find anyone else who wanted to expose the NSA and then move to beautiful KGB Headquarters in Moscow.
Snowden made sure the first thing everyone knew was his name and face. I have mixed feelings about what Mr. Ed did. It certainly is startling that the NSA tracks how many junk emails I get on penis enlargement technology. This technology doesn't even work. On the bright side, I can add some NSA office spies as readers of this blog. Especially this article. Right now.
Anyway, who am I to judge Snowden and what he did? I just think that he might not be the brightest guy in the parking garage, if he chose to meet in one. Virtuous, yes. Bright? Well, let me see. He exposes the U.S. government for tracking everyone's every move, then moves to a country whose expertise lies in tracking everyone's every move, has been for many decades, and has resulted in many, many people disappearing throughout its history.
Life is all about priorities, I guess.
Now to my point. It's not to preach or give a history lesson. It's to express my outrage at the whistleblower in my own home. My daughter.
My wife was away this weekend at the cottage for a girl's weekend. On the topic of spying, I would have loved to go up there and track their every movement, but I didn't have the technology, a car.
Saturday night my daughter calls the cottage to speak to mommy. The conversation is very sweet, adorable, gosh darn cute. Until my daughter felt the need to reveal that the house is clean, except for the kitchen, which is a disgusting mess. This is a direct quote taken from my tapes of the conversation. Daddy has turned the kitchen into a nightmare.
That mess is called cooking, girl. No, you didn't save the world by revealing Kitchengate.
I am now sleeping in our parking garage.
A whistleblower is someone who works at an institution like the government or a corporation and who reveals secrets about the institution to expose, as the great philosopher George Bush terms them, evil doers.
Whistleblowers use to do their business in secret. I refer, of course, to the famous Deep Throat, a la Watergate, who only did his business in underground parking garages in half light and had the gall to always be standing in the handicap space.
We all know Deep Throat helped expose Richard Nixon, who I would accuse of having had narcissistic personality disorder, except it's hard to assign him any personality at all.
The current whistleblower of the month is Edward Snowden, a young guy who I don't think even has to shave yet. He did not meet in parking garages, probably because he doesn't have his licence yet, or only has the licence that lets him drive with an adult, and he couldn't find anyone else who wanted to expose the NSA and then move to beautiful KGB Headquarters in Moscow.
Snowden made sure the first thing everyone knew was his name and face. I have mixed feelings about what Mr. Ed did. It certainly is startling that the NSA tracks how many junk emails I get on penis enlargement technology. This technology doesn't even work. On the bright side, I can add some NSA office spies as readers of this blog. Especially this article. Right now.
Anyway, who am I to judge Snowden and what he did? I just think that he might not be the brightest guy in the parking garage, if he chose to meet in one. Virtuous, yes. Bright? Well, let me see. He exposes the U.S. government for tracking everyone's every move, then moves to a country whose expertise lies in tracking everyone's every move, has been for many decades, and has resulted in many, many people disappearing throughout its history.
Life is all about priorities, I guess.
Now to my point. It's not to preach or give a history lesson. It's to express my outrage at the whistleblower in my own home. My daughter.
My wife was away this weekend at the cottage for a girl's weekend. On the topic of spying, I would have loved to go up there and track their every movement, but I didn't have the technology, a car.
Saturday night my daughter calls the cottage to speak to mommy. The conversation is very sweet, adorable, gosh darn cute. Until my daughter felt the need to reveal that the house is clean, except for the kitchen, which is a disgusting mess. This is a direct quote taken from my tapes of the conversation. Daddy has turned the kitchen into a nightmare.
That mess is called cooking, girl. No, you didn't save the world by revealing Kitchengate.
I am now sleeping in our parking garage.
Smile, and the whole dog world smiles back
One thing I like to do, which I've never seen anyone else do (among humans, anyway) is smile at dogs.
That's right. I'll be walking along Bayview and there will be a dog waiting patiently while his or her owner is buying a half caf., steamed, not boiled, spritzer highball no-fat, trans-fat skim milk latte mixed with the latest probiotic and a side of actual wholesome food, like a thin wedge of biscotti. This is immediately followed by a visit to the health store, where they ingest a whole body and mind cleansing pill (20 pills in total) for $120.
I make eye contact with the dog and smile. And they DO smile back. I think dogs get it when you smile at them. They get the friendly connection you are trying to make. Certainly more so than the skin-covered human skeletons prancing around Bayview.
If I see a wild dog, I am very careful not to smile. I once read in a book about dogs, written by a dog, that if you smile at a wild dog, it sees it as a threat. That's because in the wild when you smile, it means you are baring your teeth. And that means fightin' time. There are no friendships in the wild. There's only me being alive, or you being alive.
