MY LETTER TO THE MINNESOTA SWARM

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

Jora,

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!

MY LETTER TO THE ALUMNI DIRECTORY

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

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!

MY WORST NIGHTMARE REALIZED

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.

STAND BACK, PEOPLE. I'M ABOUT TO GO METRIC!

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:

http://www.texloc.com/closet/cl_conversion.html
http://ts.nist.gov/ts/htdocs/200/202/5425.htm

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!

METRICS IN THE KITCHEN:


-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!


METRIC IS EVERYWHERE! EVEN YOUR BODY IS METRIC:


-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!)


BEHOLD THE WONDERS OF THE METRIC MEDICINE CABINET:


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

ENTER THE AMAZING $10 BONSAI POOL! (NO KITTENS INVOLVED!)

So here's the deal:

I just bought a bonsai tree at Minneapolis Floral. (I'm probably more excited about it than I should be.) But yeah, it's really cool.

The question is: How long can I keep it alive?

So I'm taking bets on it. The winner will receive $10 from me. It will be in U.S. funds and you may spend it on whatever you like.

What you do is send me you "target date for demise" (example: "Brian, you will have killed your bonsai by April 16, 2006.")

I'll write all of them down and place the dates in a sealed envelope. The person who guesses closest to the date gets the prize. I promise there will be no monkey business. Dead is dead and I'll know it when I see it.

(Before you select your date you should know that my thumb is greener than one would imagine.)

Good Luck! And may God continue to bless this great nation of ours,

Mr. Shuey

DEATH SENTENCE

DEATH SENTENCE

Occasionally I come across what I like to call a "death sentence." I name it thus because the very act of reading it makes me want to hunt down it's architect and KILL THE MOTHERFUCKER.

Here is one from today:

"A soap that multitasks, just like YOU!"

(It's a hand soap that is also an air freshener. The implications are truly revolutionary!)

I honestly don't know how a human being could construct such a sentence and not immediately vomit from self-loathing.

I'm going to find out, though. And I swear on the corpse of Henry Louis Mencken that this person will never see another peaceful night's sleep for what remains of their wretched, pointless little life.

Brian David Shuey


Confidential to Dr. K,
(My dosage may need adjusting. What do you think?)

NEVER FORGET: YOU ARE THE LOWEST FORM OF LIFE ON THE PLANET

(Note: This is an excerpt from a much larger piece I’m writing on the manifold absurdities surrounding a grown man playing in rock and roll band. The title of the whole piece appears above. What follows is the second part of two-part section that deals with arranging for accommodations while on the road. It’s entitled, "Where You Guys Staying Tonight?" I do hope you enjoy it.) Brian David Shuey

It seems to be a widely held assumption that a band on the road is always looking for a party. This is not entirely true. What they ARE always looking for is a clean place to sleep. If they can manage both, all the better. But honestly, you are lucky if you manage one of the two. You may therefore have to choose. Ask yourself the following question: "Do you want to party?"
More to the point, ask yourself, "DO YOU WANT TO PARTY, MOTHERFUCKER!" Do it in just such a fashion, and you may realize is all you really want to do is sleep. But let’s assume you have chosen to party. There are exactly six types of parties you will encounter on tour. They are as follows:


THE PARTY THAT IS NOT A PARTY: This involves the following players

A) Your host.

B) One or more of his roommates who—if they had known there would be bands staying at the house every other week-- would never have signed the lease. *

C) The refrigerator. The refrigerator has exactly two beers in it. No more, no less.

Two minutes after you arrive, one of the roommates will poke his head out of his bedroom and with the most menacing look he can muster, shout, "I got work in the morning, shut the fuck up!"

The host will then whisper, "That’s my roommate Jim, He’s an asshole."

(Jim is, of course, not an asshole at all. He’s just a guy who has to work in the morning. Also, since you are a band on tour, he is keenly aware that YOU haven’t been to work in weeks. That does not put you much in his favor. And of course, don't forget our principal rule: YOU ARE THE LOWEST FORM OF LIFE ON THE PLANET. Put it all together and you may begin to see why he doesn’t want you there.)

After Jim's outburst the host will tiptoe into the kitchen to retrieve the two beers. He will take one for himself and give the other to you to split--possibly five ways. Fifteen minutes of uncomfortable whispering will then ensure as the host attempts to answer the age-old question, "How low can you play a Stooges album before it ceases to be a Stooges album and in fact becomes ‘silence.’"

You will then attempt to get a good night’s sleep on a hardwood floor knowing that not ten feet away a total stranger is burning with hatred for you.

* A word of advice: To avoid Jim’s fate, think real hard before you decide to live with a college radio DJ or self-styled "promoter."


THE PARTY THAT WAS ALMOST A PARTY:

Same scenario as above, add two more beers.


THE GOOD PARTY: The most rare of all, but they DO occasionally occur.

First of all, it’s not being held in the same place you will be staying. This is nice because it means you will not have to sleep in spilled malt liquor and cigarette butts. Also, when your host says, "It’s real close by, though." He isn’t bullshitting. This is key because it means you won’t get lost going from one place to the other.

