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Thursday, December 14, 2006


The common cold-- Group: IV ((+) ssRNA) Family: Picornaviridae. Genus: Rhinovirus.

Scourge of man.

Until now a truly effective treatment has eluded modern medical science. Until now…

I offer the following miracle cure free of charge for the betterment of humankind:

-Lock your door.

-Dim the lights.

-Take four (4) Sudafed.

-Take 800 mg of your favorite analgesic.

-Drink screwdrivers until you have exhausted your supply of orange juice.

-Switch to gin and tonic

-Drink gin and tonic until you have exhausted your supply of tonic water.

-Drink whatever that last beer in the back of the refrigerator is. Do not attempt to figure out how it got there.

-Brew a strong cup of Echinacea tea. Add one ounce of Scotch whiskey. Drink as fast as possible. (This will burn going down.)

-Put on some music. Something slightly bizarre. Brian Eno, CAN, Captain Beefheart, maybe King Crimson. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT play the Velvet Underground. If you do all will be for naught.

-Get into bed. You should be naked save only for a ski cap. Preferably a vintage 1970’s NFL one (One of the “tough” teams: Steelers, Packers, Raiders… a Dolphins or Saints hat will not cut it.)

You will be shaking and sweating profusely by now. This is good. The cold is trying to flee your body in the hope of inhabiting the nearest sane person. Open a window or door a crack to allow the cold to transpose itself to the next unsuspecting passerby.

-You are now cured. Enjoy a restful night’s sleep.

Yours in good health,

Brian David Shuey

Note: You may experience vomiting and abdominal cramping the following morning. This is perfectly normal.

Friday, December 01, 2006


Dear B.S.S.T Members,

I suppose the polite thing to do would be to pretend I was pleased with your performance. And not, as the case will be, call some of you on the carpet publicly. But the fact is this may be the sorriest excuse for a street team ever assembled.

I have some bad news for the following members:

Chris L. from PHOENIX, AZ: I have recently been in contact with the City of Phoenix Chamber of Commerce. Not a soul I spoke to recognized my name. You have had three months now to spread the word about me in that sun-baked hell hole you call home and yet the city fathers still have no idea who I am. MEMBERSHIP: TERMINATED

Steve P. from HARRISBURG, PA: It's Harrisburg, Steve! I GREW UP THERE! Yet, a Lexus-Nexus search of central Pennsylvania publications found no mention of me in the last six months. However that other Brian Shuey-- "renowned" Sprint Car racer and presumed cousin-fucking hillbilly-- received twelve notices. I SHALL NOT PLAY SECOND FIDDLE to some Skoal-chomping dirt track circling Carbona-huffing car monkey! MEMBERSHIP: TERMINATED

Susan R. from MEMPHIS, TN: Susan, the pictures you sent helped your cause a great deal. I was particularly keen on the one of you roller-skating in pigtails with the giant lollypop. That said, I am going to need to see some actual work product from you if I am to continue to keep you on the team. MEMBERSHIP: UNDER REVIEW

Anthony K. from BILLINGS, MT: The news that the local Kiwanis Club is considering erecting a statue of me to honor my many good works is the one bright spot in this otherwise dismal clusterfuck of incompetence. However, I must remind you that the $25 check towards your membership fee has bounced... again. Please attend to this promptly. MEMBERSHIP: SUSPENDED PENDING APPROPRIATE REMUNERATIONS

I will spare the rest of you the embarrassment reserved for those listed above. Suffice it to say, you're all on notice. And by the way, I'm still cleaning my own toilet. Unacceptable!

Your Fearless Leader,

Brian David Shuey

Tuesday, November 21, 2006


Today is my thirty-third birthday. In honor of that, here are, “33 Things About Myself and The Word Around Me!” by Brian David Shuey. Enjoy.

-”Scrubbing Bubbles” really do. Everything else in this life is a lie.

-As long as you are relatively healthy there is no point in regretting anything. If you had made different choices you might be so overwhelmingly satisfied with your life that you’ll stroll blissfully into the street and completely miss the #4 Bus that is headed straight for you. Think about it.

-I sometimes think going deaf wouldn’t be such a bad thing if it meant never having to overhear another stultifying dull conversation.

-You can write a screenplay about undead samurai racecar drivers who like to solve complex mathematical problems in their spare time, but don’t expect anyone to want to make a movie out of it.

-If you find yourself at a party and you absolutely have to fart, go stand next to the fattest person in the room. Everyone will assume they did it.

-The Clash selling Jaguars? Ramones selling phones? Both were hard to take, but to see The Muppets whoring themselves out for Pizza Hut was more than I could bear.

-Mechanical pencils are bullshit and should be thrown away.

-Take the Kerry-Edwards stickers off your cars. You backed a bum horse. You don't have to be proud of it.

-On a similar note, I was briefly connected with "Patty Wetterling for Congress.” The day after she lost the election I dropped her like a stone. I don't associate with losers.

-It is a well-known fact that I walk much faster than the average person. Sometimes when I am passing people on crutches, in wheelchairs or those who are otherwise infirm I secretly fear that they think I am "showing off." As a result I tend to slow my pace. I don't think this really benefits either party. Still, I can't help doing it.

-Don’t loan me books. I’m real hard on them.

-There are maybe a dozen people in the world at any given time who are doing worthwhile “installation art.” The rest of you hacks need to knock it off already.

- I miss cassette tapes. I really miss TDK-SA90s and Maxell XLIIS 90's. You could beat the shit out of those Maxell’s and they would always play. No one can convince me that any recording could sound better than an LP dubbed at a slightly elevated recording level and played back on a well-maintained mid-1980's Alpine car tape deck. At least I've never heard music sound better. (Note: Dolby NR is for sissies.)

-When an individual employs the phrase, "We'll see you later." It makes me think the that person is mentally unbalanced.

-Chicks love T-Rex.

-It’s clear I don‘t know much about British “sport” when I read a headline like, “Uncapped Joyce Wins Ashes Call-up.” What could that possibly mean?

-I once had a friend confess to me that he was taking “hip-hop” dance lessons. We are not friends anymore.

-I am very active in the M.W.C.O.T.A.P.O. community. In fact, I am its only member since I have never shared with anyone the true meaning of the acronym. But trust me, we’re a very kinky crowd.

-I was born at the following map coordinates: 40.240ºN by 76.920ºW. To this day nothing green will grow there and children whisper as they pass.

-Despite conventional wisdom on the subject I do in fact have one tattoo. It is on the bottom of my right foot and it records the results of two track and field events (long jump/ 100-yard dash) I participated in at the Linglestown Elementary School May Fair in the spring of 1981: I placed FIRST in both. I fear this will go down as the most successful day of my life. At least in terms of “ribbons won.”

-I’ve been told on more than one occasion I have excellent taste in women’s jewelry. I don’t know what to make of that.

-To all prostitutes in the Whittier neighborhood: Please continue to use the front stoop of my building to ply your trade. I plan on using your activities as leverage should my landlord try to increase the rent.

-I have a PlayStation II-- but only one video game for it. It’s a game where you kill Nazis. I enjoy it immensely.

-I have two African violets. One is named, “Jeeves,” the other I call “Wooster” or “Bertie.” Of all the uncool things about me this may be the uncoolest

-It’s time to reevaluate the word, “cool.” I recently overheard an elderly lady in a sweater with a gigantic owl embroidered on its front remark to her companion, “That sure was cool!” To which the second lady—of similar vintage and equally questionable taste in fashion replied, “You betcha’ it was cool!” I have no idea to what they were referring, but if whatever it was was cool then “cool” just ain’t cool anymore.

-The mere act of walking into an office supply store fills me with the overwhelming desire to start my own business. Luckily, the feeling fades quickly.

-To all recent immigrants to the United States: Welcome! I’m excited to have you here and I hope things go well for you. I ask only one favor, please try to remember that there is no haggling in America! Sears is not a suq. Marshall’s is not a Mercado. That laundry soap is $6.99 and no amount of gesticulating on your part is ever going to change that. The people behind you in line have other stuff to do today. Again, welcome and good luck.

-I have never understood why loose-leaf chewing tobacco is offered for sale at convenience stores in major metropolitan areas. It’s the city. Who’s buying this stuff?

-Why is it the first thing some dolt says when they spill something on me is, “I’m so sorry, I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.” As if anyone has t-shirts and jeans dry cleaned. Just to throw them I’m going to start demanding $2 in quarters for the coin-op. Clumsy fuckers.

- Anything NOT written in black ink will be considered invalid.

-Why does the weather take ten minutes? Does anyone really need to be told for the one millionth time what happens when a warm, moist air mass meets a dry, cool air mass along a frontal boundary? I don’t need another primer in meteorology. Just tell me if it’s going to rain, man.

-I am fairly certain I have peed in every natural body of water I have ever swam in.

-This is #33. I’m going to have a beer now, okay?

Friday, October 20, 2006


What follows is a transcript of a telephone interview I conducted with Minnesota State Representative Michele Bachmann, Republican candidate for the U.S. Congress.

BDS: Good afternoon Representative Bachmann, I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.


BDS: I'm sorry, Mrs. Bachmann. I think there may be a problem with our connection...


BDS: Mrs. Bachmann?

(muffled noises, a male voice takes over)

MV: I apologize, Mr. Shuey. The Candidate is speaking in tongues again.

BDS: Does she do this often?

MV: Only when Our Lord and Savior is communicating through her.

BDS: Wait, that was Jesus? I thought it was Klingon.

MV: They're actually quite similar.

BDS: So, for the uninitiated, what was it Jesus was saying?

MV: He was just reaffirming his endorsement for Representative Bachmann's candidacy.

BDS: So Jesus is firmly in your camp?

MV: And where else would he be? With Wetterling?

BDS: Well, it's just that I've never really heard of him taking sides before.

MV: Oh, He does. And by the way, when you write "Him," it is properly capitalized.

BDS: Hold on, how did you know I didn't?

MV: Let's just say I know your type.

BDS: Fair enough. So you've got Jesus. Any other big names on board?

MV: Bigger names than Jesus?

BDS: Well, it's just that I've heard Patty Wetterling has Jessica Lange and Sam Shepard behind
her. Maybe Josh Hartnett, too.

MV: They're lightweights! Jesus had the biggest movie in the world two years ago.

BDS: Yeah, two years ago. You know what they say in Hollywood, "What have you done for me lately?"

MV: She's got the First Lady.

BDS: Ha! Laura Bush doesn't put asses in seats. Everyone knows that. I saw her at a Border's Books one time. You could hear crickets.

MV: Listen, the Candidate is confident that The Lord's backing will be enough.

BDS: And how exactly did Mrs. Bachmann secure the Lord's endorsement?