There are no real friendships on Bayview either, really. There's only me having a big house, or you having a big house.
This baring teeth thing could never happen on Bayview. For one thing, everyone's teeth, including the dog's teeth, are so damn white. How could such friendly, white, expensive teeth be any threat?
No, I don't wave at the dog. I'm not a fool.
That's right. I'll be walking along Bayview and there will be a dog waiting patiently while his or her owner is buying a half caf., steamed, not boiled, spritzer highball no-fat, trans-fat skim milk latte mixed with the latest probiotic and a side of actual wholesome food, like a thin wedge of biscotti. This is immediately followed by a visit to the health store, where they ingest a whole body and mind cleansing pill (20 pills in total) for $120.
I make eye contact with the dog and smile. And they DO smile back. I think dogs get it when you smile at them. They get the friendly connection you are trying to make. Certainly more so than the skin-covered human skeletons prancing around Bayview.
If I see a wild dog, I am very careful not to smile. I once read in a book about dogs, written by a dog, that if you smile at a wild dog, it sees it as a threat. That's because in the wild when you smile, it means you are baring your teeth. And that means fightin' time. There are no friendships in the wild. There's only me being alive, or you being alive.
There are no real friendships on Bayview either, really. There's only me having a big house, or you having a big house.
This baring teeth thing could never happen on Bayview. For one thing, everyone's teeth, including the dog's teeth, are so damn white. How could such friendly, white, expensive teeth be any threat?
No, I don't wave at the dog. I'm not a fool.
Thursday 17 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: A Surfeit of Choice
Helloooo Newman: A Surfeit of Choice: It's nice to have choices in life. For most of human history, humans have had a choice between a life that resembles death, and death it...
A Surfeit of Choice
It's nice to have choices in life. For most of human history, humans have had a choice between a life that resembles death, and death itself.
Some choices I don't understand. For instance, when you are watching a youtube video, a resource where I get most of my knowledge and experience from these days, you have a choice of watching the commercial before the exciting video, or skipping it.
Really? Is that a choice people wrestle with? Hmmm, well, I am looking for a date, so maybe that eharmony ad will finally get me going. If that doesn't work, I can always visit the fun site Cougars who look like John Mellencamp.
I really don't understand the strategy. Who is the target group of people that want to delay gratification with a commercial telling you Tim Horton's coffee is always served within 20 minutes? I could serve a pot of mud in 20 minutes, but it would still be mud. I suppose fresh mud would be more refreshing than dry, stale mud.
When men turn fifty, they are suppose to get rectal exams, or send their poop in the mail for a rectum test. But if the need for this rectum rendezvous suddenly disappeared - maybe some miracle preventive cream is found, or some hose device that betters your bowels - would I keep going for the exam? I guess some people would, now that I think about it. The same people who would visit the website mentioned above.
Would hospitals send letters giving you a choice of staying home and enjoying a nice steak dinner with your family or coming in to have fingers surfing in your butt? If yes, please check the box and also let us know which two fingers you prefer.
Some youtube video commercials make you watch 5 seconds before you can "choose" to skip it. That's great, because it could be a really important message that will improve my life immensely. I have found that I need about 5 seconds to make that determination. A bit of a tease, though. In the same vein, hospitals would tease you to come for a rectal rendezvous by promising that a pretty nurse with sexy, slender fingers (maybe dressed in sexy black fish net finger stockings and fingertip heels) will find your "P" spot.
I really hope we don't loose this important choice in life.
Some choices I don't understand. For instance, when you are watching a youtube video, a resource where I get most of my knowledge and experience from these days, you have a choice of watching the commercial before the exciting video, or skipping it.
Really? Is that a choice people wrestle with? Hmmm, well, I am looking for a date, so maybe that eharmony ad will finally get me going. If that doesn't work, I can always visit the fun site Cougars who look like John Mellencamp.
I really don't understand the strategy. Who is the target group of people that want to delay gratification with a commercial telling you Tim Horton's coffee is always served within 20 minutes? I could serve a pot of mud in 20 minutes, but it would still be mud. I suppose fresh mud would be more refreshing than dry, stale mud.
When men turn fifty, they are suppose to get rectal exams, or send their poop in the mail for a rectum test. But if the need for this rectum rendezvous suddenly disappeared - maybe some miracle preventive cream is found, or some hose device that betters your bowels - would I keep going for the exam? I guess some people would, now that I think about it. The same people who would visit the website mentioned above.
