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Thursday, January 01, 2009

2008 Recap!

JANUARY: Accidentally contracted progressive inflammatory neuropathy from inhaling aerosolized pig brains while working in a slaughterhouse in southern Minnesota. Was cured by one of my Somali coworkers who applied a poultice of dried khat and the menses of a blind, uncircumcised virgin. At least he said I was cured. Come to think of it…

FEBRUARY: Celebrated the unofficially semi-official resignation of Fidel Castro by getting completely shit-faced with a bunch of Mexicans. It turns out what they were celebrating was a tie between the U.S. and Mexican national teams in a cup qualifier. And since it was a tie they weren't so much celebrating as getting a yanque loaded and leaving him passed out in a pile of snow.

MARCH: Fought a midget over a pack of cherry Twizzlers. Lost the fight, but gained a friend.

APRIL: Sleepy

MAY: Drove a lot. Cut my underpants off with a dull knife in the bathroom of The Middle East in Boston. Got a manicure in Harvard Square. Walked around Manhattan with a semi-permanent erection. Rediscovered what low-grade racist shit heads the citizens of Philadelphia are. Made a fool of myself in front of my parents in Baltimore. Ate good seafood.

JUNE: George Carlin died on the 22nd of this month. Nothing of equal consequence occurred to myself or anyone else on the planet Earth.

JULY: Traveled to Sydney to celebrate World Youth Day with Pope Benedict XVI. After dozens of hits of amyl nitrate the pontiff admitted that thanks to him the famed missing Nazi gold was in the Vatican's possession and was being used to settle the many priest sexual abuse lawsuits. I threatened to call Leonard Nimoy. Then he bad-touched me.

AUGUST: XXIXIIIVXC Summer Olympiad in Beijing. (Skipped IOC-mandated course on Roman numerals.) Took Silver in team Fencing. Thought I caught SARS. Turned out it was the effects of smoking too many counterfeit Marlboros. Should have realized this, as "Marlboro" is rarely spelled with multiple "Qs" Stopped at the border as I attempted to leave the country with a child-bride. "Child-bride" was in fact 42-years-old. It was her adult children who filed the complaint. All-around bad trip.

SEPTEMBER: Spent the 7th Anniversary of 9/11 in Crawford, TX doing blow with George W. Bush. Learned the true meaning of "clearing brush" from a few of daughter Jenna's sorority sisters. Bonged a shit-ton of Lone Star. Was ritually hunted by Ted Nugent. All-around good trip.

OCTOBER: Discovered the joy of pressing autumn leaves into scrapbooks! Also, discovered a massive leak in my trucks exhaust system. My physician thinks the two may be related.

NOVEMBER: Finally became old enough to be elected President. Was not, however, elected President. They gave it to some other guy.

DECEMBER: In light of my failure to be elected President I decided to abandon democratic ideals altogether. Traveled to the Channel Island of Sark in an effort to prop-up the last remaining feudal system in Europe. Disappointed to discover there were no knights on horseback there, as I had arrived dressed as a knight on horseback. Did see one guy with a silver shirt and a cricket helmet driving a golf cart. I challenged him to a tournament and was promptly arrested. Decided the islanders of Sark deserved democracy-- and all its attendant indignities. Flew home sans horse to discover there was no beer in my fridge. One last trip to the liquor store as the year fades into memory.

(have a nice New Year)
BDS 12.31.

My Letter to Joaquin Phoenix

(From November 6, 2008)

Dear Mr. Phoenix,

I am writing with regard to your recent decision to forgo acting in films to concentrate on a career in music. Good for you!

You have referred to music as, "greener pastures" and you couldn't be more right.

In light of that I would like to tender a modest proposal. I have been playing music for going on twenty years, and if you would care to I thought we could just "switch" jobs.

I could move to your big, expensive Manhattan "apartment," and you could come to Minneapolis and live in my tiny little box of a place.

I could be paid outrageous sums of money to squint, bob my head around the way you do and recite heartfelt words written by someone else. You could work my day job and while you're at it, try to pay off all my debts.

I could have sex with gorgeous actresses and you could have sex with no one.

Sound good, buddy?

I'll get in touch with your people and make all the necessary arrangements. You just sit down with your guitar and get to work on some songs! After all, as you said, "…so I'm just going to try and like, I'll just be doing the other thing… Hopefully, I will emotionally impact you with that, as well."

Wow! With a degree of commitment like that, how could you fail?

Hope to see you soon, you fucking shithead!


Brian David Shuey
Minneapolis, MN

P.S. You were awesome in Space Camp.


(From November 4, 2008)

I certainly don't mind standing in line for two hours. That is no hardship, to be sure. Especially given what people in other countries have to go through to cast a vote.

What was discouraging was standing in line for two hours listening to the young couple behind me discuss for whom and why they were casting their ballots. I wish I were paraphrasing their comments. Sadly, I am not:

HER: "McCain's the only one who cares about our troops who are fighting our war."

HIM: "Yeah, but he's all old an' shit. I'm voting for the other one."

Of the three of us, I'm pretty sure the order of the cosmos would have been better served had at least ONE of us skipped the whole process and spent the afternoon watching game shows and huffing glue.

You would think I mean one of them, but I am not so sure it shouldn't have been ME.

And that's the thought that will keep me awake tonight.

Sarah Palin Visits My Alma Mater

(From October 29, 2008)

Governor Sarah Palin was in my home state yesterday, and she even graced my alma mater.

Speaking at The Luhrs Performing Arts Center at Shippensburg University she said, I assume between winks and "Aw, shuckses"*:

"We will balance the federal budget within our first term."

Really? Not unless you plan on withdrawing U.S. troops from Iraq on DAY ONE of that term-- and then as those troops return home have them stop at every house they see to look for shit they can bring back here and pawn.

"We're going to help our students afford college."

Really? Unless of course they are Iraq War vets who want to go to college on a new GI Bill, which McCain voted against.

"We'll clean up the corruption on Wall Street."

Really? You'll notice that the Treasury department has started doling-out some of the $700 billion in bailout money McCain voted for. Just how much is going to which companies (Price Waterhouse, Ernst & Young, etc.) has been REDACTED from documents released to the public.

"Your government should do more for you."

I'm sorry lady, what party do you belong to again?

"So Pennsylvania, will you hire us? Will you send us to Washington?"

