I have to comment on what I heard this week about the Federal Way School District prohibiting the viewing of Al Gore's film, "An Inconvenient Truth," without an "opposing viewpoint."

We've come so far in our society; we smoke on TV, sleep in double beds, say "dick" and "bitch" on primetime sitcoms, can tolerate Donald Trump's hair, and yet there's always some story in the news to pop up and remind us that there's still a sizeable part of the population who are, for lack of a better phrase, "stupid fucking douche bags."

I apologize for the language. I'm a writer, and I usually edit my work over and over, and try to make it as objectionable and as polished as possible, but this time I couldn't. I saw the story and just started typing.

What can you say when you hear about a group of SCHOOLS, in our nation's capitol no less, whose job it is to put ideas and thoughts into the heads of our children, and who believe that global warming is a "democratic agenda?" What do they think is going on? That God and Jesus are up there smoking a bowl and it's the smoke that's blowing a huge hole in the ozone layer? Jesus is always tan on TV. Maybe they think the glaciers are melting due to the bulbs from Jesus' tanning bed? (Although God tells me he's recently switched to a bronzing lotion just in case.)

What I find almost as amazing as the dense matter occupying the heads of these individuals, is that there are people out there who actually make a LIVING supporting this crap. There are people out there whose "job" it is to be a "stupid fucking douche bag."
I can't earn a steady income to save my life, yet these yokels are out there on a daily basis, actually paid a salary, take home a weekly paycheck, and raise a family... all with the main objective of furthering the short-sighted goals of stupid fucking douche bags everywhere.

I guess these schools, and others like them in Utah -or on Pluto, survive due to religious contributions, or some ridiculous federal grant of taxpayer dollars which prohibits discrimination against stupid fucking douche bags. Who knows? Maybe they're right? Maybe they receive no contributions or federal grants whatsoever, and the first of every month, Jesus brings them a big bag of money from his dad to continue their work.

Next to suicide bombers, these people, who, by the way, think the earth is less than 15,000 years old, are the stupidest human beings on the planet (that is also an indisputable fact). My grandmother is 15,000 years old. Are they trying to tell me she hung out with "Eve" in High School?

We have award shows for everything under the sun. Why don't we have an award show for the "stupidest fucking douche bags of the year?" I think it's because, aside from the rocket scientists who strap dynamite to their bodies, thinking that ten minutes from the time they explode they'll be on a beach with 72 virgins, the folks from the Federal Way School District would sweep the ceremonies each and every year. Someone would eventually call in a "fix."

In the article on the AP wire, which reports on the controversy, the story quotes a parent named Frosty Hardison, who says, "condoms don't belong in school, and neither does Al Gore." Obviously, they don't belong in Mr. Hardison's bedroom either, as he's the father of seven unfortunate offspring who have to grow up with a dad named after a snowman. You'd think that'd be punishment enough.

We see religious zealots spewing their rhetoric all the time. They force their beliefs on us through the press, on their own self-produced infomercials, and on the Internet. This time, it's not about 'cloning,' or 'abortion,' or 'heaven and hell.' It's about the incontrovertible evidence showing the slow dissolution of our planet, and, when nearly every credible scientist in the world confirms these findings, how is that a political agenda?

What really infuriates me about this particular incident is that these kooks aren't just trying to preach their "bass-ackwards" views to adults. These are the very kooks in charge of shaping the minds of dozens of young Americans who have no choice but to sit and listen to them, and their twisted points of view, for eight hours a day for the next several years. In ten years, when one of these poor kids is arrested for bombing an abortion clinic, they're going to do a background check and find out he was raised in the Federal Way School District. We reap what we sew, Mr. Hardison.

Will there ever be a time in which irrefutable scientific evidence isn't questioned in the name of God? Will there ever be a time when people stop trying to tell other people what God wants from them or what God wants them to do? Will Rob Schneider ever leave the movie biz? We can only hope.