MV: The Candidate and her family joined hands, fasted and prayed for three days.

BDS: So, it was like Martin Luther King kind of thing?

MV: No, he was a Southern Baptist. The candidate and her family attend a very different sort of church.

BDS: Oh, that's right. So, what exactly does a "wealthy suburban mega-church fast" entail?

MV: (long pause)

BDS: Sir?

MV: Mostly imported bottled water and bread from the bakery at Byerly's.

BDS: Wow! It's a miracle they even survived!

MV: I assure you, adjusted for the Bachmann's level of income and ethnic background, it can be quite a transcendental experience of one's faith.

BDS: I'm sure it can! I skipped breakfast one time and had a vision of St. Bernadine of Siena telling me I should be Governor of West Virginia!

MV: Now you're just being smug. It's the arrogance of the godless liberal elite like you that the people of Minnesota will send Representative Bachmann to Washington to combat.

BDS: Elite? I had to crawl over a drunken prostitute just to get into my apartment building this morning. Mrs. Bachmann is a rich-as-shit tax attorney. She lives in a huge house in Stillwater. And suddenly I'm elite? How, precisely does that work?

MV: Wait a moment. You mean to say you're poor?

BDS: Well, I'm not exactly...

MV: Listen, the Candidate doesn't waste time on people who can't even find their own bootstraps. Call back when you've made something of yourself. (click)

BDS: Hello? Hello?

Friday, October 06, 2006


What follows is an instant message discussion I had over the internet with an individual claiming to be Rep. Mark Foley of Florida. As the text will clearly demonstrate, this person was obviously an imposter. BDS

Maf54 (7:37:27 PM): how my favorite young stud doing

Shu22 (7:38:01 PM) Good, I guess. I certainly don't FEEL young. I'm a little sore. I was playing racquetball today.

Maf54 (7:39:32 PM): you need a massage

Shu22: (7:41:03 PM) Actually, that might be just the thing.

Maf54 (7:47:11 PM): good so your getting horny

Shu22: (7:48:16PM) Umm... not really. But one time I did have a sort of embarrassing moment at the masseuse. Luckily I didn't have to turn over right away!

Maf54 (7:55:02 PM): completely naked?

Shu22: (7:55:32 PM) I was wearing a towel.

Maf54 (7:55:51 PM): cute butt bouncing in the air

Shu22: (7:58:09 PM) No, I was pretty much flat on my stomach the whole time. So anyway, what's Florida like this time of year?

Maf54 (8:00:53 PM): i like steamroom

Shu22: (8:01:11 PM) Yeah, I suppose it is pretty hot down there.

Maf54 (8:01:21 PM): i am hard as a tell me when your reaches rock

Shu22 (8:04:24 PM) When my what "reaches rock?" I'm not really following you. I must say, for a Congressman you seem to have, at best, a tenuous grasp on the English language. Are all members of the House of Representatives so loose with their grammar?

Maf54 (8:08:31 PM): get a ruler and measure it for me

Shu22: (8:09:14 PM) Measure what? The distance it would take me to "reach rock?"

Maf54 (8:10:40 PM): take it out

Shu22 (8:10:54 PM): Take WHAT out, the rock? I'm telling you I don't have any rocks with me. You're making no sense at all. I thought we were going to discuss healthcare reform.

Maf54 (8:11:06 PM): ok

Shu22 (8:14:02 PM): Fine. So, would you say the Republican-led Congress has made any progress on reforming a healthcare system that 72 percent of Americans say is broken?

Maf54 (8:14:37 PM): i like steamroom

Shu22: (8:22:17 PM) You know what? I don't think you're Rep. Mark Foley (R-FL) at all. I think you're just some weird Internet pervert. This discussion is over!

Maf54 (8:47:11 PM): good so your getting horny

Friday, September 29, 2006


Anyone who has been in downtown Minneapolis on a weekday during lunchtime (or at Happy Hour) has seen them. Their ubiquity is remarkable, but even more conspicuous is their homogeneity. The same hair, clothes and mannerisms. I had always thought it a result of a prevailing corporate culture. The reality is much more disturbing.

My source deep inside The Target Corporation (I’ll call him “Spot”—to protect his identity) revealed to me the REAL reason these women share such uncanny similarities.

Here is what I have learned from him so far:

-Fully 90 % of female employees at The Target Corporation are genetic clones grown in pods at a secret facility in Apple Valley. They are designated as “Target Pod Unit-Female” (Base Models 1-4.) They have a lifespan of only 10 years. (Those tracked for middle management—Models #MM242 and #MM248 have 15 and 20-year life-spans, respectively.)

-The original genetic material from which all TPU-Fs are spawned comes from one source, Beth Aarsvold Olson. She was the “Princess Kay of the Milky Way” butter sculpture winner from the 1977 Minnesota State Fair. How it was she came to be “Eve” to an army of corporate clones is cloudy, but it has something to do with a sordid and short-lived connection to a scientist in the animal husbandry division of Cargill in the early 1980’s.

-While Target essentially “owns” all TPU-Fs, not paying them a regular salary would obviously attract attention, “The Eye” (as “Spot” derisively refers to Target) arranges direct deposits into each pod’s bank account. Through a series of shell companies, Target secretly owns the following downtown Minneapolis drinking and dining establishments: “Brit’s,” “Cosmos,” “The Local” and “Solera.” The recent popularity of The Cosmopolitan and the chocolate martini is no accident. A predisposition for these drinks is genetically programmed into all TPU-Fs. Thus, at $8 a pop Target is able to recapture most of the money it pays out to its clones.

-The predominant hair color used on TPU-Fs (known internally simply as “Target Blond 11”) is available commercially through the L’Oreal Company as #8.2 Champagne Chili (Medium Iridescent Blonde.) Profits from the patent on this popular color are funneled back into the pod research and development program.

-The Target ID badges TPU-Fs wear on lanyards are in fact tracking and control devices. They are never removed, simply tucked away under their blouses.

-Like many women today, TPU-Fs often employ over the counter teeth bleaching products (or pay dentists in Target’s health plan for expensive procedures.) Unbeknownst to the pods, left alone their teeth will actually whiten themselves automatically through a complex process of osmosis originally pioneered by chemists at the Miss America Labs in Atlantic City, NJ. (The chemical process itself is closely guarded, but sources indicate a time-released sodium hypochlorite (NaOCl) compound is imbedded in the dentin.)

The method by which TPU-F’s are eventually “retired” involves the sanitary napkin dispensers in Target office buildings and the details are so horribly unpleasant that decorum prevents me from revealing them.

This is all the information I have at this point. Recent attempts to contact “Spot” have proved fruitless, and I have begun to fear the worst.

Your intrepid investigator,

Brian David Shuey

Tuesday, September 19, 2006


To the Occupant(s) of Apartment #____,

As best as I can tell, you were pounding on your ceiling (or, as I have come to call it, "my floor") last night. As this is a very limited way in which to communicate, I can only make assumptions about your point. Given the timing of your little outbursts my best guess is that you could hear the floorboards creaking under my feet. They will do that! If you have concerns about the quality of the flooring in this building I would suggest you take it up with the management.

This is my apartment. I live in it. I am not throwing wild parties. I am not operating a 24-hour roller disco. I am not practicing close-order drill in full pack and combat boots. But I repeat: I LIVE IN IT. As I am not invalided or prone in any way to be sedentary I will tend to move about from time to time. In fact, if need (or whim) be I will move about ALL THE TIME. Any time. Night or Day. Once again, MY PLACE. While I have not examined my lease recently (I have lived here quite contentedly and in good standing with both my neighbors and the management for nearly three years...YOU?) I am almost certain WALKING is not listed as a prohibited activity.

Make no mistake, I am not about to engage in some passive-aggressive pissing match with you. You live in an apartment building in the city. If this style of living does not suit you, that is not my concern. I (and many people I know) have dealt with the likes of you before. I suggest you adjust your expectations to match the reality of your situation. Or move. I understand the Boundary Waters in Northern Minnesota offer nearly unmatched solitude. Consider it.

Consider this as well. I have done nothing out of line and you are not going to shame or intimidate me into believing I have. So don't waste your time.

Here neighbor, is the meat of the matter: It is my name that appears on the lease for Apartment #19. And more the point, my name on the rent checks. Should you decide to pay the rent on this apartment perhaps we can reach an agreement on the time and manner in in which I move about in it. Until then, you may pound on your own ceiling until you break your broom or injure yourself. I honestly don't care.


Brian Shuey

Apt. #19

Tuesday, September 12, 2006


So he says: "Now THIS is more like it!" raising his hands to the sky.

What I WANTED to say: "Jesus fucking Christ you fucking CRETIN! Enough about the goddamn weather! Every day for five years I've been coming out here to catch a quick smoke and a bit of peace and quiet and you're always fast on my heels wanted to have a chat. And always the weather! Nothing but the goddamn weather! What's with you, anyway? Haven't you noticed that for four and a half of these five years I have employed every conceivable strategy-- both subtle and overt --to communicate to you that I do not wish to discuss the weather? That I do not, in fact, wish to discuss ANYTHING! That I would merely like to take a brief respite from work for a cigarette and a moment of quiet reflection. And anyway, you're just talking AT me. You don't even notice if I respond. I could be a fucking TREE for all you care. When I'm not here you probably DO talk to the trees, don't you? You probably say things like, 'Well fellas, looks like you're gonna get a free watering today!' Or, 'Getting cold. Guess you'll be losing those leaves soon.' Well sir, I am not a tree! I am a human man! And I demand that you respect the sanctity of my individual human mind and not clutter it up with your inane and pointless meteorological observations! Damn you, sir! Damn you!"

What I said: "Sure is! Much nicer than yesterday."

Monday, September 11, 2006


Well, the first event in "The Brian Shuey Street Team" calendar has come and gone and the turnout was less than spectacular. In fact, not one of you could trouble yourself to attend. I know I did not officially announce the date, but then ANTICIPATING MY NEEDS is clearly implied in the job description.

Nonetheless, "Fall House Cleaning 2006" was not a total loss. One potential recruit did wander in, no doubt enticed by the smell of fresh brownies and cherry Kool-Aid (By the way, I made enough FOR ALL OF YOU, so I guess I will be eating brownies for a while.) He had quite an appetite and seemed genuinely enthusiastic about his free "BRIAN SHUEY STREET TEAM FALL HOUSE CLEANING 2006" t-shirt, but I could not get him to do any actual work. He stole a tray of Jell-O treats while my back was turned and scampered off down the hallway.