Make me proud, Keystoners! Show these clowns that REAL America doesn't want them any more than those of us living in FAKE America.


*Have you noticed that Sarah Palin sounds like an out-state Minnesotan who's been hit in the head repeatedly with a brick? Would someone please give this woman a daytime talk show and be done with it!

Thursday, August 21, 2008

For your amusement...

(From August 20, 2008)

I have translated the Oscar Meyer Wiener song into German:

Ich wünsche, daß ich war ein Oscar Meyer Wiener,

Das ist, was ich wirklich sein wünsche,

Für, wenn ich war ein Oscar Meyer Wiener,

Jeder würde in der Liebe mit mir sein!

Give it a try! It is surprisingly fun to sing-- and far less menacing than Deutcheland Uber Alles!

Another monent of quiet desperation

(From August 7, 2008)

So in the process of checking my email I noticed the following link: "Betty White Defends Golden Girls."

"The Golden Girls are UNDER ATTACK?" I thought.

"For what?"

The story indicated that the three remaining Golden Girls with functioning cardio-vascular systems were being called out for not attending Estelle Getty's funeral.

"Oh." I thought. "That's not such a big deal."

But before I knew it I found myself reading the COMMENT THREAD that accompanied the article.

I was a good twenty comments in before I had even realized I was doing it.

So here I was reading with no small amount of interest the opinions of anonymous strangers on a non-subject that one minute earlier I had been completely unaware of.

Is this of how little value my time and attention have become?

The internet is a dark, lonely, insidious kind of hell.


P.S. Speaking of old people, anyone else getting a bad Ross Perot smell coming off this T. Boone Pickens clown?

I swear to you, he is not to be trusted. I expect great evil from him in the future.

Just watch the cars go by.

(From July 31, 2008)

So I'm having a cigarette outside the bar. That's where you have to have them now.

There is a couple sitting a few feet away from me. They are on a date. Don't ask me how I know. I'm an adult. That's how I know.

The guy speaks loudly and animatedly on his cell phone. He has slid his chair back and slouches ever-so casually in it. He is wearing distressed jeans, a rumpled white linen shirt and a black-and-white terry-cloth headband. On his left arm (and ONLY his left arm) almost to his elbow is a matching wrist band. I am certain that this is an extremely hip way of dressing somewhere. I don't know where that might be and I hope I'm never forced by either chance or cruel circumstance to go there.

The woman across from him sits stirring her drink. Not drinking it. No longer shooting impatient glances his way. She pokes it with her finger. She rolls it around in a circular motion on its base until a little spills out. She has put on a nice dress for this. She spent no small amount of time picking out her earrings. She isn't my type, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate that she put a little effort into herself tonight. And for the account of this dickbag.

What do I mean by "my type?"

For starters, my type would have left the minute he answered his phone.

If she would only stand up! If she would only stand up, grab his fucking iPhone and hurl it into the street! Down her drink! Better yet, down HIS drink! Kick him in the shin! Call him a cocksucker and get into the cab that has been idling on the corner waiting for fuck-knows-who for the last ten minutes.That I would cheer like a kid at a baseball game!

As the moments pass my sympathy for her turns to mild contempt. Not equal to what I feel for him, mind you. Just a, "Well, you're a grown woman for fucks-sake. If you're going to go along with this then who's the real clown in the pair?"

I should just watch the cars go by. Better that way.

Thursday, July 17, 2008


(From June 25, 2008)


I would first like to thank you for all the hard work you do. It is truly indispensable. As the impresario Sol Hurok once said, "The sky's the limit if you have a roof over your head." (Of course he was a Russian Jew, and as everyone knows they don't often repair roofs so much as fiddle on them.)

My respect for your craft not withstanding, may I offer a few hints that will no doubt improve your work experience and the experience of those around you:

1) KQRS is not the only radio station in Minneapolis. While I'm sure my Vietnamese, Mexican and Somali neighbors love Led Zeppelin as much as red-blooded American workingmen maybe give them a little KFAI once and awhile. Also, I think the computer program KQ uses to select its playlist is faulting. How else can one explain playing Wang Chung's "Dancehall Days" and AC/DC's "Back in Black" in succession. No human being or properly functioning robot would do this.

2) You shouldn't drink so much beer while roofing. I say this not out of concern for your safety, but because it tends to make you MUCH LOUDER.

3) Despite what you may have heard about the virtue of the ladies in my neighborhood, few of them will respond favorably to, "Yeah, bitch! That's the fucking stuff!" shouted from three floors up. Might I suggest flowers?

4) If your man-titties are larger than a B-cup, put your Jeff Gordon t-shirt back on.

Best wishes,

Brian David Shuey

P.S. I'd like to thank you for not hooting, barking or whistling at me when I was in the shower this morning. That showed real class.


(From June 4, 2008)

So I'm standing on the corner of 26th and Nicollet. This guy approaches and asks for a light. I oblige. And then he begins his story....

"So my little girl. Five months old, she's gonna die."


"Yeah, she needs a kidney or she's gonna die. And I can't give it to her."

"Well, have they 'typed' you yet?"

"Naw. I just can't give it to her. You know?"

"Well..." (I paused. I had nearly asked a total stranger on the street if he had hepatitis... or worse.)

Naw, I can't give it to her. And her mom's parents say let it die, because it's black."

"Can't you do anything about it?"

"Naw, because we're not married, I can't do nothing."


"And I don't think I can marry her. I just don't love her like that, you know?"


"I just don't love her like that...I just don't love her like that...I just don't love..."

He repeated the phrase over and over again as I walked away.


(From May 28, 2008)

So it seems I may have a cavity. (In one of my teeth, that is.) Specifically tooth number 19. That is the first molar on the left side of the mandible. For those who don't know their teeth numbers.

This would be my FIRST cavity. Ever. In either my adult or primary/deciduous teeth.

And I am not happy about it.

For years I have smugly bragged about having avoided tooth decay for the whole of my life. Blessed with few physical gifts—save disarming good looks and a whip-smart intellect—my record of perfect dental hygiene was a selling point in the never-ending struggle to breed and produce offspring. Had I not been told at an early age that my enamel was the strongest ever encountered? So strong it would dull the mightiest dental implements. All this time I have been regaling potential mates with tales of my periodontal prowess—and how it would benefit our children in tough times ahead.

The way I saw it, in the post-apocalyptic nightmare world left over after China annihilates all remnants of North American civilization what attributes could be better suited to survival than a large brain, a short compact frame and a set of strong, sharp teeth?