David Fagin
NY, NY

Does it surprise anyone that the FDA has finally admitted they did nothing but wave a yellow flag at soda makers for years, even though they knew two harmless substances in certain sodas, when mixed together, form Benzene; a powerful carcinogen? Apparently, if you combine potassium benzoate and ascorbic acid (vitamin c) it's not too pleasant. That's what certain companies have been doing with their sodas for years, creating over 17 times the allowed limit of benzene than what's allowed in tap water. Aside from most of us knowing the morons in washington couldn't give two shits who lives and who dies, as long as they keep the lobbyists happy and their own wallets fat, what i'd like to know is this;

it says 'the allowable level' of benzene that the fda permits. If it's a carcinogen and causes cancer, is there a certain amount of benzene consumed on a daily basis that WON'T cause it? Or are they saying, as long as i'm dead and gone by the time your ten year old gets cancer of the liver at 50, i'll just bargain with them to allow small amounts in it, that will take at least forty years to kill you.

how bout zero freakin benzene in soda you jerks?

have a nice day.

p.s. those interested can visit ewg.org for the sodas and stats.

Something happened to me the other day while moving into the new apartment.  One sentence that will scare the crap out of any big city folk:

My keys fell out of my pocket and onto a subway grating. 

Done.

(they hung by a string and i quickly retrieved them before any exploding manholes  could shake them between the metal into the abyss below)

So I'm down here in Florida visiting the 'rents and returning to NYC tonite.  My dad, who after some majorly bad investments can no longer afford to take us the best places, actually suggested a place for dinner tonite I never thought I'd hear out his mouth.  "How bout Applebee's?  It's close to the airport."
"What!?"
"Yeah, it's close to the airport and it's cheap and we can get in and out."
"Damn, dad, this is a sad moment.  I need to be alone for a while."

Anyway, after trying to suggest other places, like White Castle and Jack in the Box, it's still Applebee's.  So if anybody has an extra propellor hat and "i'm with stupid" t-shirt, I really appreciate if you let me borrow it.  After all, there is a dress code.
d :)

One day after announcing the agreement to have Arabs guard our ports, the Bush Administration announced today that O.J. Simpson was promoted to Commissioner of theN.C.B.W., the National Council for Battered Women.  Amongst other responsibilites, some of his duties will be making sure all those women, who apparently JUST DON'T LISTEN, understand who's boss and return home, as they're wasting tax payer dollars; and playing in a charity golf tournament - the winner receiving his Tony Robbin's-like book, "Restraining Orders are for Pussies."