So it fell upon me to do all the work myself. Sweeping, mopping, cleaning toilets. That's right, "Street Team," Saturday afternoon saw your fearless leader on his hands and knees scrubbing floors like a common charwoman. These are precisely the sorts of tasks you folks were assembled to unburden me of.

In addition to the cleaning, there was a great deal of sorting junk to do. I filled two contractor bags brimming with discardables and carried them three floors down to the dumpster. Again, with no one's aid. Your loss, because here are...


-300 books of matches- all with at least one match left. Also, dozens of disposable lighters that had, at best one more "light" left in them.

-All my post-9/11 pornographic magazines. They say "everything changed" that day, including it would seem, porn. I can't say I've enjoyed the changes.

-A bunch of wrist watches. (I dislike watches immensely but often receive them as gifts.)

-A VHS tape of rock videos recorded off of MTV's "120 Minutes" in the late 1980's—including the Depeche Mode video that was playing when I lost my virginity.

-One full box of galvanized roofing nails. (It occurred to me that while I do have a roof over my head, nailing it is not my responsibility.)

-A very old computer who's hard drive contained the majority of my tortured adolescent poetry. (Including at least one work with a couplet rhyming "rain" and "pain.")

-So many rubber bands.

So yes, any or all of these goodies could have been yours, but your laziness and disregard for me prevented that.

I am currently reevaluating your individual positions on the Street Team and the Team's existence as a whole.

Brian David Shuey

Note: Groveling messages of apology will go a long way to maintaining your active status on the BSST.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006


Apparently, Katie Couric has asked America to help her come up with a "sign-off" phrase for her nightly news casts. (It would seem CBS is suffering from a shortage of writers.)

What follows is the email I sent to "The CBS Evening News."


So as I understand it, Katie Couric is looking for a "sign-off" phrase a la Ed Murrow's "Good night and good luck."

Might I suggest the following:

"Thanks for sharing part of your dinner hour with me. As you scrape the un-eaten peas from your cold, neglectful husband's TV dinner tray into that flimsy, off-brand garbage bag and drag it to the curb in front of your sqalid, miserable little house remember: I make $13 million dollars a year to look pretty, smile and read the news. I'm Katie Couric. Good night, suckers!"

Too much?

Best regards,

Brian David Shuey

Minneapolis, MN

Monday, September 04, 2006


BDS: So, Mr. President, the last time we spoke you were enthusiastically touting your new, "Moving Forward" initiative. How's that going?

GWB: Done. It's a done deal. Dead in the water.

BDS: So I'm guessing you got a letter from...

GWB: Yeah, we got one of those "Seize and Detest" letters from Toyota.

BDS: You mean, "Cease and Desist?"

GWB: Whatever. Harriet's on it. (Ed. Note: White House Counsel Harriet Miers.) She says she thinks we might be able to fight it, but knowing it wasn't really MY IDEA makes me kind of just want to drop the whole thing.

BDS: So you'll be taking down the shark posters?

GWB: Hell NO! Harriet says so long as I cross out the words real good with a magic marker they can stay up. So they're stayin' up! The sharks will remind me to do a little more research before I jump feet-first into something. What can I say, I'm a charger. I charge ahead. It's my nature.

BDS: So you're beginning to think that maybe that's not always the best approach?

GWB: No, I'm still a charger. But now I'm gonna try to be a "cautious" charger.

BDS: So, for instance, Iraq: Charger. Iran: Cautious charger?

GWB: Yeah! Now you're getting it!

BDS: Now last week I tried to discuss this fall's elections. What do you think...

GWB: Whoa! Hold on. There's ELECTIONS this fall? Hell, I ain't even campaigned yet.

BDS: No sir. These are mid-term Congressional elections. You know, House and Senate seats?

GWB: Oh... Well, when am I up for election again?

BDS: Well sir, your term ends in 2008, but the 22nd Amendment to the Constitution prohibits you from running again. A President may only be serve two terms in office.

GWB: Oh, that's right. It's Jeb's turn next.

BDS: I suppose you could serve again if you changed the Constitution.

GWB: Really? You mean it?

BDS: Well, strictly speaking the President doesn't change the Constitution. Congress does it through the process of adding amendments. And then the legislative bodies of the several States must approve. But I suppose there's no harm in bringing it up with them.

GWB: Man, that Constitution's really somethin' else! I should read it sometime. Hey, what if I let Jeb have it for four years, and then I could have it back after him? I'll tell ya, I don't think America is gonna take to him quite the way they took to me.

BDS: I don't see why not. Congress can fashion the amendment to suit that.

GWB: So I take a break for awhile and come back all rested and ready in 2014.

BDS: Actually, it would be 2012.

GWB: 2012! Hot Damn! Ill be 63 years old in 2012, just hittin' my prime.

BDS: Well, in truth you'd be 66.

GWB: Really?

BDS: Yes, sir. You were born on July 6, 1946.

GWB: '46. Really? Huh? Now see, I know my birthday's right after the 4th of July because one birthday I remember having my hand all bandaged-up from a Roman candle thing going wrong. That's before I took the Lord into my heart. You know, back then.

BDS: The drinking days?

GWB: Yeah. Drinking and fireworks are just bad together. Fun though.

BDS: How about the Lord and fireworks?

GWB: They go together just fine.

BDS: So you think Jesus would approve of fireworks?

GWB: I don't think He'd use them himself, but I don't think he'd mind so much if his children did. Except maybe for Roman candles, on account of the trouble he had with Rome.

BDS: Perhaps that's why it was a Roman candle that blew-up in your hand. Maybe He was trying to tell you something.

GWB: Hey! You know, I never thought about it that way. Is there any such thing as Jewish fireworks? You know, "Jewish Candles?"

BDS: Ummm... I think a Jewish candle is a Menorah.

GWB: Never mind. Did you see, "The Passion?"

BDS: Well, to be honest sir, someone spoiled the ending for me so I just skipped it.

GWB: (To Karl Rove, in the other room) Hey! Turd-blossom! Get the projector cranked-up! We're watching "The Passion" again.

BDS: Actually sir, if we could just finish the interview I would...

GWB: Stuff the interview! You ain't leaving here until you see "The Passion." You like Orville Redenbacher?

BDS: The man or the popcorn?

GWB: It's always a fucking question with you, isn't it?

Thursday, August 31, 2006



So I've decided to assemble a street team to get the word out about me. I've noticed that rock bands, skateboard companies and even major corporations have had a great deal of success with this somewhat novel marketing concept. And since I'm too lazy to go out and promote myself, this seemed like the only way to go.


FREE ADMISSION TO ALL BRIAN SHUEY EVENTS: These happen throughout the year. The next big one is, "Fall House Cleaning 2006" This will take place at my apartment and Street Team Members will get the exclusive right to participate. Just a few of the fun activities...

-"What's that under the dresser?"

-"Mop Race Rally!"

-"Scavenger Hunt:" (or) "Lets find out where Brian stored his goddamn fucking winter hat/scarf/gloves so he doesnt have to buy all new ones like he does every year."

FREE BRIAN SHUEY MERCHANDISE: This is pretty much limited to things I have but don't want anymore. Ill-fitting clothes, old Econ textbooks that I've been inexplicably carting around with me since college, a VHS copy of "Blade Runner" taped off of TBS in 1988 with (most of) the commercials cut out, and rubber bands. Lots of rubber bands.

FREE SUBSCRIPTION TO THE BRIAN SHUEY NEWSLETTER! A glossy, twice-monthly publication to keep everyone updated on my many exciting activities. (Note: Production of the Brian Shuey Newsletter-- including all costs incurred-- shall be the responsibility of Street Team Members.)

For all these GREAT BENEFITS, you will simply be asked to:

-Tell your friends about BRIAN SHUEY and his many fine qualities.

-Call radio stations and encourage the hosts to talk about BRIAN SHUEY-- regardless of the topic at hand and ignoring the fact that no one knows who I am. This is how "buzz" is generated.

-Attend public events and distribute BRIAN SHUEY-related promotional materials. Buttons, stickers, t-shirts, etc. (Note: production of BRIAN SHUEY-related promotional materials-- including all costs incurred-- shall be the responsibility of Street Team Members.)

It's that easy!

So join the fun and help spread the word!

All the best,

Brian Shuey

(Note: Street Team Members will be issued pagers and will be required to be "on-call" 24 hours a day, seven days a week.)


A horse walks into a bar...

Bartender: "Hey buddy, why the long face?"

Horse: "Well, I'm a member of the genus Equus. Equus caballus, to be exact. We're part of a larger group of odd-toed ungulate mammals. The face is an adaptation developed over millions of years. Zoologists theorize that it is intended to facilitate grazing on short plains grasses."

Bartender: "Really? You don't say? Well, what'll it be?"

Horse: "I'd love a carrot... If you've got any?"

Bartender: "Sure thing, pal. Coming right up!"



Note: What follows is an interview I conducted with President Bush in the west wing of the White House in mid-August of 2006. BDS

BDS: Good afternoon, Mr. President. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.

GWB: Call me George. No wait, call me "Thumper." That's what they called me in school. You wanna know why?

BDS: I suppose I could guess.

GWB: Wait, this is "on the record," right? That's the one where you can print whatever I say?

BDS: It is.

GWB: Better go with "George," then. Or, "President George."

BDS: How about just, "Mr. President."

GWB: That'll do 'er!

BDS: Now then, Mr. President. You're half-way through your second term, how would you say things are going?

GWB: I'll tell you Brian, things are going GREAT! We got a new motto here at the White House, "Moving Forward." Things are really moving forward right now. Forward momentum. Like a rocket to the moon.

BDS: Or Mars.

GWB: What?

BDS: You may recall, you announced an initiative to realize the dream of manned exploration of the planet Mars.

GWB: I did?

BDS: Yes, some time ago.

GWB: And how's that going?

BDS: Well, we're not there yet, sir.

GWB: Hmm, guess I better kick a few butts over at NASA. Get 'em "Moving Forward," eh? (chuckles)

BDS: Yes, I'm beginning to see the wisdom of your new approach.

GWB: You know where I got it from, don't ya? From, "Shark Week." You know, on The Discovery Channel. That's Channel 58 on satellite here in D.C. But it's something different down in Crawford. I wish they could do something about that. Every time I go down there I have to flip around forever to figure out which one is The Discovery Channel. And then, when I find it as soon as I change the channel I forget and I can't get back to it without doing the whole dang thing over again. ESPN's the same in both places. It's 32. I don't know why, though.

BDS: So, um... back to Shark Week?

GWB: Oh yeah. So I learned on Shark Week that sharks have to keep moving forward in the water or they'll die.

(In the background:) Aide #1: Except for Nurse sharks, of course.

GWB: What?

Aide #2: Never mind. Its just an "I.F.," sir.