Being too tall would put one at a disadvantage, as zoo-raised African predators and packs of vicious wild dogs scoured the short prairie grass in search of prey. My progeny could survive and even thrive by remaining unseen and scavenging carrion, breaking open the bones with their mighty teeth and feasting on the protein rich marrow.

In a few thousand years they would be poised to take their rightful place at the apex of a neo-Neolithic hunter/gatherer culture.

This was my theory, anyway.

But it will all be for naught should this toothache prove to be an actual breach in the structural integrity of my one remaining unassailable physical attribute.

I have a date with the X-ray machine in one week. I shall keep you all informed.

Monday, April 21, 2008


(From March 13, 2008)

So it’s happened again.

I was just trying to make a little extra money-- moonlighting as a receptionist at THE EMPEROR’S CLUB-- and whom should I end up talking to? Now former New York governor Eliot Spitzer. Here’s the transcript of our conversation, currently sealed by the Feds.

(Don’t tell them I shared it with you.)


Client 9: "Hello, I’m calling about ’Kristen.’"

Me: "Oh yes, the brunette. Yeah, she’s dishy."

Client 9: "I know she’s ’dishy.!’ I don’t need your goddamned opinion on the matter. Just set it up."

Me: "Okay. No need to get in a huff. Just making conversation."

Client 9: "I didn’t call here to talk to you, you fucking insect. I’m a busy man. Let’s just get this done."

Me: "Very well. When did you want to see her?"

Client 9: "This Thursday. I need her to be in D.C. by eight o’clock."

Me: "This Thursday? So, quite the romantic I see."

Client 9: "What? What the hell are you talking about?"

Me: "Well, Thursday is Valentine’s Day. I just think its kind of sweet that..."

Client 9: "Sweet? I’m paying for pussy you imbecile! There’s nothing sweet about it. If I were sweet I’d be spending the night with my wife."

Me: "Yes, I see your point. So, Thursday in Washington. Will you be arranging transportation?"

Client 9: "Yes, I’ll have a car there by 2 PM."

Me: "Sir, I suppose I should point out that by transporting ’Kristen’ from New York State to the District of Columbia and, well, for the purposes under which you intend to employ her, you will likely be violating the Mann..."

Client 9: "I don’t need a lecture on the fucking Mann Act! I was A-G for the entire state of... Wait, forget that last part."

Me: "Forget what part, Prince Charming?"

Client 9: "Listen, if anyone asks, I’m Rudy Giuliani."

Me: "Whatever you say, sir. Now how would you like to pay?"

Client 9: "Same as always, I’ll wire the four thousand to your account."

Me: "I’m sorry sir, but an hour of ’Kristen’s’ time bills-out at five thousand."

Client 9: "Five thousand! Fuck you!"

Me: "So you really want to do this? Try to haggle with me over the price?"

Client 9: "Listen you turd, I didn’t get where I am by taking the first thing that’s offered. Last time we met-up I could still smell the Saudi on her. I want a price cut. Forty-three hundred tops."

Me: "Very well, sir. Forty-three it is. (Quietly) Something tells me she’s going to be able to spin your little encounters into quite a lot more-- and soon, too."

Client 9: "What was that?"

Me: "Oh nothing, sir. ’Kristen’ will be waiting at the usual pick-up spot. Have a safe and pleasant Valentine’s Day."


(From March 9, 2008)

So all I want is a refill on my coffee. There are four people in line in front of me. Each pays for their sub-$5 purchase with a credit card. Adding about 2/12 minutes to my wait.

Fucking peckerheads.

This is happening more and more lately.

Are people honestly taking those, "Life Takes Visa" commercials to heart?

Maybe it's just the economy.

Either way, I want my fucking time back.

My time is, "PRICELESS."

(Where's my MASTERCARD commercial?)

Perhaps the U.S. Treasury should start doing commercials for CASH.

Here's one: "Cash. The people behind you in line will hate you less."

Or this: "Cash. So your wife's lawyer won't know what seedy hotel your banging your secretary in."

Just a thought.


(From February 21, 2008)

Steve: "Fuck dude, really?"

Alex: "Fuckin-A-Right, really!"

Steve: "Naw way, man."

Alex: "Totally for fucking real, dude! Heroin Sheiks, the Blind Shake and The Dynamiters."

Steve: "Who the fuck are The Dynamiters? Was any of them in The Cows?"

Alex: "No, but the one dude was in The Freedom Fighters."

Steve: "Aw, no way! I remember those dudes."

Alex: "And two of the other dudes were in The Selby Tigers"

Steve: "See, now they were kinda faggy."

Alex: "Dude, you just don't like feelings an shit."

Steve: "No, I just don't like dudes in little scarfs."

Alex: "Cause of how it makes you feel?"

Steve: "Fuck you, bitch!"

Alex: (blows kiss)

Steve: "Now the Blind Shake, they're awesome an shit. Did you know the one dude plays football, but is also all smart and shit?"

Alex: "I think they're all pretty smart."

Steve: "Yeah, but they don't ALL play football."

Alex: "Which one plays football?"

Steve: "I don't know, one of the brothers."

Alex: "I thought they were ALL brothers."

Steve: "Naw dude, the two dudes without hair are brothers."

Alex: "Yeah, that makes sense"

(long pause)

Steve: "We should smoke a little coke before the show."

Alex: "You got coke?"

Steve: "No."

Alex: "You got money for coke?"

Steve: "Not now, but fucking Friday is fucking pay day, dude!"

Alex: "Nice! We will smoke the shit out of some coke and head down to the T-Rock!"

Steve: "You gotta drive though, dude. I still haven't gotten my license back yet."

Alex: "Fucker!"






I mean, come on. Fuck, dude. Really.



(From January 17, 2008)

So I bought an exercise bike the other day.

I don't know what's funnier? That I nearly had a heart attack carrying the 100-pound box up three flights of stairs?

Or that I took three cigarette breaks while I was assembling it?

I'll tell you something, though; you haven't REALLY watched Charlie Rose until you've done so while peddling 20 miles per hour with the really cheap seat of an exercise bike trying it's damnedest to "discover" your colon.

I will never look at the plight of the Palestinians quite the same way again.