MR. FRIEDMAN'S OPUS

It's March of 1985. I'm a senior in high school. It's a good time. I haven't yet heard of a company called Clear Channel and I'm still naive enough to think that music is more than just a business…
Growing up in Fair Lawn, NJ meant that, for as long as I could remember, every Memorial Day, the whole town would gather for the Senior Class Softball Marathon. Each year, this three-day, non-stop, round-the-clock softball game raised money for different charities. The senior class was divided into teams that competed against each other, straight through the night and into the next morning, without stopping, while a mass of beer-drinking, hot dog-munching town folk gathered to cheer them on, even at four-thirty in the a.m.
So, it happened that, on one particular sunny afternoon, my friend, Matt Gitkin and I were approached by Howie Friedman, our beloved chemistry and physics teacher who would brag in the halls on a daily basis about being the 38th most allergic human on the planet. Mr. Friedman was a "rocker" in the truest sense of the word, back in the sixties; he lived for rock music and the power it displayed. He told us of his idea to form a student-teacher band to perform classic rock tunes during the first intermission at the upcoming Marathon. Matt and I thought he was joking, as that was nothing new, and eventually, the nutty professor managed to convince us to drag some friends into the madness, while he recruited some semi-sane teachers willing to make fools of themselves singing Steppenwolf in front of their students. We called this student-teacher rock extravaganza, "The Boptones."
We rehearsed in my parent's basement and after a few shaky months, we dragged our Peavey amps and Ibanez guitars onto the poorly lit ball field (picture Field of Dreams meets School of Rock). We played to a smattering of supportive cheers and polite applause. Our audience didn't hate us, it was just tough to hear us. The two Campbell's soup cans we used as a P.A. couldn't provide the oomph we needed to really "RAWWWWK!"
That first "concert", Memorial Day weekend in 1985, featured six kids on our respective instruments and three crazy teachers, singing everything from Born to Be Wild, to Runaround Sue to Aqualung. Little did we know what we (or Howie) had started.
Fast-forward twenty years later (Jesus); Matt gets a call from a girl who claims to be on the official "Boptones Advisory Board" of Fair Lawn High School. Huh? Apparently, when we weren't looking, the Boptones student-teacher rock band had gone and transformed itself into something of an anomaly.
No longer are there six students and three teachers; no longer are there soup cans for P.A.'s; and no longer is the concert a forty-minute gig on the ball field between innings. Now, there's a lengthy audition process for both juniors and seniors, during which over one hundred and sixty kids try out each year and only thirty or so make the cut. Now, handfuls of crazy teachers lurk the hallways practicing their best Ozzy impersonations. (Mrs. Levine, the darling, sixty-something Spanish teacher who's retiring next year, is rumored to be performing Black Sabbath's Iron Man at this year's show.) Now, the P.A. is a state-of-the-art sound system, complete with top notch console, lighting board, and monitor wedges for the performers.
Even the art department donates their time and builds huge scaffolding and risers for the performers, complete with fake, crepe paper flames shooting up from the stage. The "gig" has become an event; a three-hour plus party held inside the school's thousand-seat auditorium, and I would be rendered speechless.
The phone call Matt received was to inform him that this year, Mr. Friedman would be hanging up the chalk and moving to Florida, and would we like to say something on his behalf at the upcoming concert? She explained that there would be a short video tribute to him during the show and they could film us saying something nice for his retirement. Matt and I had a better idea. What if the original Boptones were to reunite and surprise Mr. Friedman at the show by doing a few tunes from years ago? Now all we needed was to find everyone.
Thank God most of us from the original band are losers and never moved anywhere outside the New York area. We were all easily reachable, except for Chrissy Campanella. Who knows what she's doing these days? Last I heard she's working for Clear Channel.
After about sixty thousand emails arguing what tunes we should do, we five surviving members get together a few days before the show to rehearse our short, but emotionally charged, set. The songs are Sergeant Pepper, Runaround Sue, Born to Be Wild, and Sounds of Silence.
The night of the show arrives and the high school auditorium's packed. Backstage, I glance at the set list. No more Let's Spend the Night Together or Won't Get Fooled Again. Now, there's Bulls on Parade and Green Day's Longview. Dylan was right.
We stand in the wings watching the show and to my amazement, these tiny, little dwarves (I think they're called teenagers) come up to us one after another to shake our hands, ask me where I got my "groovy looking guitar", and tell us how psyched they are that we're there to play for Howie's last concert.
I stood in awe, watching scores of teachers and students sharing the stage and singing away together in front of a mob of cheering and, for a change, happy adolescents; I wondered if Mr. Friedman really knew the full extent of what he'd created that day, twenty years earlier, with the simple idea to play some rock n' roll with his students.
Halfway through the performance, the video screen is lowered and a "This Was Your Life at Fair Lawn High School, Howie Friedman" piece is shown. After slides and footage of the original Boptones (and me in parachute pants - which I'll publicly deny if asked), Matt is asked if the original Boptones would ever play together again, to which he replies, in true "Behind The Music" fashion, "No way. The five of us could never get along. We were always at each other's throats and there's too much bitterness involved now, so I don't see that happening anytime soon." With that, Mr. Friedman is beckoned to the stage and one by one, we are introduced from the wings. It's all quite emotional. We lovingly molest each other, and take our positions on stage.
The kids go crazy. It feels like Altamont. (Never mind, bad analogy.) We have a blast playing our songs and for the last one, Sounds of Silence, we bring Mr. Friedman and a few new, younger, "Tones" up to join us; it feels very much like the passing of the torch.
Then the moment comes when I realize how old and out of touch I really am. We're right in the middle of "Silence", the whole school is singing along, and I'm in the moment, looking down at my guitar. When I gaze up, I see one of the most spectacular sights I'm to witness as a performer; every kid in the auditorium's waving his/her arms back and forth and a glowing, blue, neon stick is shimmering in each one of their hands, creating a sight I immediately take a mental picture of to make sure I'd never forget. What are those blue things? Are they those sticks that you break in half that glow neon when activated? I can't tell. Then it hits me. They're cell phones. Every kid in the crowd has his/her cell phone window glowing iridescent colors, replacing the obsolete cigarette lighters of old. My brother-in-law holds up his lighter and is about to flick it, when some twelve year old girl, shooting him a very serious look, says, "Um, sir, we don't do that anymore." Dylan was right again.
I realized that at the very least, the one thing I left the school with that night was knowledge that couldn't be taught in a classroom; that one teacher, armed with the gift of music and a generous spirit, can bring an entire community together just by being crazy enough to "put it out there" and see what happens.
That night there were no cliques, no insults being hurled, nobody getting beaten up outside by the "Green Hill", no teachers being patronizing toward students. Everyone was "gettin' their groove on" together, like one big Partridge Family. And, I couldn't help but think, the next time a problem arises with a classmate, when a temper may cause someone to do something they'd later regret, simply remembering the sight of their teacher singing Black Sabbath with them, might make them laugh instead. What more reason do we need for keeping music programs alive in our schools? Thank you, Howie.