BDS: "I.F.?"

Aide #2: "Inconvenient Fact." They impede forward momentum. They are contra to the President's paradigm. The paradigm requires that the President ignore them. They are dealt with by people like me.

(Aide #1 is led from the room. Door closes. Some muffled noises on the other side.)

GWB: Yeah, so anyway it's something about the air in the water. And I just thought that was really neat and then I thought it would be a heckuva motto for my administration. Now I got pictures of sharks all over the White House. All sorts of different ones. Hammerheads are the scariest, don't you think? Or maybe Great Whites? They have those down in Australia. You know Australia's a member of "THE COALITION OF THE WILLING," right? Hell, they sent eight or nine guys to Iraq. I know it don't sound like much, but if they're all like Mad Max, well then I bet they could really do some damage!

BDS: Perhaps we should have asked the Australians for some of their sharks?

GWB: Now why didn't I think of that? Teddy! (to Aide #3) Get what's-his-nuts on the phone!

Aide #3: Prime Minister Howard?

GWB: Yeah, him. Tell him I want to talk to him about getting some sharks.

Aide #3: Can do, sir!

BDS: So, these shark posters. Did you have a motivational products company make them?

GWB: Hell no! I DID IT MYSELF! It was decided that it was an important initiative. In fact, they thought it was so important that Dick even gave me the code to run the color copier. Want to know what it is?

BDS: Actually, sir I think that...

GWB: Oh, come on. It won't hurt none, as long as you don't PRINT it. It's... (silently mouths a four-number series.)

BDS: Well yes, I can see why...

GWB: Now I can have you killed. You know... (whispers) to protect the secret.

BDS: Ummm...

GWB: Oh hell! Im just messin' with you little buddy! In fact, why don't you go ahead and remember that. I may need to call you about it if I forget. Dick doesn't like to tell me things twice. And I've learned not to ask twice.

BDS: It will be our secret, sir. Now then, if we could move on to the matter of the coming mid-term elections, I'd like to know what you think the biggest challenge to

(Aide #3 interrupts): Sir, I've got Prime Minister Howard on line 3.

GWB: Aw, hell! I better take this now or I'll never remember what it was I wanted to talk to him about. Can you come back next week? We can finish up then.

BDS: Of course, Mr. President. Perhaps we can discuss something other than sharks?

GWB: Whatever. Sharks. BBQ. The war. Shit! Its all good!



As most of you know, I am an atheist. However, I'm also practical, and can see the wisdom in preparing for any eventuality, however farcical or remote.
According to the Bible--Thats the book you have to move aside in your hotel room night table when you're looking for matches or the handy list of local delivery joints-- the End Times are just around the corner. In fact, they have been for a couple of millennia now. With the current dust-up in the Middle East, contemporary prophets of doom contend that they are really, REALLY just around the corner.

If you are devout Christian, apparently you're all set (A note to devout Christians: I'd keep paying those credit card bills all the same.)
But what about the rest of us? I now present...


1) The right shoes are a must: Make sure they fit properly (no "pinching") but are not too loose either. It's going to be either really hot or really cold (they are unclear on this) so have a supply of wool AND cotton socks on hand.

2) Stock-up on lots of water: Get the least expensive distilled water available. God will not be impressed by Evian or Voss, and having the expensive kinds around may lose you essential "piety" points.

3) Have a Bible on you: Couldn't hurt. Just make sure you didn't steal it from the hotel room. Those are for sharing.

4) Clean-up your apartment: Throw-out the porn. Don't just hide it. Jesus is coming, not your Mom. However, unlike your Mom, you do not need to dust on Jesus' account. (I don't think, anyway.) Do not throw out the booze, though. If you don't make the cut you're going to need it. In fact...

5) Secure plenty of booze: I put my odds of getting "Left Behind" at a very high order of probability. And I don't plan on being sober for The Rapture anymore than I plan on being sober this weekend.

6) Get a really good umbrella: Ask the guy at the store if it will protect you from raining sulfur. When he gives you a stupid look just buy the most expensive one they have. Go out in style, thats my motto.

7) Fuck it! Go apeshit!: You know what? I'm still writing this (and you're still reading it) so chances are we're BOTH going to hell. And as much as I hate people mucking-up my floors and spilling beer on my records, THE RAPTURE PARTY'S AT MY PLACE! A no-hold-barred naked, drunken freak-fest that would make Caligula blush. I promise it will be the best (and last) party you ever attend. See you there.



So here's a little game I've invented. There are 20 headlines below. Some are real, some I've made-up. Think you know which are which? I'll bet you don't! (Note: this is not a "trick" in which they're ALL made-up. Honest. I wouldn't pull something like that. That's something a dick does.)Feel free to send me your guesses. The "winner" will get a prize to be determined later.

1) Aspirin kills/saves lives

2) 5 G.I.s Charged in Iraq rape-slay

3) Which Hot Styles Best Fit Her Face?

4) Fresh Israeli strikes target Gaza

5) New "Poison" to cure cancer?

6) Cruise to court Catholics?

7) Getting the Most Out Of Doggie playtime

8) Zarqawi comic book stash

9) Mexico Vote Flap to postpone Bullfights

10) Security Plan Staggers on

11) "Orphan Train" in Bangladesh catches fire; 22 Dead

12) Babies at 70? New Trend?

13) Next World Cup in Africa?

14) Study: Women Sweat More Than Men

15) Boy loses Fingers to Alligator; Will Keep as Pet

16) French P.M.: Head-butts "tres mauvais"

17) Toothpaste "ban" in Russian Province

18) Love All As Wimbledon Denies David Hasselhoff Row

19) Mexico Genocide Charges dropped

20) Rocket Size of Football Pitch New N. Korean threat?

Good luck!

Mr. Shuey


So I sincerely hope this is taken in the spirit intended, but one never knows.

For reasons manifold and complex I am currently near the end of my fucking rope. I have come to believe that letting people know this is preferable to exploding without warning. So I guess what I'm asking for is a little leeway. I usually try to do the honorable thing and --when these moods take hold-- sequester myself until things blow over.

Unfortunately, that is not always an option.

Make no mistake. Being out and about (especially with friends and acquaintances) can be one of life's true pleasures. Unfortunately, when the "mood" takes hold it can be exactly the opposite. Small things, ordinarily brushed-off can become blasting caps. For instance:

DON'T BUMP INTO ME OR SHOVE PAST ME WITHOUT SAYING "EXCUSE ME:" I haven't punched anyone in years, but I'm getting damn close.

TALK WITH ME, NOT AT ME: If you'd like to have a conversation, that's swell. If you'd like to talk without pause in my general direction and expect me to sit there and nod politely, go fuck yourself. Go fuck yourself a lot.

UNSOLICITED ADVICE IS ALWAYS UNWELCOME: If you're doing so goddamned great, why are you sitting in a bar talking to a loser like me? Shouldn't you be on your yacht?

(AND ON A SIMILAR NOTE) THE RIGHT TEA AIN'T GONNA FIX THIS: It seems odd that someone like me would know so many well-meaning moon-bats who seem intent on forcing teas, balms, roots and "essences" down my throat (or "up" other places) with the promise of immediate blissful happiness. And they all seem to believe that it's the pharmaceutical companies who are the hustlers, not the folks at THE WEDGE. (HINT: They're BOTH hustlers.)

Long experience has taught me one simple truth: VALIUM WORKS! (Everything else is bullshit.)

So perhaps this was less a warning rather than a subtle way of trying to secure some Valium? Who knows? Like I said, I'm a little frayed!

Either way, I thought it best to let you folks know where things stand.

Friday, June 30, 2006



I have been compiling my comprehensive "Enemies List" for well over a decade now. It has filled many a notebook. Nixon-- perhaps as a result of his legendary paranoia-- sought to keep his secret. I choose to share mine freely. Here are a few recent additions:

PIGEONS: This needs no explanation. Loud, nefarious, disease-ridded shit machines. "Satans Songbirds." They are a plague upon me.

VICE ADMIRAL RICHARD H. CARMONA M.D, M.P.H., F.A.C.S.-- SURGEON GENERAL, U.S.A.: The Admiral's recently released report on second-hand smoke (long on bullshit, short on science) goes so far as to suggest that being 50 feet down wind of a cigarette could cause instant death. This is bound to saddle me with a great deal of aggravation in the near future.

NORWEGIAN-AMERICAN WOMEN OVER THE AGE OF 65: For my money, the most disagreeable sub-set of humanity I have ever encountered. They are devoid of all human warmth. They are physically incapable of smiling. Playwright Syl Jones calls them, "The Ice People." I call them "Stone Faces" or "Stonies."

THE FUCKING DOUCHEBAG I SAT NEXT TO AT THE TWINS GAME THE OTHER NIGHT: We had scored great seats for this one. One draw-back to this; in my experience, the "better" (read: more "expensive") the seats, the worse the company (CLASS WAR NOW!) The guy to my right showed-up an inning and a half in, was rude to his fiancé, spilled beer on my shoes, seemed to have very little interest in the game, would get up during crucial pitches for refreshments, and most irritating of all, he kept bumping me on the shoulder every time he removed his black RAZR phone from his pocket. He was doing this so he could stay in constant contact with a friend who was also somewhere in the crowd.

"Dude, I'm in, like, 129, come on down!" "No seriously, come on down dude!"

I would have loved to crack this fucker in the mouth, but getting into a fight at a Twins game gets you ejected, and all I could think about was that color-man Bert Blyleven would comment as I was led away, " There go a couple of clowns getting thrown out for fighting."
The thought of being referred to as a "clown" by Bert Blyleven was enough to keep me in line.

JOE FRANCIS, PRODUCER "GIRLS GONE WILD" VIDEO SERIES: I have yet to actually see one of these videos, but the other evening I saw a commercial for one and it is with a great deal of shame that I admit it kind of turned me on. This says less about the video and more about my slide towards middle age. I blame Joe Francis for reminding me of this. Prick.

ANN COULTER: Bitch, I want my underpants and NAKED RAYGUN records back! I know where you live! (242 Seabreeze Ave, Palm Beach, FL 33480-6129)

MY ULCER: Here's a head-scratcher: Does the act of cultivating a long and varied list of enemies cause an ulcer? Or is it the ulcer that causes one to have-- or perceive to have-- so many enemies?

MY FRIENDS ENEMIES: "My friends enemies are MY enemies." Hey, it's the least I can do for you guys



There are two interesting articles at that discuss how folks are rethinking the wisdom of using aluminum baseball bats (especially for youth leagues.)

Most of the debate seems to center around safety issues (i.e. the ball leaves the bat too quickly/Timmy doesn't see the ball coming/ball cracks Timmy in the skull/Timmy goes into a coma/Timmy don't wake-up-- or else wakes-up "all wrong".)