P.S. Why an exercise bike? It was that or give-up beer. And since it's a time-tested combination of beer, Zoloft and reruns of M*A*S*H that prevent me from going on a three-state killing spree, I thought it was the way to go.


(From December 30, 2007)

So my source for free wireless internet seems to have dried-up.

Maybe it was the witch.

Dig: A witch just moved out of my building.

How do I know? Because when people move out they leave free stuff for the remaining tenants on the first floor radiator. The other day there was a big pile of curious items that included lots of books on witchcraft and a neat little box emblazoned with a pentagram. Also, there was the entire collection of Peter Ellis' "Cadfael Mysteries" which I snatched up because I guess that if I ever bring a woman back to my apartment I want to make damn sure I don't accidentally get laid.

I mean, really. Why the hell else would I have grabbed them? I don't read mysteries. And let's face it ladies, if you went back to some guys place and among his other hundreds of books there was a two foot stack of paperback mysteries featuring a 12th Century Welsh Benedictine monk who solves murders in his spare time would you sleep with him?


(I gotta get rid of those books. )

So what was my point?

Oh yeah, the internet. Don't use it to get a hold of me. Use the phone like a normal person.

(Now I'm going downtown to Macy's to buy a pair of monogramed silk pajamas because goddamnit I'm worth it.)



(From December 24, 2007)

So I guess I am the biggest jerk ever. I am also a "shithead," "cocksucker," "asshole," "jack-off," and a "motherfucker." (P.S.-- Don't tell my Dad about that last one.)

Here's the story: I just washed my truck, and decided to go to the Super America to get gas, put some air in my tires and use the ATM.

The one across Lyndale from the car wash was a zoo (they are ALL zoos today, I would later find out.)

So I went to the one on 25th and Hennepin. This one was also a clusterfuck. I wait patiently for a pump while witnessing all manner of idiocy by all manner of people. Finally, the last straw. Two woman in a tan Camry back into the pump in front of me. The driver shuts-off the engine and gets out, only to discover that her gas tank is on the other side of the car. Whoopsi!

I had had enough of stupid people for the day. When she pulls forward, I pull-in to take her place.

Was this a dick move? Yes it was, but it was a dick move with a purpose.

For this young woman to redirect her car back into the same space she would have had to make a "K"-turn of outrageous proportions. I calculated that at least 8 changes of gear would have been necessary. At one point she would have her rear-end out into oncoming traffic on Hennepin Ave, causing traffic there to have to briefly come to a halt in the middle of the block. With the roads being as they were, not exactly the safest proposition.

I know how these things go. I knew that even though she couldn't be bothered to know which side of the car her gas tank was on, IT WAS HER SPOT. And no matter how many people she inconvenienced or endangered in her attempts to turn her car around to get it back where she wanted it (and it was A LOT of people-- basically everyone in the goddamn place) doing what I did would make me the asshole.

I shut-off my engine and got out of my truck. I knew I was in for it. For a college girl she had quite a mouth on her. I will not list again the names I was called. I knew also that there was no point in explaining why I did what I did. I simply allowed her to express her indignation as I went about my business. Meanwhile-- as I was glared at and accused of all manner of sexual deviance and unsavory behavior-- the spot she should have chosen quickly became open and she could have been fuelling her car. But that would have made too much sense. (By the way, I knew that this other spot would soon be available, it had factored into my decision, but hey, when you're not a self-involved shit, you notice these things.)

I took care of my business and left. Before I did the young woman in question gave me her Christmas present, she hawked-up hard and spit on my hood. She was still without gas. And she still didn't realize the Christmas present I HAD GIVEN HER.

When she arrives at her family's home to enjoy a delicious dinner, she will no doubt recount her harrowing tale. All around will agree what a dick I was, as they will no doubt affirm that NONE AMONG THEM would ever do such a thing. Especially not on Christmas Eve Day!

Thus they will get to bask in the glow of their moral superiority. Then they will open all the expensive gifts they bought for each other and all will be well.

And in two days they can go back to being the selfish, right thinking Christian jerks they are the rest of the year. And I still get to be the asshole of the story.

You know what? Fuck Christmas. I've really had it with this nonsense.


(From December 1, 2007)

The woman who lives downstairs from me sucks. And I'll tell you why.

Mostly, it's because she seems to have some kind of hyper-dramatic relationship with her boyfriend.

She's NEVER THERE. I mean almost never. My guess is that she is in a de-facto living situation with this shithead, and the only times she's actually in her apartment are when they are having a spat. On these occasions a very obvious pattern emerges. She comes home, slams her door, and can be heard screaming obscenities into her cellular telephone. The word "fuck" is used in ways it was never intended, and it makes me think that her parents probably wasted an outrageous amount of money on her alleged education.

The phone conversation stops and she starts playing "music."

I use quotation marks because, while I can't really tell what she's listening to, it's obvious the bands she favors are operating under the mistaken impression that the bass guitar is an appropriate melody instrument. Which it is not.

Listening to shitty music for an hour must be her catharsis, because that ends and another loud phone conversation begins. Five minutes of this, and the door slams and she's gone.

All is quiet now. She must have gone back to his place. Call me a lousy person, but I hope a murder/suicide pact is in their near future.

Dig: I have electric guitars, amplifiers, a CASIO CZ-1000 synthesizer, harmonicas, a Schylling hand organ and a potentially VERY LOUD stereo with hundreds of records. And I'll bet she's never heard much out of me.

That's because I understand apartment living.

Once again, the woman who lives downstairs from me sucks.


(From November 20, 2007)

If you should be unable to obtain one or more of the following items I will accept your presence at GRUMPY'S downtown on Wednesday, November 21 after 10:00 PM as acceptable! BDS

Coupon for a free massage, bubble tea and hand finish from one of those shady massage parlors listed in the back of the City Pages

15th Century Venetian merchants costume (don't ask)

Atomic toothpaste

Rare photo of Geli Raubal pissing in Adolph Hitler's mouth (If unavailable, I will accept a photo of Hitler fellating Ernst Rohm)

Original draft of the Magna Carta stained with King John's tears

Israeli-made Merkava MK-4 Main Battle Tank

John the Baptist's shaving kit from the reliquary in the basement of The Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Motion, Turin Italy

A 19-year-old Dutch girl to sit in my kitchen naked and roll cigarettes for me

Tommy John Ligament replacement surgery for my right elbow

A jewel-encrusted Dunhill cigarette case fit for a Saudi prince (and by "fit for" I mean so garishly expensive only a Saudi prince would own one) Try Harrods in London or maybe J.N. Barber, LTD.