df

Attn: Jay Leno: You should seriously have your writers do a sketch reviewing movie trailers as if they were reviewing entire film, because we, the movie going public, get to see the whole thing during coming attractions, anyway. Aside from the fact that we, the unknowing, unsuspecting public, can't view a coming attraction without seeing the beginning, middle, and amazingly suprising end of an upcoming feature, your producers, Jay, allowed Mary McBride, the terrific wife from Brokeback Mountain, to show a clip on your show of one of the most pivotal scenes in the movie as if we all have seen it already. Hint: Everyone in America has not scene the damn movie yet, and if we would've been interested in seeing how and when the wife confronts her husband with the knowledge that he's been having a homosexual affair since the beginning of their marriage before we saw the movie, all we had ta do was tivo your show last nite and we would've seen it all. Good going. Speaking of giving away endings, what the fuck is up with kids these days making "When a Stranger Calls" the number one movie in America? The God damn ending is revealed in the damn commercial! Half way through the ad for the stupid remake the voiceover says "We've traced the call! It's coming from inside your house!" Bad enough they made a remake because Hollywood's out of ideas (if you need further proof see the Pink Panther this weekend), and bad enough they give the ending to you in the trailer, but to try and convince America's "Sassy" youth demographic that this poor girl's parents don't have caller ID in 2006 is pathetic. And they still go. American Idol rocks. p.s. sly stone is an alien from men in black.

man oh man.  I was at a bar in brooklyn tonight, and, as it happens, happened to turn and catch five minutes of the Grammys...  Is anybody else sick of maroon 5 yet?  I'm sure it's not their fault, but since NY radio only let's us hear them fifty times an hour, I wanna vomit just looking at them.
Not that i'm bitter or anything...but c'mon, is it just me or did Sly Stone look an awful like something out of Men In Black?  Ya know, one of those aliens whose head would grow back as soon as Tommy Lee Jones blows it off?  The rest of it kinda seemed like another "Up With People" as if I'm watching the damn Super Bowl halftime show.  I hope that if I ever turn 80 and someone honors me for something, it ain't on network television.  I hope it's at some local Elks club hall with potato salad and deer heads on the wall.  Speaking of the Super Bowl, did anyone see that hilarious Stevie Wonder thing?  What was up with that?  Just because he's a genius, everyone who's moderately related to him now has carte blanche to make a record?  Why did we need to hear his fifth cousin, Nuanda, sing on national T.V.?  Poor girl sounded like someone was sawing her hair off.  My favorite part of all those, UP WITH PEOPLE things is;  you know they spend days and days rehearsing with all the countless celebs making cameos during the song and singing a verse of some classic song.  I guess the networks think it'll be generous to throw us peasants at home a bone and give us a glimpse of all those stars on stage at once paying tribute to some legend.  But what we really get is a good laugh.  I love watching a massive stage set up with Stevie Wonder and his entire extended family; brothers, uncles, cousins, family milkman, etc., start singing and, in twenty seconds, be ushered the fuck off for joss stone.  Then, as soon as joss stone opens her mouth, DOH! sorry joss, get the fuck off for The Black Eyed Peas!  Then, just as soon as the Peas start ta shake a leg, Wait!  That's it! times up! get the heck off for Mick Jagger!  oh, wait, hang on, mick just had a coronary.