They also talk about what using aluminum bats does to the skill level of young players and how many are unable to make the adjustment when circumstances eventually require them to use REAL bats. ("Real," meaning wood.)

My only complaint is that none of the sources quoted could bring themselves to state that which we all know to be true; that aluminum baseball bats are fucking lame and should be gathered up-- by force of law, if necessary-- and melted down into something useful.

Beer cans come to mind.

Brian David Shuey
Current Status: 30-Day Disabled List



(This is mostly for the Sunday Baseball crowd)

So for the few of you who showed-up for Wednesday's infield/batting practice-- That ground ball I took off the tip of my middle finger? X-Rays reveal that the finger in question is broken. This would explain why it's swollen to three times it's normal size and black (not "black and blue" mind you-- black.)

The only consolation I take from this is that I feel much less nebbish for all the carping I did about how much it fucking stung.

I see an orthopedic doctor next week, but my guess is I won't be at 1st base for at least 3-4 weeks. So fellow infielders, be nice to who ever takes over... and for Christ's sake try to get your throws out of the dirt. (No names.)

To non-ballplayers, my Sundays are now free for:

-shopping for pants
-matinee movies
-naked "McLaughlin Group" viewing
-walks around Lake Calhoun
-Chinese checkers
-regular "American" checkers
-competitive cigarette smoking

Man, this is going to suck...

P.S. As it is the middle finger on my RIGHT hand, no scheduled DIE ELECTRIC! shows will need be cancelled. Sorry, you're not getting off that easy. However, I must admit that practice tonight revealed that playing with a splint on is something of a motherfucker, and the subsequent throbbing is no picnic.



Watching a cellist slowly and carefully apply rosin to her bow before a performance is something I very much enjoy being witness to.

Is that weird?

(No, there are no websites for this sort of thing... not that I was able to find anyway.)



So heres the deal:Throughout my adult life I have had some fairly strict rules regarding the wearing of "shorts."
They break-down roughly as such:

1992-1996: Only when a) skateboarding b) in summertime outdoor BBQ situations c) particularly hot band practices. NEVER after sundown.

1997-2000: Never, ever, under any circumstances.2001-2003: Only during daylight hours when the temperature exceeded 95 degrees. Or when riding a bicycle. Maybe at a hot band practice.

2004-2005: Any time --day or night-- when the temperature exceeded 95 degrees.

2006-: I've had it! Seriously, it's early June and we've had how many 90+ days? I officially declare the right to wear shorts any time I goddamn please. I have no air conditioning in my apartment. I don't drive (so no cruising around in air conditioned bliss there.) I'm not about to spend the summer going to shitty movies just to escape the heat. Should I need to, for instance, walk all over town doing errands when it's terrifically hot, I'm sorry, but you may be exposed to my legs-- from the knee to the ankle. There is nothing unseemly about this part of my body. Just deal with it.

I mention all of this because there have been a few occasions in the last week where I was in public wearing shorts (the HORROR!) and not a soul I know could refrain from making a smart-ass little comment. I don't need this shit from you people. Here's a secret: I'm not nearly as good-natured as is reputed, and mark this; The next motherfucker who thinks he's being "cute" and opens up on me about it is going to find THEMSELVES critiqued in a manner so withering and hurtful that they will wish they had kept their mouth shut. Dig?

I promise you this and this alone: You will never see me play a show in shorts. That remains my only proviso. Otherwise, all bets are off.

So here's what I did:
Woke up.
Made coffee.
Smoked cigarettes.
Drank coffee.
Made breakfast.
Ate breakfast.
Listened to records.(While I listened to records I watched the NCAA softball finals-- no, there was no baseball on at the time-- and just when I thought I hated softball more than anything, realized there was something I hated even more... THE UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA SOFTBALL TEAM. The reasons why are too manifold and complex to go into now, but UCLA beat them so those fucking ladies can go home and cry into their sun visors!)
Talked on the phone with my Mom and Dad in Pennsylvania.
Drank more coffee.
Went to Blazer's "Going Away" pig roast.
Threw the baseball around.
Drank beer.
Played badmitton.
Sustained a batmitton-related injury. (YES, it's possible. If you give it your all!)
Ate some unbelievably delicious pig.
Darnk beer. (No, that's not a typo.)
Played a game of poker.
Won $15.
Went to the Triple Rock.Saw The Holy Ghostriders.Saw Birthday Suits.Saw The Riverboat Gamblers.
Took a "mystery" pill.
Got sort of sleepy/happy.
Came home.
Started typing.
Tomorrow I get to play baseball.
I guess my point is, things aren't so bad.

Friday, June 02, 2006


(NOTE: I was tempted to title this, "Weddiquite," but then I remembered that the Marquis de la Fontaine was hanged by Louis XIV in 1682 for making the very same lousy joke. LOOK IT UP!) BDS


Always arrive late, preferably during a key point in the ceremony. Make a lot of noise. Make a fuss. This will reassure the Bride and Groom that the event is a "hot ticket." Lets face it; if it wasn't you would have waited outside until it was over.


Is generally frowned upon. However, if I have to watch someone cart out the bride's emotionally unbalanced third cousin to read Corinthian's 13:4-8 again I cannot be held responsible for my actions.

"Love is not boastful, arrogant, rude, irritable or resentful?" Really? You could have fooled me. (You see, this is the kind of wisdom you get from a book that talks about invisible people in the sky.)

That said, the Bible's a big book and not without useful advice. For instance, take this little gem from Leviticus: "Never have sexual intercourse with a woman and her daughter or a woman and her granddaughter. They are related. Doing this is perverted."

This passage will help remind the congregants of the importance of family and may serve to keep things from getting too "freaky" at the reception. Then again...


Unless you really want a better idea of how the bride looks in her dress, skip it. The real line is forming at the bar.


This is really the Main Event. In fact, I have always thought that the actual wedding should simply be video taped and shown on a loop at the reception. That way, anyone who really wanted to see it can.


Get drunk. Get drunk fast. In fact, get drunk faster than anybody else. (You wouldn't believe the pressure this takes off the other guests.) Especially the married men. Every one of them has a wife who is fully expecting that it will be HER husband who will be the most drunken, boorish lout in the place. Imagine her surprise and delight when that role is taken on BY YOU! Think of all the arguments you will be preventing! You may, in fact, end up saving some of these peoples marriages. So with each shot you take, quietly tell yourself, "What I do tonight, I do for Love."


This is traditionally the purview of the Best Man. However, legendary stories of embarrassing, drunken wedding toasts have caused grooms to become notoriously safe in choosing their best men. The result is predictable, bland, overly sentimental toasts. This is where you come in. Inject a little edginess into the affair. Drop a bomb, so to speak. For instance, if you happen to know the groom to be gay-- HOW you know is your business-- a toast is a good time to "out" him. This may seem heavy-handed, but I assure you you'll be saving the blissful couple a lot of pain and confusion in the coming years.

While the groom is fair game, whatever your inclinations, NEVER SAY ANYTHING UNTOWARD ABOUT THE BRIDE. I don't hold much to be above scorn, but a bride on her wedding day is. No matter what you may think of her, no matter what you may know, THE BRIDE GETS A FREE PASS.


EMBRACE: Any divorced, forty-something aunt chain smoking Marlboro Light 100s from one of those soft leather snap cases and periodically exclaiming, "Whoo Hoo!" I've noticed a tendency for people to steer clear of these woman. That's a mistake. They are my personal favorites. Be a gentleman and see that such ladies are never without a drink. They deserve a good time.

AVOID: Any down-on-his-heels uncle who cant get two words into a conversation without pitching a "sure-fire" business scheme.

AVOID: The Bride's parents. This is a safety measure. They paid for the event, and as a result are the only one's who's opinion of your behavior really matters.

AVOID: All children. Scrubbed-up and on their best behavior they might end up give you some perverse notions... like having one's of your own.

EMBRACE: Grandmas.


What ever you do, do not drive home in your condition. Getting yourself killed on someone else's wedding night is considered "upstaging" and is quite rude. If you must, sleep in your car. Cops are surprisingly patient with people sleeping in their cars-- so long as they are well dressed. (Oddly, this is something the Kennedy's never really learned.)

Good luck, and enjoy the wedding season.


"INCONGRUITY" defined: Finding a discarded wad of wintergreen Skoal in the bathroom urinal at a fine arts museum.

"MISPLACED CURIOSITY" defined: The manner by which one discovers it was indeed wintergreen.


Today I sat on a bench in the courtyard smoking a cigarette and upon examining the pavement under my feet saw a curious sight. An ant barely the size of a pin-head dragging what looked to be a small fragment of potato chip at least TEN TIMES its size and weight.

I followed its progress with no small amount of fascination as it moved the behemoth one inch, then two, then nearly three before seemingly giving up and moving some distance away from it.

"DON'T QUIT NOW, YOU PUSS!" I exclaimed-- much to the bemusement of some passersby!

Sure enough, the ant revisited the morsel, circling it a few times as if to size it up, and then returned to the slavish task of transporting it.

It felt good to know I had shamed the ant into fulfilling its obligation to the collective back at the ant hill.

I felt a little bit like Stalin.

And it was strangely satisfying.


So as some of you know, I shaved off my moustache yesterday. It was time for it to go.
However, my friend Arman pointed out that one consequence of losing the moustache is that I will no longer be able to provide "Moustache Rides"

Eschewing inflation-- and in keeping with the exchange rate established by humorous 1970's t-shirts--I was still providing them for a mere 5 cents. Virtually unheard of in this day and age!
Even at such a paltry sum, it occurs to me that I have quite thoughtlessly eliminated a significant portion of my yearly income.

To supplement that loss, I propose the following:


(The t-shirts are on order. I'll let you know how it goes.)


Another delicious bachelor delicacy!

(1) can Dinty Moore Brand Beef Stew
(2) tablespoons BBQ sauce
(1/2) teaspoon pepper
garlic powder and basil to taste

1) Open can of Dinty Moore beef stew. Be careful not to cut yourself. Blood is not one of the ingredients in this recipe.
2) Remove about 1/2 total number of carrots. They always put too many fucking carrots in. The "health conscious" among you may also take this opportunity to remove some of the lard that has congealed at the top of the can. (I don't recommend this, but I know how it is with you kids today.) Pour remaining contents in to a saucepan. DO NOT MICROWAVE, you lazy prick. It won't come out as well and always explodes-- leading to a very messy microwave that smells like cheap beef stew.
3) Simmer on low heat for five minutes, adding additional ingredients as it begins to bubble.