Mint-Condition 1939 PLAY BALL Ted Williams card 92

A date with Kerry Howley

1921 First Edition of H.L. Mencken's book, "The American Language: An Inquiry Into the Development of English in the United States"


Dane Cook. Dead.

82-foot West Bay SonShip custom duel-station-raised-pilot-house motor yacht

A baby hippo (What? They're cute)

$15,000 ELP Laser Turntable

1944 North American P-51 Mustang with Rolls Royce Merlin engine and (6) operational .50 caliber machine guns

Flying lessons

One bottle of 50-year-old GLENFIDDICH Scotch in a hand made oak box with a brass plaque declaring how awesome I am

A Brazilian model with an "innie" belly button for me to drink outrageously expensive scotch out of

Solid gold shower and bath fixtures fit for an Enron executive

GUIDED BY VOICES to reform for one performance-- at my birthday party, of course!


TWINS season tickets. Good ones.

A little "leg" would be nice


(From November 5, 2007)

Mr. Shuey,

How do you get your scarf back from some guy you don't really want to have to see again but really want the scarf (and no, we don't have any friends in common, I'm still new in this town.)

If you need more back story let me know, but I really do want this scarf back.

"Lady Chestington"

United Kingdom

How do I get my scarf back from some guy I don't really want to see again? I start by not sleeping with guys. That way I will never stumble out of their apartment, bleary-eyed at nine in the morning having left articles of clothing behind. (I don't want to imply you slept with this guy, but I'm getting that vibe.)

This is a situation that I'm sure many young adults have dealt with at one time or another. Here are a few tricks I've learned to avoid leaving things behind:

1) Use your shoes: Small items will fit nicely in them. Keys, wallets, jewelry and cell phones. Stuff your socks in after to keep things in place.

2) Carve out a spot for yourself: This can be hard in some people's apartments, but there is usually at least a few square feet of floor space not covered in junk. If this isn't the case, pile some of their shit on top of their other shit to make room for your stuff. This is not rude. Rude is having a guest over without first considering that that person will have to disrobe in order to have sex with you. And that this guest, having woken-up next to a total slob will want to gather her belongs and get the fuck out without tearing the place apart, making noise and inevitably waking up the slovenly host who will no doubt burp, yawn, scratch his nuts and say, "Fancy breakfast, love?"

3) Drink less.

And how do you get your scarf back?

You don't. At least not without seeing this schmoe again. You shouldn't try sneaking-in and retrieving it. Like most places, Breaking and Entering is a crime in England (See: s9 under the English THEFT ACT of 1968.) And since they've got all those nifty CCTV cameras around it's unlikely you'll get away with it.

So either take the loss of the scarf as a lesson learned, or suck it up and call the guy.

Good Luck,

Mr. Shuey


(From October 22, 2007)

I'm done "mixing-it-up" on the Christian singles site, I just don't have the stomach for it.

I thought I could mine it for some cheap laughs, but I forgot a lesson learned a long time ago-- there are no "cheap" laughs. Like junk food, they may satisfy you momentarily, but eventually guilt is bound to kick-in and you feel worse for the exercise.

For some time now I have been trying to get my head around the "New Christians" movement. (You know them here on MySpace as, "Christian-Other.") It appears they are allowed to drink, fuck, get high, listen to rock 'n' roll (if you can call it that) and so long as they continue to "Praise Him" all is well. Over and over again they suffer guilt and then the cleansing power of divine absolution.

Perhaps that is what my sex life is missing? (I mean, besides the "sex") Could it be that the self-flagellance these New Christians put themselves through with regard to normal, human sexuality imbues it with a weird vitality the rest of us are missing out on?

Could it be they are the modern world's true kinksters?

Or perhaps they are just completely fucked-up?

I'll let you be the judge. What follows are direct quotes from profile pages on

"Lover of GOD on fire for HIM desiring same in relationship"

"Let everything that has breath praise THE LORD"

"This is my coming"

"Christ is formed in me"

"Who will be my bone and my flesh?"


"I'm here for reall b'cos I have the fearness of God in my heart"

"To live is Christ, to die is gain"

"Just me enjoying HIM"

"You don't need confidence in yourself, you only need confidence in GOD"

And my personal favorite...

"Christian horselover"

My brief foray in to the world of Christian dating sites is now ended. I have little doubt these lonely women are in need of men. But in my opinion the men they need are not like-minded Christian singles, but rather psychiatrists or cult de-programmers.


(From October 11, 2007)

So I'm sure it's obvious by now that I have too much time on my hands. And as much as I love and cherish all of you, I find that most often it is necessary for me to AMUSE MYSELF.

Visiting "Christian Singles" sites is always good for a laugh. But today I decided to actually BECOME A MEMBER OF ONE! (

Here is how my profile reads:

I am the Dark Lord Satan. Cast into the pit for all eternity by the one you call God The Almighty (by the way, before you mortals came along, we just called him, "Frank.")

It's lonely here in the pit and well, to be honest it's "been awhile"-- if you get my drift.

Anyway I was just hoping to meet some cool Christian ladies who might be into stuff. You know, freak stuff. (Note: Think Linda Blair in, "The Exorcist.")

I thought I would have more luck at the Atheist Singles site, but they were all looking for someone they can have an intelligent conversation with. (Hey, if I wanted that I'd just talk to Nixon!)

Also, none of those atheist girls feature their breasts prominently in their profile pages. Where as you Christian girls, boy howdy! You can barely seem to keep the things under wraps!

So send me a message, and we'll party!



Don't believe me?

Check it out. My username is: satan6969

I'll let you know if I get any interesting responses, but the fact is I think you have to pay 60 bucks to actually interact with any of these chaste brides of Christ, and I'm not willing to take the joke that far.

On an unrelated note, I have not been posting much lately, and that's unlikely to change anytime soon. I have been working on my book, and since it covers every subject in the known universe, it's going to take me awhile to finish. Oh, and I've started new band, more on that later.



(From September 13, 2007)



Brian David Shuey


P'Tang, a gay outer space alien is sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast. His boyfriend, Korg bursts in, clearly agitated.

KORG: (holding some smoldering, metallic debris) "Damn fucking space junk!"

P'TANG: "What is it? What's the matter?"