this is an article i wrote for the Asian Food Journal bitching about probably the best sushi place in the city and most likely the country, Tomoe Sushi. yum.A Sushi Zombie by david fagin For those of us who love good sushi, and more importantly, know good sushi, we know by now that the best place to get it in New York City, and dare I say the U.S., is "Tomoe Sushi", located in the heart of the east village. Sure, you can spend five hundred a head at Masa, but why? It ain't better, just fancier. As my friends and I were standing on line the other night, talking about how you could make an interesting reality show simply by filming the conversations on "The Line", I decided to put my pen to paper, and see if there's anyone else out there who feels like I do about this haven that provides the unique experience of dynamite food with disasterous, lasting, side effects. A Prisoner of Tomoe If you haven't been to Tomoe, I highly recommend going, but heed this warning; After eating at Tomoe, virtually anyplace else, no matter where you go, will not satisfy you anymore. You can go to Mori for "dollar sushi", You can try Yama for the size of the pieces, or even Matsuri for their excellent rolls, etc. No place else can compare, and it's almost always a let down. We're cursed "Sushi Zombies", forever wandering the culinary landscape in a fruitless search for something better, always knowing that day will never come. Join us...if you dare. "The Line" "The Line" is that endless stream of human bodies, cramped like veal cows, extending halfway down Thompson street. On any given evening around six p.m., regardless of how hot the sun or how cold the snow, you can find us there. If you didn't know it was a restaurant, you might think it was a morphine clinic. All those skinny Europeans and pale Americans eagerly anticipating the reward to come and shaking violently at the prospect. The staff should at least admit they like watching us clamor outside, looking in longingly at the plates of food like Julie Andrews staring at that meatball in "Victor/Victoria". To make it more interesting, they should require all patrons to wait on their knees in a begging position, at least it would be honest. The best part of the endless waiting, is when they seat a twosome at a table for four. That's prime real estate people! Occasionally you get the ones that aren't even aware, or are just plain inconsiderate, of the fact that there are four jonesing addicts waiting for their coveted spot. Here's a message to you self-absorbed, sloth-like, ignorant diners - and you know who you are: "Pay the freakin' bill, cease your mindless chatter, and finish your goddamn dessert in an expedious, and timely fashion, or we'll come in there and toss you out on your ass!" These "dinner slugs" take such disgustingly small bites of their green tea ice cream as they obliviously chat away, they might as well eat it with chopsticks. "Let's go! Get in and get out, there are other people waiting for your damn table!"I'm not proud of the monster that I've become while standing on that damn line, but somebody has to say something. If my diatribe is read by only one of those "slugs", and can help just one other hungry couple get inside quicker, then I consider it well worth it. Funny part is, for all the impatient anger and frustration you build up while jealously watching the lottery winners inside, as soon as you're in, you're like, "Screw 'em!", to the ones outside, and you order green tea ice cream with chopsticks. However, once you're in, be aware that Tomoe only seats up to five people at a time. A strange, evil number, considering they can easily push three tables of two together. So if you're a party of three couples looking for a nice night out, pick somewhere else. Or, if you must go, pick the one person who's the most annoying and leave him/her behind. It's war folks. A Terrific Place In A Terrible One I'd like to offer a bit of advice to the owner/s from a long-time, loyal customer: EXPAND! For christ's sake, EXPAND! You're killing us! Is it part of some sadistic revenge for WW ll that they make you stand outside for hours, salivating like rabid dogs, on display for all passersby who just don't know the addiction? Granted, if they build forward, they're in the middle of Thompson Street. If they push out the sides, you'll be eating your toro in somebody's living room. So, here's my answer: MOVE! YES, MOVE! RELOCATE FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! I know, the owner's probably sitting back thinking, "Rhy should I move? I pay almost no ovelhead for this space and my lestaurant is constantry clowded." You should move because your customers are tired of standing in an unnecessarly, long line while waiting to pay a few hundred bucks for the privelege. This isn't some taco stand on the beach. This is the best sushi in the world, so move the restaurant to a locale where your customers aren't made to feel like wandering idiots, milling about aimlessly outside. Move It to a place that can handle more than six diners at a time. Put a damn bar in it, and you'll make more money off the alcohol sales, along with the added fifty customers an hour, than you ever made at that hole in the wall on Thompson! Epilogue I love Tomoe sushi. I'll never stop going there no matter what they put me through. But, one day, it'd be nice to not have to plan your entire weekend around eating there. "Well, let's see...we want to see that movie at the Angelika Saturday at nine, which means we should be seated at Tomoe by six-thirty. Let's meet there Friday night around four a.m., and we should definitely make the six-thirty seating." Remember to pack a lunch.