Serve with warm buttered bread and a large glass of Hershey's Chocolate Milk. MMMM!

ALTERNATE: remove all carrots, cook to reduction and serve over egg noodles. Double MMMM!



A Very Short Work of Fiction by Brian David Shuey

"And how old is it?"
"Seven weeks."
"It's seven weeks OLD, or you've had it for seven weeks?"
"I've had it for seven weeks."
"So how old is it?"
"I don't know, what's it matter?"
"Well, I'm just wondering how big it will get."
"Pretty big...I guess."
"And you're just going to keep it in that box?"
"That's the box it came with."
"What does it DO?"
"It pretty much just makes that noise and fouls itself."
"And why did you buy this thing again?"
"I don't know, it looked cute in the store."
"What do you feed it?"
"The guy gave me this white stuff."
"That's all it eats?"
"He said that's all it eats until it gets a bit older.""But I guess most of them don't make it that long."
"What do you call it?"
"I'm thinking of calling it, 'The Little Pink Shit Machine.'"
"Cute, but really, what are you going to NAME it?"
"I don't want to give it a proper name just yet in case it dies."
"That makes sense."
"What did they call it at the store.""HUMAN."
"That's weird."
"Yeah, they're kind of new."

Tuesday, April 25, 2006


For the many thousands of you who entered the "$10 Bonsai Pool" back in January, we now find ourselves at the three month mark and an update on my progress seems only proper.

There were a handful of un-believers who's wagers had me killing-off the tree within the first few months--or weeks, in some cases. I won't mention any names, but your lack of faith in me did not go unmarked!


And as if to rub it in, the Treasury Department has just issued new tens-- and they're very smart looking!

It is with great pleasure (and no small amount of pride) that I report the bonsai tree is ALIVE and THRIVING!

For those of you who would have any doubts, you may go to my profile page and look at pictures section. There you will find an image of the tree looking quite robust and holding a copy of this past Sunday's STAR TRIBUNE.

(By the way, my bonsai wanted me to mention that he found the Strib's coverage of the University of Minnesota Stadium debate pandering and short-sighted. It seems he would much rather see the money spent on an arboretum. I tried to explain to him that, "politics is the allocation of scarce resources." He told me to, "shut the fuck up" and get him another beer.)

Semper Fi Bonsai!


A very short work of fiction, "SATURDAY NIGHT." by Brian David Shuey

"What was THAT all about?"
"The look that women gave you?"
"She gave me a look?"
"Yeah, that red-head that just walked by." "Do you know her?"
"Well she certainly seems to know YOU."
"I still don't know who you're talking about."
"That RED-HEADED SLUT that just breezed by us!" "She gave ME a look, too."
"What kind of look?"
"I don't know, a red-headed slut kind of look. Like she knew something."
"Knew something about WHAT?"
"That's what I'd like YOU to tell ME!"
"Listen, it's crowded as fuck in here, I can't even figure out who it is you're talking about."
"You're not a very good liar, you know that?"
"Oh Jesus, not this again?"
"Not WHAT again?"
"Listen, I'm going to the bar to get a drink."
"Say hello to your little red-headed friend!"
"You know what, FUCK YOU!"






So I'm sitting on my front steps waiting for a ride the other night when a dude comes up and asks if he can join me.

"Why not?" I say.

Now, nothing he would do in the next five minutes would in any way bother me, but in light of his parting comment I couldn't help finding the whole interaction rather amusing. In that brief span of time he would:

-ask me for a money (misdemeanor- panhandling)

-enjoy an alcoholic beverage on a public street (misdemeanor- open container)

-attempt to sell me marijuana (misdemeanor- drug offense)

-attempt to sell three passersby marijuana (3 more drug offenses)

-loiter (misdemeanor)

-litter (misdemeanor)

- Attempt to sell three passersby memory cards for their cell phones. (Possession and attempted sale of stolen goods)

(To be fair, perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt on the last one. I don't know what an "authorized" independent late-night cellular phone memory card street vendor looks like-- or even if such a thing exists-- but then, if they do I don't imagine they carry open cans of malt liquor.)

As I said, I didn't really give a shit about any of it, but when the police seemed to have ceased their runs on Nicollet, he took his leave, saying, "Thanks for letting me duck-down here. Those motherfuckers got nothing better to do than drive up and down the street hassling innocent people!"

At that, it took some restraint on my part not to bust-out laughing.

People like that really make my day.



The Thomas Jefferson Center for the Protection of Free Expression yearly awards the dubious "Muzzle"s to persons or groups who WOULD ABRIDGE THE RIGHT OF FREE EXPRESSION for any number of reasons-- from the evil to the benign to the well-intentioned (if misguided.)

"YOU KNOW WHO," (shhh.. he could be listening) topped the list for his charmingly retro, Nixonesque warrentless wiretaps.

The rest of these swine comprise a diverse rogue's gallery that serve to remind that there are folks all over the political spectrum that think they know what's best for us.

to view the "MUZZLES," go here:

Need a brush-up on our Constitution? Go here:

Too lazy for all that shit? Here's the amendment that all the kids are talking about:

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

Pretty neat, Huh?


For years now, even if I am not in the mood to put away ALL the dishes, I will at least put any large kitchen knives back in the drawer. I do this because if a lunatic were to break into my apartment, I don't want anything big and sharp to be handy. I mean, if he's going to kill me with my own knife I would really rather he had to root around in the drawer for it.

In fact, I would prefer he bring his own weapon, because I would hate for my last thoughts to be, "You asshole! Why did you have to buy such a good knife?"

"'TOP OF THE LINE-- SHARP AND STURDY,' it said on the box!"

"This prick can stab you all night with this thing and it will never dull or break!"

Then that got me thinking about how a few years ago I took to practicing getting my keys out of my pocket and into the door as quickly as possible. I did this because I figured that if I were being chased by zombies (and they weren't slow, like in the movies) it would be a handy skill to develop. I know that no locked door can keep the zombies out forever, but at least it would provide anyone who happened to be watching with a more dramatic narrative.

Zombies are also the reason that for years I was a bit nervous about not really having the hang of "driving stick." I was convinced that in an attempt to escape the zombies unquenchable lust for brains, I would no doubt find myself behind the wheel of a car with a standard transmission. As I stalled repeatedly I would think, "You asshole! Why didn't get around to learning to drive a stick-shift?" ("And why did you leave your good kitchen knife at home in a drawer?")

So now I can drive a stick with the best of them, am quick with the keys, and all my dangerous cutlery is securely stowed away.

(And yet, I still have trouble sleeping at night...)


Alright kids, tell me if you think this indicates a problem...I opened a post yesterday marked "CHAINMAIL" because I immediately thought the subject must relate to:"chain mail"(noun) Flexible armor made of joined metal links or scalesa)

It never occured to me that they meant the "other" kind of chain mail.

Why was I instantly drawn-in by the subject of medieval armor? I honestly had a moment where I struck my own forehead and thought, "Oh, you dork, they meant a chain letter!"

(On the same subject and only slightly less disturbing: We have a show Friday night and I keep thinking about how sound check will cause me to miss a new episode of, "Doctor Who"

Is that fucked up?


Oyez! Oyez! Citoyen! (That's FRENCH, chumps! The language of international diplomacy.)

So here goes: It's 11:03 Sunday morning and I think I am still sort of drunk. The McLaughlin Group is on, but my head can't take all that yelling. I blame Andy. (Or thank Andy, I'm not sure which is more appropriate.) Andy, I am NOT funnier than you, I'm just funnier than you. Dig?
Last night I went down to the Dragon for Amanda Johnson (ne: Becker's) birthday. I saw a great many people who I really don't encounter as much as I used to. If you are among those people than I will say again that it was a joy to be with all of you. (I can only assume I said it repeatedly last night.)

I made one innocent observation: "You know, Andy. Vodka is the most popular spirit in the United States, yet how often do you see people drinking it straight?"
It was that off-hand comment that would be my undoing. I had three (possibly four) double shots of Stoli and that was three (possibly four) more than I needed. Those of you who know me well know that a few years back when the doctor told me I had an ulcer I sort of swore off liquor and resigned myself to a "beer only" consumption regimen. That has worked pretty well, but occasionally I throw caution to the wind and the results are… well, you saw them last night.

I take some comfort in the fact that I am not a "mean" drunk, but rather a silly, sentimental one. And--as I am slowly sobering as I write this-- I can assure you the sentiment is genuine. The group of people who I had the pleasure of keeping company with last night are of late rarely assembled outside of a wedding or similarly officious occasion. I won't say that it is unfortunate. It's just the way life goes. But goddamn if it wasn't nice to see all of you. And with the exception of those who answered the siren call of SXSW, just about all of my favorite people were in one place last night. And it was a hell of a thing.


a) I bought my ticket for the Bob Pollard show yesterday. Mark said he hasn't sold that many yet. Who's going with me?

b) Japan beat Korea in the WBC semifinal last night. In light of their shared history, I was kind of pulling for Korea. Also, Ichiro continues to blow my mind. He had what I can only describe as a "drag single" to second base that he beat-out by a fraction of a step. Is anyone not named Nick Thalhuber faster? That said, they highlighted a quote from Ichiro on his desire to demonstrate Japanese dominance--in baseball-- over Korea and Chinese Taipei that was eerily reminiscent of "Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere" rhetoric of the late-nineteenth-early twentieth century . It was fucking creepy.

c) Still On Baseball: Harold Reynolds should kill Tim McCarver and feast on his corpse. Reynolds calls a game like a thing of beauty, yet some asshole somewhere gives all the big games to McCarver. (Dave G. and I have discussed this at some length.) What is to be done?

d) STILL On Baseball: GODDAMN I can't wait to start playing baseball again.

e) On Rock and Roll: While I was watching the game last night I was listening to a live recording of Fred Sonic Smith's Ascension in Detroit, 1973. GODDAMN DO I LOVE ROCK AND ROLL.

f) On Apple Pie: GODDAMN do I love apple pie. What's more, I love MY MOM'S apple pie. Seriously, it's amazing. Is it possible I am the truest example of the red-blooded American to currently tread the earth? FUCK YOU, BILL O"REILLY! FUCK YOU IN THE MOUTH WITH A RUBBER DICK!* (*borrowed from George Carlin, another great American.)

g) Kid Mankato and I are going to Punch Pizza for lunch. Any takers?

h) If any of you actually read this to the end…. Thanks.


The anti-war protesters who were working the intersections in Uptown today were remarkably sorry-assed-looking bunch. Is there a special level of earnestness that prevents one from examining oneself in a mirror? As far as I can tell, avoiding wearing pants that actually "fit" and clothes that have been "laundered" has little if any effect on expansionist U.S. foreign policy.