Would hospitals send letters giving you a choice of staying home and enjoying a nice steak dinner with your family or coming in to have fingers surfing in your butt? If yes, please check the box and also let us know which two fingers you prefer.
Some youtube video commercials make you watch 5 seconds before you can "choose" to skip it. That's great, because it could be a really important message that will improve my life immensely. I have found that I need about 5 seconds to make that determination. A bit of a tease, though. In the same vein, hospitals would tease you to come for a rectal rendezvous by promising that a pretty nurse with sexy, slender fingers (maybe dressed in sexy black fish net finger stockings and fingertip heels) will find your "P" spot.
I really hope we don't loose this important choice in life.
Wednesday 9 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: I Hat Piano
Helloooo Newman: I Hat Piano: There's an old music teacher's proverb that goes like this: dying is easy, teaching kids piano is hard. Actually, it's a new p...
I Hat Piano
There's an old music teacher's proverb that goes like this: dying is easy, teaching kids piano is hard.
Actually, it's a new proverb because I just made it up, and actually stole part of it too.
Let's try another proverb. Those who can, do; Those who can't, teach; Those who can't teach, teach gym; And those can't teach gym, continually teach themselves that corporal punishment isn't allowed these days.
I really only have a few simple criteria that I think children should meet before they undergo piano lessons.
They should know their right hand from their left hand, and their ass from their elbow. And none of these body parts should be in their nose.
They should know how to spell. As I was explaining to one child the "concept" of middle c, like where it is located, I turned to him and saw him writing in his notebook.
That's cute, I thought. He's taking notes as I bring years of experience to my teaching moment.
"Can I see what you wrote?", I asked. He handed me the notebook. Chicken scratch, but I made it out. I hat piano, it said. Hmmm. He's expressing an opinion, but what does it mean?
My brain quickly rattled through all the words I know in the English language, how to spell things, various combinations of letters, the square root of pi etc.
I'm no dummy. This boy did very well, because there's only one letter missing. "E". Yes, at the end of hat. This cute boy wanted me to know he hates piano. I was very appreciative of his honesty and, I have to admit, a little raged that I wasted my limited breath on middle c.
I decided to make a game of it. "You want to wear a hat during piano?", I asked. Oh yes, I was teasing him big time. There's a price to be paid for not listening to the middle c lesson.
"NOOO", he chimed in with all the force of stampeding buffalo. But he would never actually say the words, "I hate piano". Very sensitive of him, if you ask me.
When I first had piano lessons, I could already spell, resist picking my nose in public and maybe even conjugate a couple of verbs.
Things have changed. Soon piano lessons will come with a free diaper change.
Actually, it's a new proverb because I just made it up, and actually stole part of it too.
Let's try another proverb. Those who can, do; Those who can't, teach; Those who can't teach, teach gym; And those can't teach gym, continually teach themselves that corporal punishment isn't allowed these days.
I really only have a few simple criteria that I think children should meet before they undergo piano lessons.
They should know their right hand from their left hand, and their ass from their elbow. And none of these body parts should be in their nose.
They should know how to spell. As I was explaining to one child the "concept" of middle c, like where it is located, I turned to him and saw him writing in his notebook.
That's cute, I thought. He's taking notes as I bring years of experience to my teaching moment.
"Can I see what you wrote?", I asked. He handed me the notebook. Chicken scratch, but I made it out. I hat piano, it said. Hmmm. He's expressing an opinion, but what does it mean?
My brain quickly rattled through all the words I know in the English language, how to spell things, various combinations of letters, the square root of pi etc.
I'm no dummy. This boy did very well, because there's only one letter missing. "E". Yes, at the end of hat. This cute boy wanted me to know he hates piano. I was very appreciative of his honesty and, I have to admit, a little raged that I wasted my limited breath on middle c.
I decided to make a game of it. "You want to wear a hat during piano?", I asked. Oh yes, I was teasing him big time. There's a price to be paid for not listening to the middle c lesson.
"NOOO", he chimed in with all the force of stampeding buffalo. But he would never actually say the words, "I hate piano". Very sensitive of him, if you ask me.
When I first had piano lessons, I could already spell, resist picking my nose in public and maybe even conjugate a couple of verbs.
Things have changed. Soon piano lessons will come with a free diaper change.
Saturday 5 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: Shave and a Haircut-Two Bits
Helloooo Newman: Shave and a Haircut-Two Bits: You told me all the cutting and snipping was done. Will it grow back, Daddy? Will it? Please say it will.
Shave and a Haircut-Two Bits
You told me all the cutting and snipping was done.
Will it grow back, Daddy? Will it? Please say it will.
Will it grow back, Daddy? Will it? Please say it will.
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