The people at the "Good Party" are bright and charming. They have lots of booze and seem happy to share it with you. Some of them may have even seen you play earlier, and one or two will even say something complimentary.

Even though you are far from home, at the "Good Party" you will invariably encounter someone with whom you share a mutual friend. You will end up getting along famously with this person and laughing a great deal. They will remind you a lot of this mutual friend. You will instantly feel less homesick.

-No one will try to fight you.
-No one will throw up on your stuff.
-Your van will not be broken into.


THE NOT-SO-BAD PARTY:

Same scenario as above, but you will have to drive all over an unfamiliar city following your host who does not use his turn signals and runs through every yellow light. You will get lost a few times on the way there. When you arrive, it’s still the "Good Party," but since it took you half the night to find it, it’s pretty much over.


THE BLACK LABEL PUNK ROCK HOUSE PARTY!!!

Remember our question from earlier? "DO YOU WANT TO PARTY, MOTHERFUCKER?" Well, if you find yourself at the B.L.P.R.H.P., your answer better have been "yes."

The first thing you will notice about the B.L.P.R.H.P. is that everything is broken. Items you didn’t even think were CAPABLE of breaking lay shattered everywhere.

"Did you have you had your tetanus booster before you left home?"

If not, don’t touch anything.

The second thing you’ll notice is the smell. No one should smell worse than a band that has been on tour for three weeks, yet somehow everyone there smells worse than you. The women won’t even talk to you because you are not sufficiently filthy. Your presence is mildly tolerated because you are in a band, but because that band isn’t MISERY, no one will really want to have anything to do with you.

Some of the guest’s young children may also be present. You will recognize them as such because their personal hygiene habits will have been passed down to them from their parents. Do not try to interact with these kids. I mean it. They bite.

The most remarkable feature, however, will be the truly astounding quantities of "Carling’s Black Label" in 12-ounce cans. The stuff will literally be shoved into every open space not occupied by a human being, dog, filthy child or broken object. It is-- in almost all cases-- community beer. So drink up. I mean it; keep your head down, your mouth shut and drink as much as you possibly can. The reason for this is simple; if you get good and drunk it will be much easier to deal with the following, inevitable occurrences:

-Your drummer has gotten into a fistfight.
-Someone has thrown up on your stuff.
-Your van has been broken into.


And finally….

THE BLACK LABEL PUNK ROCK HOUSE PARTY…WITH KNIVES!!!

Same scenario as above, but people will be openly brandishing knives. Get the fuck out quick, and maybe your van won’t get broken into.

Brian David Shuey 01/06


Look for more excerpts from NEVER FORGET: YOU ARE THE LOWEST FORM OF LIFE ON THE PLANET to come, including, "Undatable," "Dealing With the Sound Guy" and "Keep It In Your Pants, Junior!"

MY LETTER TO PAT ROBERTSON

Pat Robertson has suggested that Ariel Sharon’s massive stroke was admonishment from God for having pulled Jewish settlements out of the Gaza strip, in effect “dividing” the land of Israel. (I would have put my money on Sharon’s being grossly overweight and over worked, but then I’m no doctor.)

The God of Pat Robertson is indeed a vengeful one. For those who have been paying attention, it was God who flew those planes into the World Trade Center (HE was mad that we have “homos” here in America, or more specifically, that we don’t stone them in the public square.)

God also has it in for the Township of Dover, PA. I have talked before about how proud I was that the good people of Dover saw fit to kick the “intelligent design” dinks off the school board. Pat didn’t see it that way. He suggested that since Dover had “abandoned” God, they better not count on his “protection.” So when it starts raining blood and fire in southeastern PA, they’ll have no one to blame but themselves. (That reminds me: I should call my parents and warn them!)

This GOD of ROBERTSON is really starting to scare the shit out of me. I need to get in touch with Pat and find out what’s really going on with this spiteful, homicidal lunatic!

I HAVE THEREFORE SENT PAT ROBERTSON THE FOLLOWING EMAIL: (Granted, I am adopting a different sort of tone, and yes, goofing on him quite a lot, at least I am signing my own name to it.) HERE IT IS!

Dear Mr. Robertson,

I am a young American who is VERY scared and VERY confused. The TV said that YOU said that God gave Ariel Sharon his stroke in Israel. Does God really give people strokes? I thought the Devil gave people strokes and God gave people nice things.
Am I wrong?

I went to Sunday school when I was younger, but I’m not sure I got all the right information. The lady who taught it didn’t shave her underarms or legs and sometimes she played the guitar. My Dad said that that meant she didn’t know anything about God. He said, “God wants ladies to BE LADIES and shave some places.”

My Mom told him to hush because, as she said, “it was the only church in town that would have people like us.”

So now I don’t know what to think!