KORG: "This just landed in the back yard. It crushed my good bobo bush."

P'TANG: "Oh shoot, I was going to use bobos in the salad tonight! I've been bragging to Christopher and Stephen all week how good the bobos were this year. Now I'll have to use ones from the store. We should really call someone and complain."

KORG: "It won't do any good. This isn't a government satellite. Look at the writing"

P'TANG: (tries to read aloud) "V-O-Y-A-G-E-R. What is that? What do you think it means?"

KORG: "I think it's some kind of probe. It came with a shiny metal disc with some weird instructions engraved on it. Like a recording. I think we're supposed to play it."

P'TANG: "Oh, don't! What if it's a weapon or something?"

KORG: "No planet that produces shitty, backward-assed stuff like this is going to be able to send a weapon to another galaxy."

P'TANG: (inspecting the disc) "Ooh, I think I figured it out. You put this pointy thingy in the surface of the disc and spin it."

KORG: "I'm not fooling around with that. Just put it in the Nexophone."

P'TANG: "What makes you think the Nexophone will play it?"

KORG: "Look, I paid 600 xenars for that Nexophone, and the kid at the store told me it will play ANY format in the universe. It will even translate it."

P'TANG: "That kid at the store could have sold you anything! I remember how you were looking at him."

KORG: "Not now with that shit, P'Tang! Just play the thing."

(P'tang fusses with the Nexophone, annoyed, finally the disc begins playing)

FROM THE NEXOPHONE: "Greetings from Earth!" MESSAGE CONTINUES "Greetings from Earth." Nexophone continues to play the 44 different messages in 44 different Earth languages, translating all of them into, "Greetings from Earth."

KORG: "You gotta be fucking kidding me. My BEST bobo bush, just so these idiots could say, 'hello?"

P'TANG: "Ooh, there's more. There's pictures!"


KORG: "Oh, these really are a simple bunch of fucks! 'Look at us! Little pink and brown hair-less freaks who have mastered flight!'"

P'TANG: "Stop it! I think they're quaint. Charming, even."

KORG: (Points at screen) "Oh really? You think THAT'S charming?"

P'TANG: (Looks on at an image of a nursing mother) "Ewww! Oh no, what is it doing?"

KORG: "Apparently, their young eat the bulbous, fleshy bags hanging from the thorax of the adult females."

P'TANG: "Oh man, that's just fucking GROSS!"

KORG: "Quaint, indeed."

P'TANG: "Still, the PLANET looks nice. Sort of reminds me of Verillia 3."

KORG: "Verilla 3? Ha! Verillia 3 is a pleasure planet where young Verillian boys massage your…"

P'TANG: (interrupts) "Yes, I'm well aware of what you used to do before we met. I don't need a reminder."

KORG: (abruptly) "We should invade them!"

P'TANG: "What? It's just a bobo bush, get over it!"

KORG: "No, it's not about the bush. We should invade them on fucking principle alone!"

P'TANG: "What's gotten into you?"

KORG: "Look, they're like idiot children. They need to be taught a lesson. They send a probe out into the vastness of space, that says, "Hello, we're infantile little brats taking our first tentative steps beyond the confines of our own jerk-water planet (which, by the way, here are directions to should you care to visit.) We wanted to make sure anyone who finds this message knows how clever we think we are to have figured out how to calculate the circumference of a circle, but are for the most part just soft, pink, squishy, defenseless little creeps."

P'TANG: "And just where were you planning to get an inter-galactic ship for this 'invasion' of yours?"

KORG: "You said it yourself, Christopher and Stephen are coming to dinner tonight, we can use theirs."

P'TANG: "But I wanted to go to the lake after dinner!"

KORG: "Damn it! You can go to the lake any time!"

P'TANG: (sulking) "Well…"

KORG: "Well what?"

P'TANG: "I was just thinking that the metal the disc is made out of is kind of pretty. I could use it for the ankle bracelets I've been making. You know, the one's I was going to see if Christopher wanted to sell in his shop. If we invade this 'Earth' place I could bring loads of it back with us."

KORG: "You are seriously the gayest outer space alien ever."



(From August 30, 2007)

As some of you may remember, I was inadvertently involved in the Mark Foley scandal last year. In the course of trying to interview the Florida Representative over the phone-- on what I considered to be substantive policy issues-- I was subjected to all manner of lascivious insinuations via instant messaging.

Well, now I find myself in the middle-- or the periphery, really --of the Larry Craig debacle. Two months ago, Senator Craig was charged with lewd conduct resulting from a "misunderstanding" that occurred in a men's room in the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport. (He plead guilty to a lesser charge of disorderly conduct.)

What didn't make it into the police report was that prior to soliciting an undercover police officer, I had the misfortune of sharing the stall next to the distinguished gentleman from Idaho.

What follows is my best recollection of the incident:

At 1213 hours, I entered handicapped accessible stall in the restroom adjacent to the WORLD CLUBS on Concourse "C" (I find the bathroom nearest the WORLD CLUBS is often the cleanest in any given airport. And the handicapped stall, the roomiest.)

At 1214 hours I opened a copy of US MAGAZINE I had purchased at the newsstand and began reading a story about former "007" Pierce Brosnan's fondness for dog breeding and his favorite places to dine in Tuscany. Needless to say, I was quite enthralled and oblivious to much that was going on around me.

At 1215 hours I noticed a single shoe tapping rhythmically on MY SIDE of the stall. It was a well-shined Johnson & Murphy Emery Kiltie tasseled loafer in black calfskin. "Well, somebody's a real dandy!" I remember thinking. Then I thought, "Well, YOU'RE the one who properly identified the shoe, fruit-loop. What does that make YOU?"

The tapping continued, and I asked the person, "Are you trying to get my attention, or do you just have a song in your heart?"

The person then remarked, "Are you a bad boy? Are you a nasty, bad, naughty boy?"

"Do I know you, sir?" I asked.

"I don't know, do you ever watch C-SPAN?"

"I try not to." I replied.

"Why don't you come over here and see."

It was at this point that I heard another voice, "Airport Police. Please exit the stall, sir."

Recriminations and denials were exchanged. I tried to remain aloof and unnoticed until I heard Senator Craig say, "What do you think of THAT?"

At this point I thought he had whipped it out, and I'll admit to a certain amount of curiosity. After all, I've seen prick senators before, but never a senator's prick. I peeked blithely through the crack in the stall door. It turns out what he was showing-off was not his pride, but rather a business card identifying himself and his esteemed office. The undercover cop then discreetly extracted him from the restroom.