It's an odd thing, because while I agree with their sentiments, part of me kind of didn't want to. Then it hit me, if you look at film from old civil rights protests the people looked GOOD. Crisp, clean white shirts. Pants were pressed. They had dignity. (Perhaps it was because it was dignity that they were marching for.) Either way, an observer would be hard-pressed to argue that they didn't deserve to be taken seriously.

The people I saw today just looked like a bunch of fucking clowns. Sorry, but its true.

Thursday, March 16, 2006



1) PAYMENT: DIE ELECTRIC! (Hereafter referred to as ARTIST) demand no less than $25.00 per performance. This amount MUST BE DIVIDED EXACTLY THREE WAYS. As that comes to $8.33333333333... per band member, MANAGEMENT (Hereafter referred to as BABYSITTER) recommends you start dividing pennies well in advance of settling.(A few years ago would have been a good time to have started.)

2) TRANSPORTATION TO THE PERFORMANCE VENUE: (Hereafter referred to as VENUE or SHITHOLE) Transportation shall be the responsibility of ARTIST. SHITHOLE must provide nearby (within 23 blocks) parking. SHITHOLE will also be responsible for providing ARTIST with a clean 3-foot(91.5cm)length of RUBBER HOSE for siphoning fuel from nearby vehicles. SHITHOLE will also be responsible for providing one (1) bottle of Original Listerine. NO SUBSTITUTIONS ACCEPTABLE!!!

3) ARRIVAL AT THE VENUE: ARTIST will arrive at VENUE no more than 1/2 hour after the performance was scheduled to begin. VENUE STAFF (Hereafter referred to as THOSE DAMNED TO WALK THE EARTH IN ETERNAL MISERY or THE ONES WHO DREAM OF THE 4 A.M. FROZEN PIZZA/PLAYSTATION 2 ORGY or simply, THE DAMNED) should treat ARTIST in as surly a manner as possible. BABYSITTER will then impotently attempt to intervene, while ARTIST will smoke, drag feet maddeningly and become distracted by any bright, shiny object(s) or female(s) exhibiting secondary sex characteristics. ARTIST will then stupidly ask if there will be a SOUND CHECK. The SOUND MAN (hereafter referred to as HE WHO IS THE MOST DAMNED OF ALL) will be expected to clench fists, shake head and walk away before losing his cool.


a) CLEANLINESS: Only trace amounts of vomit, blood, urine or feces should be detectable. Any of these contaminants that are sufficiently desiccated to have been left there over a week prior will be tolerated. However, THE DAMNED should make all reasonable attempts to hose-off any fluids (vomit, particularly) left behind by the all-ages band that played SHITHOLE only hours before and snuck a bottle(s) of JIM BEAM in with predictable results.

b) CLIMATE CONTROL: Regardless of season, HOLE IN THE SHITHOLE should be either UNBEARABLY HOT or IMPOSSIBLY COLD. No "new" air should have been allowed to circulate into the room since the Reagan Administration.

c) SUNDRIES: To ensure the best possible performance from ARTIST, the following items should be provided: (NO SUBSTITUTIONS!!!!!)

-(4) Cases of canned domestic beer
-(1) 1 lt. bottle of olive oil
-(1) tub of CLEAN ice (for olive oil)
-(1) box of kitchen matches.
-(1) .45 caliber automatic
-(2) boxes of ammunition
-(4) days concentrated emergency rations
-(1) drug issue: (containing: antibiotics, morphine, vitamin pills, pep pills, sleeping pills, tranquilizer pills)
-(1) miniature combination Russian phrase book and Bible
-(100) dollars in Rubles
-(100) dollars in gold
-(9) packs of chewing gum
-(1) issue of prophylactics
-(3) lipsticks
-(3) pairs of nylon stockings

5) BABYSITTER'S OFFICE: Must be directly adjacent to ARTIST'S dressing room. Should be at least 3'x 4'. MUST CONTAIN A CLEAN GARBAGE CAN.

a) Prevent BABYSITTER from having to endure ARTIST set.

b) Prevent ARTIST from hearing BABYSITTER'S pathetic, mournful whimpering as he contemplates the many missteps that landed him in his current, unbearable position. (And any ensuing gunshots.)

6) SETTLING: At the close of the evening, VENUE will present BABYSITTER with three (3) clean, white envelopes containing the aforementioned payment. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD PAYMENT BE GIVEN TO ARTIST!!!!! (You have been warned!!!!)


______ (initial)
______ (date)

Monday, March 13, 2006


So CNN's Paula Zahn is on TV right now feigning concern over the fate of young, dumb white kids engaged in the "epidemic" of back-yard wrestling.

"What could possess these young people to participate in an activity that could cripple or even KILL them?"

I don't know, bitch. Have you ever BEEN to West Virginia?

Looks to me like a hell of a lot more fun than chewing Skoal and playing grab-ass in the parking lot of the local Hardee's. (Although that does sound fun right about now…)

What gets me is that the tenor of the piece is very much like the one's exposing the rural meth "epidemic." By that I mean the subtext suggests that, "Yeah, these are just white-trash briar-hoppers, but before you know it they'll be doing it in Prince George's County, and our best and brightest will be at risk!"

"Talk to your kids today, Yuppie! BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!"

Fuck you, Paula Zahn.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006


Note: Much of the following information was taken from court documents that, by Minnesota State law, should have remained permanently sealed. The method by which I obtained them and their source is a secret I shall take with me to my grave. Unless of course I am threatened with prosecution, in which case I will no doubt quickly turn rat to save my own skin. Like all writers, I am a contemptible little coward. (BDS)

A standard biography of a band like THE EVENING RIG would probably dwell on the obvious. Former and current bands (THE CRUSH, THE CARDINAL SIN, APRIL EPIDEMIC, CADILLAC BLINDSIDE) or the impossibly dull subject of influences (Johnny Cash, The Wedding Present, Bryan Adams, The Replacements, Drive-By-Truckers, The blah-blah-blahs.) But really, who cares about that shit.

It’s the story of how these three musicians met that I think will prove most illuminating.

Jason Miller, Jake Jarpey and Becky Hanten first crossed paths at the Minnesota River Valley Juvenile Detention Center in New Ulm, Minnesota. The year was 1992.

Miller was the "white collar" criminal of the bunch. He was taken down in a scheme to pocket fundraiser candy bar money. Using his prodigious charms --one’s a court-appointed psychologist would later describe as "typical of a sociopathic personality"-- Miller recruited a cadre of "special needs" girls from his school to sell an allotment of 12 Hershey’s 52-ct Variety Packs. He planned to collect the money from the girls and then frame them for the candy’s disappearance. The plan would have netted him a cool six hundred dollars and change, money he planned on using to buy a second-hand Gibson Les Paul. Unfortunately for Miller, a swim coach witnessed him in the locker room planting evidence among the girls’ belongings (half-eaten candy, wrappers and a few stray bills.) After quickly pulling on his Speedo, the coach apprehended Miller and dragged him before authorities. Oddly, just what this 46-year-old male swim coach was doing in the girl’s locker room somehow seemed to pass without comment.

At his trial, Ansel P. Winkleman, the presiding judge in the case described Miller‘s scheme as, "the most heinously cynical act ever perpetrated by a 14-year-old."

So Miller was shipped off to juvy where he was quickly tagged with the nicknames, "Fresh Meat" and "Dimples." He was an obvious target for those elements inclined to "use him as one would a woman." Always a shrewd one, he paid one of the older kids $11and a carton of KOOL cigarettes for his protection. That kids name was Jake Jarpey. Unfortunately, since Jarpey was monitored closely and expressly forbidden from having matches or a lighter he ended up squeezing the tobacco from its paper tubes and eating it. He used the $11 to buy stomach medicine.

Nevertheless, a bond was formed.

Jarpey, you see, was what cops call a "Firebug."

He had started small, incinerating armies of plastic soldiers deployed in the woods behind his house using home-brewed napalm he created with ordinary gasoline and his older sister’s "L.A. Looks" hair gel. (She bought the stuff by the tub.)

It escalated from there; old Christmas trees left out at the curb, a neighbor’s woodpile, the cardboard dumpster behind the local Pizza Hut.

His coup de gras was burning the name of the band METALLICA into the turf of the school’s football field. Unfortunately, the "lightning bolt" portion of the "A" came too close the field house and adjoining bleachers. From there it spread to a maintenance shed that housed lawn tractors and the gasoline to fuel them. The shed’s explosion rained fiery debris down on the school itself, which having had all of its asbestos removed, quickly burned to the ground. (But not before the blaze inexplicably took the Dunkin’ Donuts across the street with it.) This strange occurrence lent credence to a long-held belief among the students that an underground passageway linked the basement faculty lounge to the Dunkin Donuts. Thus allowing teachers to, "totally duck-out and get donuts and coffee and shit!"

Becky "The Kid" Hanten was the last to arrive. She grew up in Rapid City, SD and had been by all accounts a model young person. She was a fine student and a youth golfer of some regard. However, a breathtakingly commonplace act of bullying would eventually reveal Hanten’s terrifyingly violent nature.

Becky had a "My Pretty Pony" lunch box. It was quite dear to her. (More dear to her than anyone could have imagined.) One fateful day at third period lunch some rough-necked brown baggers took it upon themselves to snatch it away. A humiliating game of "keep away" ensued, with the usually composed Hanten growing, as one witness described it, "all funny and scary and stuff."

Finally, driven to the point of madness, she savagely blinded one of her tormentors using only the straw from her Capri Sun juice bag. They say the blood flowed like spring rain that day. Hanten was about to take a trip up the river. Another result of the gory scene, V8 and Hawaiian Punch were pulled from the cafeteria’s menu, never to return again.

Family connections saw to it that she would serve her time away from South Dakota in the relatively "soft" juvenile rehabilitation system of Minnesota. Once there, it wouldn’t take long before she fell-in with the likes of Miller and Jarpey.

Their exploits at MRVJDC would become the stuff of legend. But that story will have to wait for another time…

It’s time to look to the future. And the future is, THE EVENING RIG.

Brian David Shuey March 2006

Thursday, February 23, 2006


So some marketing monkey at the Minnesota Swarm Lacrosse team is trolling MySpace trying to get bands to participate in an "Extreme Battle of the Bands" at the Xcel Energy Center. They sent a message to the Die Electric! page. What follows is my response:

Jora Deziel
Account Service Executive Minnesota Wild Hockey Club
Minnesota Swarm Lacrosse


A "Battle of the Bands," you say?

That could be fun. And may I add that your use of the word “extreme” sure makes it sound exciting! Can I assume Mountain Dew be served?