A friend told me that you also said that the Twin Towers thing was God, too. He said that you said that it was because we have so many gay people in America. Well, I wouldn’t know anything about THAT, but when I was in high school we took a trip to France, and there sure were a lot of gay people there. One of them even asked me to dance! (Boy, that was weird.) But the thing is, I saw more gay people in France than I ever did in America, but God didn’t fly planes in French buildings. Then again, the French don’t really have any TALL buildings. So does God just hate gay people when they’re way up in the sky? Or does he just hate American gay people? The gay people in France didn’t seem to be scared at all. (I’ll betcha’ they SHOULD be scared though, right?)

My friend also told me that you’re mad at some town out east. He said that you said that they don’t teach the right things in their schools. He said that the school was trying to do the right thing and teach about God and stuff (Although this is where it gets weird: He said that everybody said they WEREN’T teaching about God-- because you can’t do that in regular schools— but when the people that said they weren’t teaching about God were told they couldn’t teach what they were TRYING to teach it turned out all the people who were upset about it were REALLY INTO GOD.) So were they or weren’t they? Teaching about God, I mean.

Anyway, I said that’s weird that you would say you were mad at them because you don’t live there and you don’t have kids that go to that school so I told him I didn’t think you would think it was your place to tell them what they should teach in their schools. He then said that it was God who was mad at them, not you. He said that you know just what God wants because he tells you and then you tell everybody else. THAT SEEMS LIKE A GOOD SYSTEM TO ME!

So that’s how I figured out I should write you. If God gives people strokes when they do what he doesn’t want them to do, then I want to know what He wants ME to do. I don’t want to get a stroke, because sometimes that means you can only move one side of your body, and it looks frustrating and uncomfortable.

So if you could write me back and tell me what God wants me to do, I sure would appreciate it. My friend says that sometimes it helps to send money, except that I don’t have any right now. Maybe if you let me know what God wants, by the time I get your letter I’ll have a little more money than I do now and I could send you some. Okay?

Oh, one last thing. I was just kind of wondering what those miners in West Virginia did to get God so mad at them? Was it because they were stealing all of God’s coal? I don’t know what God would need with so much coal, but then I guess we’ve established that I don’t know much about God! (My Dad must have been right about the hairy lady with the guitar, huh.) Oh well, bye for now!

Your Friend,

Brian David Shuey

Minneapolis, MN

P.S. My friend wants me to go see that “Brokeback Mountain” movie. I told him if we did we would go to Hell. He told me that we would only go to Hell if it made us FEEL a certain way. I don’t think I should risk it, do you?

SMOKE MORE 2006!

SMOKE MORE 2006! My New Years resolution is too smoke more cigarettes in 2006 than I have in any previous year. This is no mean feat, I assure you. There are many individuals, laws and institutions that will certainly impede me in my effort. I have enemies, you see. Those that would try to thwart me. They reach far up into the corridors of power, money and prestige. They are many in number and resolute in their purpose. But they will not prevail. These do-gooders (the Waxmans, the Reiners, the Naders, the Rybacks, the Pawlentys) think they've got all the angles covered. And indeed, as I will discuss below, there is much that stands in my way. But if we all pull together, I know I can succeed.

THE DIFFICULTIES:

Experience has taught me that smoking while asleep can prove both costly and dangerous. Obviously, that eliminates a large portion of the time available to achieve my goal. I will therefore, have to be resourceful, as the following other restrictions and limitations further hamper my progress:

In college I experimented extensively with practical problems of smoking in the shower. The best I could come up with was a mildly toxic waterproofing system (patents pending, hustlers!) This had the unfortunate effect of making some of the test subjects pass out and crack their heads on the bathtub enclosure (lawsuits pending.)

Smoking during the physical act of love is-- as I have been informed of time and time again-- considered "tacky."

Smoking during funerals is frowned upon. The same goes for weddings and showers (both bridal and baby.)

Smoking in hospitals, government buildings and courts of law is right out.

One cannot smoke at day care centers, but I consider this to be a perfectly reasonable restriction. (Perhaps the only one.)

And if all that isn't enough, here in Minneapolis, I can no longer smoke in bars and restaurants. (The intention of this law was to decrease smoking. It has, in fact, simply decreased my drinking and dining out.)

If I had to hazard a guess, I would say freshman year in college was probably my peak year for cigarette consumption. Those were the heady days of the 1990s. Times have certainly changed. And given the climate I have so carefully detailed for you, I don't think I can do it alone. So following the example of my friends Jason Miller and Brian Scafaro (and turning their modest proposal quite on it's head) I will hope to enlist the aid of those around me.

THE SOLUTION:

I THEREFORE OFFER THE SUM OF $2006 TO ANYONE WHO CATCHES ME NOT SMOKING IN ANY ACCEPTABLE SITUATION.*

It will be money well spent.

Thanking you in advance for your cooperation, (cough) Brian David Shuey

(*Details of this offer to be determined by my Crack Team of Lawyers. Not to be confused with my Team of Crack Lawyers, who because of their addictions are quite unreliable.)

This is a test. You do not need to read this.

I just set this up. Working?