Oh well, another brush with infamy deftly evaded.

I casually went back to my reading.

Did you know Rosie O'Donnell likes pets more than she likes people?



(From August 25, 2007)

1) I am drunk, but only just a little.

2) I have exactly as much chest hair as I want. No more, no less.

3) The best thing about playing music is the people you meet along the way. I got to see the kids in LADYFINGER and THE RED-EYED LEGENDS tonight and was very much reminded of this.

4) I like the new DOCTOR WHO and I don't care who knows it.

5) I have a truly astounding number of friends who I don't ever call. I just don't call people. I'm probably more fond of you than you've ever imagined.

6) I have-- or had --spiders in the cab of my pick-up truck. Apparently they can crawl in through the vents. I think they're all gone. I hope so, because if a spider falls down the back of my shirt while I'm driving there will be an accident. A serious accident.

7) Some people receive compliments all the time. I don't. But I have gotten two very odd ones in the last three days. I left my building through the back door on Wednesday night because I had to throw out some trash. There was a gaunt, shirtless white guy smoking a cigarette and carrying a rake passing through the alley who remarked, "Hey man, you look good. I'm serious for real, man. You do."

Then this afternoon a woman who works in at The Children's Theatre Company (adjacent to the museum) said, "Hey, you're a "toe-walker."

"What?" I answered.

"You walk on your toes. Very bouncy. It's nice."

(I could have done without both of those alleged compliments.)

8) I have an early 1970's SANSUI receiver, and fuck if it doesn't sound good.

9) FALCON CREST made my ears ring tonight. They're ringing still. Well done, boys.

10) I can't wait to play baseball tomorrow.

11) I have been wrangled into playing (cough, sputter) softball on Thursday nights. I am horribly ashamed of it. All the guys on the team are real great people. How could I say no? But softball is so very wrong.

12) I really like ARCHERS OF LOAF.

13) Thirteen is a "Baker's Dozen."

I don't know why that is. So my father's real father died when he was pretty young. His step-dad owned a bakery in Hershey, PA. He told me once that he had to get up at 4:00 in the morning to work there before he went off to school. I guess no matter what, the family were never allowed to eat fresh baked goods. They always had to wait until things were about to be thrown-out to have them. So he would wake-up early to make doughnuts and the like but he was never allowed to enjoy a "fresh" one. Not once. Not ever. Fucking people. Fucking Germans.

14) I am criminally sentimental. And it will be my undoing.

Good night


(From August 20, 2007)

So I was at the Blockbuster Video on Hennepin and this dude walks in with his two young sons. And hey, it's Twins third baseman Nick Punto!


1) He is shorter than me. And almost NO ONE is shorter than me. (I've noticed that no matter what, no ball player is EVER listed as being shorter than 5'9". This includes Alexi Casilla.)

2) Firm, dry handshake. One pump. Very manly, but appropriately so I think for a corner infielder. Not fruity like you get from a pitcher.

3) He seems like a nice guy. He was very patient with his kids. They REALLY wanted to see RATTATOUILLE and made that point clear to everyone in the store.

4) His wife-- a cute blond with a bob haircut waiting outside in a late-model black Lexus with Arizona plates-- did NOT look like she wanted to see RATTATOUILLE.


1) Bring up his batting average. (.203)

2) Fawn or in any way make a fuss.

3) Mention that after striking out to end tonight's game against the Mariners he made incredibly good time from the Metrodome to south Minneapolis. I swear I didn't leave my place that long after the game ended. Maybe when you're batting .203 it's customary to have your wife waiting outside the ballpark with the engine running.


(From August 17, 2007)

I didn't wake up this morning expecting to have my heart broken. I arrived at work, settled in front of a computer, checked my email account and there it was. In the news business it's called a "sidebar"-- JENNA BUSH ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT.

My heart fell like a stone to the pit of my stomach.

Just over a year from now I had planned on making my move. In early September of 2008 the Republican National Convention comes to town. Being a scion of the most prominent Republican family in America, her attendance was assured. And given her penchant for partying, it was likely she would be out and about among our town's "unwashed" ("Hey," I thought "that's ME!")

Sure, I would have to separate her form her Secret Service escort, but having managed that it was only a matter of squiring her back to my bachelor pad for the wooing to take it's course.

Awaiting us at my apartment would be a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and an eight ball of coke. I even purchased a used copy of The Boston Pops performing John Phillip Sousa's "The Stars and Stripes Forever" to play on the phonograph. (Do YOU know what sort of tunes get a young Republican girl hot? Because I sure don't!)

I also intended to remove all the books from my apartment, lest she peg me as a "pointy-headed intellectual."

But all of this planning and hoping was for nothing. Jenna is to be wed to Henry Hager, son of Virginia's Republican Party Chairman. He is tall and handsome, with thick, dark hair and fine features.

In short, he outclasses me in every way that would matter to Jenna --and her family.

So friends, I soldier on alone. Bowed but unbroken.

Anyone care to drink scotch and do a big pile of blow?

Yours with a heavy heart,



(From August 13, 2007)

Spending all day behind a cash register ringing people up is a crummy way to make a living. All of the things below were readily available at my local Walgreen's. Purchase any of the following combinations of items and I guarantee you'll make a cashier's day. (Or at the very least, give them something to tell their friends about later that night when they're getting high.)

-Sleeping pills, bleach, rubber gloves, hacksaw

-16-pack of condoms, pink stuffed teddy bear, Easy-Bake-Oven

-Marie Claire Magazine, 16 oz. bottle of Johnson's baby oil, scented candle

-Bag of "snack size" Snickers bars, pack of Singer sewing needles (late October only)

-Wooden Ruler, 8-pound dumbbell, two foot length of chain

-Gas can, 3-pack of dish towels, anniversary card

-Depilatory cream, Summer's Eve feminine deodorant spray, heart-shaped box of chocolates (only funny if you're a guy-- on second thought, funny either way.)

C'mon, have some fun! After all, it's only money.


(From July 26, 2007)

There is something truly infuriating about this town that seems to encourage everyone to agree all the time without ever stopping to think that there could be a different way to look at things. I usually let it pass. In this case I won't.


Perhaps we should all be glad that it closed it's doors before something really bad happened there.