We in the band, Die Electric! would love to know more! For instance; what kind of weapons will be allowed? In past battle of the bands we have fought, only one’s chosen instrument could be wielded. That’s fine by us, but since it’s “EXTREME,” we were kind of wondering if we could use samurai and/or broad swords? I’m guessing the answer is “no,“ but then it never hurts to ask.

If swords are proscribed, I will be sure to bring my, “hitting people” guitar, rather than my “guitar playing” guitar.

Before I forget, are blows to the head allowed? At the Hopkins Area High School battle of the bands a few years back, I was disqualified for striking a teenage keyboard player in a Cars cover band “above the neck.” (As far as I know, he still accepts all sustenance through a complicated apparatus of pumps and tubes.)

(They may have said, “no heads” before we started, but I sure don’t remember hearing it!)

And what about the classic, “Drum Stick Eye Gouge?” This maneuver was perfected by Rick Buckler of The Jam at the “City of Manchester Community Centre Battle of the Bands” in April of 1976. It has fallen out of favor with many of the kids today, but our drummer, Josh, is a masterful practitioner of the move. He would like to know if it is accepted in your rules.

On a similar note, are nylon-tipped sticks allowed? While not the best for actually playing the drums, they are particularly well-suited to the eye gouge because the tips themselves easily detach and become lodged behind the Sclera, thus exerting pressure on the optic nerve and rendering the opponent temporarily without sight.

Or, permanently. Either way.

Our bass player, Dave, is primarily concerned with what he calls, “the electrocution question.” Possessed of astonishing wiring and electronics skills, he has developed a method of channeling electrical output from his SUNN COLUSEIUM amp through the body of his bass (he has quite ingeniously come up with a way to keep himself fully “grounded”) whereupon the current travels to the tip of the headstock and can then be discharged into an opponents chest, usually stopping their very heart from beating.

Boy, it’s something to see! (Lots of twitching, if you know what I mean?)

So yes, more specific information on the rules and how to register would be most welcome.

We would very much like to help you promote an exciting activity like Professional Indoor Lacrosse! Let’s face it, a “sport” practiced almost exclusively by well-to-do white kids at prep schools and eastern universities --and UNDERGROUND ROCK MUSIC, largely played by people who grew-up wanting to rid the world of such people-- just seems like a perfect combination!

(Note: Whoever signed-off on this in your Marketing Department deserves a raise!)

Yours Most Sincerely,

Brian David Shuey Die Electric!

Thursday, February 16, 2006


I recently received a mailing indicating that a company in Virginia is compiling an Alumni Directory for my old high school, Central Dauphin (which is in fact, in Pennsylvania.) They included an address in Norfolk or, for my convenience, a toll-free telephone number to reach them. It seems they would really rather not print the directory without my current biographical information. I agree that that would be unfortunate. My immediate response is "urgently requested." What follows is the letter I sent them:

Alvin J. Himmelman
xxxx Nicollet Ave S. #xx
Minneapolis, MN 55404

To Whom It May Concern,

My name is Alvin Himmelman. I am writing you regarding your recent attempts to contact Brian Shuey for the purposes of including him in the Central Dauphin High School Alumni Directory. While Mr. Shuey did at one time reside at the address in your records (he was my roommate) he left Minneapolis for a life on the high seas over six months ago.

The last time anyone heard from him, he was working on a tramp steamer that sailed out of Jakarta. Two months ago the "Lady Macbeth" was reported attacked and boarded by pirates 20 miles out of Medan in the Straits of Malacca. It has not been heard from since.

So it is with regrets that I inform you that Brian Shuey (Personal ID#: JZK0018671-LB) is currently listed by the U.S. State Department as, "whereabouts unknown."

Anyone who knew Brian would tell you that he was a cheap hustler and something of a swine. However, in honor of his memory I have little doubt that he would like to be listed in your directory as, "Whereabouts Unknown. Presumed Lost At Sea." (It would befit his overly dramatic nature.)

At the present time I have no more detailed information than this. However, if you should somehow manage to track him down, please inform him of the following:

-Your dog, "King Vitamin" is dead. It was not my fault. Not surprisingly, it was his fondness for chasing the #18 that finally did him in.

-I never returned those movies to Nicollet Village Video like I said I would.

-Stuff with me and Becky just sort of happened. Neither one of us planned it. Don't be too mad.

-Needless to say, you have been fired from your job.

-Your Mom keeps calling. I just let the machine get it. She sounds worried.

-I broke one of the controllers on your PlayStation. It was the one that kind of stuck anyway.

-You owe me a lot of money for bills. In light of the Becky thing, I'm willing to call it even.

Thank you for your time and attention to these matters. You may feel free to contact me by mail with any further questions.

Best Regards,

Alvin J. Himmelman

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Is It Okay If I Have A Cigarette AFTER I Fuck Your Wife?

Those of you who know me are aware that I AM A SMOKER. You will also know that I am quite unapologetic about it. I am an adult. It is a legal product. I, in no way consider myself to be a social deviant. What's more, I kind of resent anyone who regards me as such.

Bearing this in mind, I have of late noticed a very odd trend running through the "sex classifieds" in the back of our local alternative weekly. Offers of, and requests for the most puerile, freaky and dare I say, unwholesome sexual acts are punctuated by the stipulation that the participant be a NON-SMOKER! (Emphasis theirs.)

Am I the only one-- smoker or otherwise-- who finds something perplexing in this. To wit:

WILD TIMES: ISO hot 18-30 guy. Fuck my ass until I scream! Come on my chest! N/S

Let me get this straight, "WILD TIMES." You are in no way concerned about my height, weight, personal hygiene, or political affiliations? As long as I don't smoke I am welcome to make your hind quarters the very gardens of my delight? You don't think that maybe your concerns ought to lay somewhere else?

Here's one that appeared recently:

BISEXUAL THREE WAYS: I am a bisexual male, 5'7", 140lbs, nice-looking, late 30's looking for others who enjoy Male-Male-Female three ways. Nonsmoker preferred (He will be "providing" the Female.)

So you would have no problem inviting a total stranger into your home to-- among other things-- WATCH HIM FUCK YOUR WIFE, but you'd really rather I didn't smoke? Because hey, lets face it. That would just be gross. (The smoking, I mean.)

Am I losing my mind? How did I end up getting kicked to society's margins by people who allow strangers to stick their fists in places ill-equipped to accept them while wearing S.S uniforms and listening to the original cast album from, "The Sound Of Music?"

In the interest of fostering openness and friendship, I would like to propose that we come to an understanding. I do not now and have never had a problem with the folks who place these ads. What grown-ups do with other grown-ups is nobody's business but theirs. Just don't be so damn snooty about the whole smoking thing. I'm starting to feel like an outcast. Remember how that feels?

Brian David Shuey

Confidential to swinging suburban couples: If she doesn't move too much I know for a fact that I can balance an ashtray on the small of her back. Are you hot yet? CALL ME!

Saturday, February 04, 2006


So my previous "Worst Nightmare Realized" was being stuck between floors on an elevator with a half dozen teenage musical theater students.

You can't imagine what torture is until you are trapped in a 8'x5'* box and forced to witness a gang of 14-year-old drama kids go from practicing their lines to, "living-out a REAL LIFE drama!" (An actual quote from one.) When we finally got out (after five minutes) they all hugged and wanted to talk about how, "it had changed them." Jesus.

My experiences today were almost on par.

I found myself with a savage hangover being shoved this way and that in the opressivly narrow confines of The Unique Thrift Store. It's truly depressing to witness a person surrender what's left of their dignity to shove a fellow human being out of the way... just to get to a BROKEN LEMON-YELLOW BUTTER DISH!

The only person who actually said, "excuse me" did so as though I had just pissed on her coffee table. THEN she knocked me out of the way. (I think it was to get at a used VHS copy of "The Heavenly Kid")

I could possibly have handled it all, but for the fact that the entire time Billy Joel's, "Piano Man" was being pumped through every tinny loud speaker-- broken only by screeching employees paging countless parents to come claim their countless lost children. Most were still waiting unclaimed in a corral as I left. Free babysitting.

The only revenge I got-- if you can call it that-- was to set every mechanical alarm clock in the place to go off ten minutes after I had left. For my own sake I would like to imagine it caused more mayhem than it probably did... "OHH baby, lookie thar, an alarm clock! An' it ain't even broke! Let's git 'er!"Brian David Shuey

* 1.52 meters by 2.44 meters, for my metric savvy friends.

Friday, January 27, 2006


In the course of recent home improvement projects it has become painfully clear to me that the “standard” system of weights and measures in common use in the United States is an outmoded, confounding pile of shit.

I remember as an elementary school student there was a brief flirtation with “converting” all of us to metric. This ended right around the time the well-meaning but criminally naïve Jimmy Carter was drummed out of office and Cowboy Ronny rode into town and declared, “Morning in America.” (I think they turned the thermostats back up, too.)

Following that it was just the odd math or science teacher (usually something of a hippy) that would fruitlessly waste his time proselytizing to us with the banner cry, “WE’RE FALLING BEHIND THE REST OF THE WORLD, PEOPLE!”

Oh how I wish I had heeded his call! (Well, they say it’s never too late.)

So before the Chinese take over the world and force the inevitable on all of us, I am RESOLVED TO CONVERT TO THE METRIC SYSTEM. I urge all of you to join me!

You can get the ball rolling with the following handy conversion tools:

I know what you’re thinking. All that math is so dry and boring! But if you if you can work it into your daily life (and have some fun with it) you’ll be METRIC before you know it!


-The 9” FROZEN PIZZA I had for dinner was actually 23 CENTIMETERS!

-The GLAZED BLUEBERRY CAKE DOUGHNUT I had for dessert was not a scant 3 ½” in diameter… but 9 CENTIMETERS!

(When I am deft enough to calculate the spike my serum cholesterol levels took in metric units, I’ll let you know.)

-Oh, and the HEINEKIN I washed it all down with wasn’t 12ozs…but a refreshing 354 MILLILITERS!


-How long is YOUR index finger? Mine’s 8 CENTIMETERS! (Impressed?)

-The distance between my elbow and tip of my middle finger? 42 CENTIMETERS!

-The space between my nipples? (inside edge to inside edge) 20 WHOLE CENTIMETERS! (Wow! I never would have guessed!)


The world of medicine has been on board with the METRIC SYSTEM for ages now. I know this because the pill I take every morning (the one that is supposed to stop me from doing things like measuring the distance between my nipples) is… 100 MILLIGRAMS!

So come on kids, climb on the METRIC BANDWAGON!

Uh oh, gotta go. My coffee’s ready.. all 350 MILLILITERS OF IT!

Your friend in metrics,

Brian David Shuey