--When fuses/breakers are constantly being blown or tripped it does not mean, "they're bringing the rock too hard." It means the buildings electrical system is being operated beyond it's capacity. This can end badly. It can end in fires. It can end in a musician getting the shit so significantly shocked out of him that he can barely stand. I have personally experienced both. Amusing for 19-year-old art students? Perhaps. No fun for those electrocuted or aflame.

--When the lights go out on 200 drunken kids-- aside from the casual grope that leads to lifelong romance --nothing good came come of it. It can lead to stupid panic. It can lead to persons too slight of frame or incapacitated to properly protect themselves from being trampled. I've seen this, too.

-- There were two ways out of that place and neither one was adequate to accommodate the number of people in there, should something have gone horribly wrong.

I honestly believe that everyone who wants "The Church" kept around as an impromptu venue for bands has nothing but the best of intentions. But if they truly do care about the local music community, that should extend to the well-being of the people invited through it's doors.

So I say support saving, "The Church." But consider making your support contingent on those persons responsible for the place making it safe for the purposes they put it to. Otherwise, it's probably better as a hospital parking lot. Honestly. Nostalgia does not trump good sense. When it does, well... fuck.


Thursday, June 28, 2007


Mr. Shuey,

When I was a young man I tried to fight against racism, homophobia and all manner of intolerance, holding many banners high. But in my golden years I don't confront people like I should. My question is, "How can I get as angry as I was when I was twenty?"

And yes, I have bricks nearby.




Why would you want to be as angry as you were when you were twenty? Why would anyone? You are taking what I consider to be the one true pleasure that comes from growing older and turning it on its head. So you're not as, "in your face" as you used to be. So what? Most people's faces are best viewed from a distance anyway.

Believe me, I know where you're coming from. When I was a younger man I also held many banners high. The one I held highest read: "I am an insufferable 20-year-old prick who thinks he knows everything and is almost unbearable to be around! I can't hold my liquor, will argue and fight at the slightest provocation and should properly be placed over someone's knee and spanked!" (It was a big banner.)

I think my convictions began to wane when I was beaten-up by the local white power skinheads, then beaten up a week later by a black guy who accused me of knowing the skinheads who had just beaten me up. "Yeah I know them," I told the guy as he pounded on me, "they beat the shit out of me last week!"

It was at that point I decided to leave the banner waving to persons with smaller brains and thicker skulls.

There's nothing wrong with mellowing a bit as one ages. Especially since things don't seem to heal quite as fast as they used to. So leave acting like a kid to the kids.

And those bricks you've got handy? Use them to build a nice backyard BBQ. Throw on some steaks, crack open a beer and breathe-in the glorious summer air. If you still feel the need to do your part, invite all the neighbors over-- male and female, gay and straight, black, white, yellow and red. If they can't get along at a backyard beer bash, then something tells me all the banner-waving in the world will be of little good.

Best of Luck,

Mr. Shuey


So if you're anything like me, the sight of sixty thousand dollar sports cars in the modest surroundings of your neighborhood always feels gaudy and kind of insulting. And in the summertime the owner's "devil-may-care" rich guy insouciance causes them to casually leave the top down. It's like they're daring me to fuck with them! In the spirit of civility I have composed a note to leave that adequately expresses my frustration. Feel free to print it out and use it in situations as you see fit. You may replace my name with your own, or leave it as is. It's your choice.

Dear Rich Prick,

If you insist on shamelessly flaunting your wealth by parking your over-priced convertible sports car in a neighborhood where its cost exceeds the average annual family income by tens of thousands of dollars please have the good sense to CLOSE THE TOP. You have no idea how tempting it is to decorate your hand-tooled leather interior with cigarette butts, beer cans, dog shit, used rubbers and all manner of other unseemly articles. In fact, in the time it took me to carefully place this note on your passenger seat I could have just as easily covered it with a layer of Minwax varnish from the can that's been under my sink since I moved into my apartment. The tenant before me just left it there. Do you honestly believe I've got any thing that needs varnishing? Did he? Because I'm telling you pal, I don't! How thrilled would your date be if she came out of the restaurant and sat on a big puddle of varnish?

So just close your roof next time. Or better yet, stay the fuck out of my neighborhood. I'm trying to be a nice, law-abiding citizen, and people like you make it really hard.


Brian David Shuey


(From June 7, 2007)

"So what are you going to do?"

"About what?"

"About HIM?"

"Him who?"

"Him WHO! 'Him' the kid you've got chained to the radiator!"

"Oh. Nothing."


"Nothing for now. I gave him a bunch of these. He'll be out for hours."

"And what happens when he wakes up?"

"By then I'll be long gone. There's a show I want to see at THE HEXAGON tonight."

"The Hexagon? I've never heard of it."

"It's in Minneapolis."

"MINNEAPOLIS! How the hell do you plan to get all the way out there?"

"I'll take the chopper."

"The chopper! But MARINE ONE is mine!"

"It's only yours when I say it's yours."

"Oh, I get it. You're going to make ME deal with this one. Again."

"Quit being such a pussy. Just put him with the others under the bowling alley."

"But the bowling alley is right under the press room! What if they smell something?"

"That's what the bags of quick lime are for. Jesus, do I have to do all the thinking around here?"

"Just how many Indo-whatevers do you have buried down there now?"

"They're not Indonesians, they're Filipinos. God, you're a dumb son of a bitch!"

"Why do you always have to run me down, I was only..."

"Look, THE CHAMBERMAIDS, DIE ELECTRIC!, PRIVATE DANCER and PROLLY are playing at THE HEXAGON tonight and I don't plan on missing it!"

"And just where do you fix on putting the chopper down?"

"I did one of those GOOLGE EARTH searches. There's a bank parking lot right across the street. If we leave early enough it should be empty and we can land there."

"But I was gonna watch "Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader" tonight. Last week I nearly beat the little bastards!"

"Have Laura tape it. Right now you need to roll up your sleeves and get to digging."

"Aw, man..."

"Look, the pilot said we'd be flying into headwinds the whole way out. I do not have time to fuck around with you right now."


"Good, it's settled then. I have to go get my MINOR THREAT t-shirt out of the dryer."

"You know something, Dick. You sure are one crazy, boy-raping, megalomaniacal nut-job!"

"Yeah, that may be true, but I've got GREAT taste in music."

"If you say so."

(Brian David Shuey--6.7.07)