I recently managed to weasel my way into contributing to The Onion.  Here's some stuff they ignored which I think is perty funny.

Chinese Admit Entire Language Made Up On The Spot 
 
Six Year Old Pensacola Girl Not Missing 
 
"It's Not You, It's Me." Saying Originator Admits To It Being You. 
 
Out Of Work Actor Opens Toll Plaza 
 
Man Beaten To Pulp By McHammer After Touching This 
 
Dr. Phil Reaches Out To Hurricane Victims From Floating Limousine.  
 
Tibetans Open First Gambling Casino In Nepal. "Off Track Tibetting". 
 
Tibetans Announce Opening First Spiritual Fast Food Franchise. "Chuck E. Chi's" To Open Fall '05 
 
Rob Schneider Found Guilty On All Counts Of Being Talentless. Sentenced To Forty Hours Of Introducing Real Actors To Adam Sandler. 
 
Scientists Crack Genetic Code Of Rice. Main Ingredient; Rice. 
 
Man finishes 41st In Top 40 Losers Under 40 poll
 
Wisconsin Man files for emotional bankruptcy
 
Woman in michigan never attacked by christian slater
 
horror movie kids outsmart monster on first attempt. Rest of movie boring. 
 

  All 157 ATTENDEES OF THE "FOOD ALLERGY INITIATIVES BENEFIT" DIE DURING BUFFET LUNCH.
 
SONY PICTURES TO DO RE-MAKE BEFORE ORIGINAL.
 
LOCAL RESIDENTS MIFFED AT NEW, 24HR. BUFFET THAT'S OPEN 24 HOURS, BUT NOT IN A ROW. 
 
SEGA TO RELEASE VIDEO GAME THAT HAS NO INFLUENCE ON KIDS' BEHAVIOR. 
 
MAN TOLD TO TALK TO GIRLFRIEND'S HAND BELIEVES HE'S GETTING THROUGH 
 
RABBI CLAIMS LEVI'S NEW 'ORTHODOCKERS' CAMPAIGN IS OFFENSIVE TO JEWS. wrinkle free sportswear for the mazel tough man in you. 
 
RESIDENTS OF NEW YORK AND LOS ANGELES CLAIM SYMPTOMS OF SMALL TOWN HOPELESSNESS. 
 
OHIO DECIDES ON NEW MOTTO: "AT LEAST WE'RE NOT MICHIGAN" 
 
WARNER BROS. TO SHELVE 'CRACK HOUSES OF THE HOLY'; HIP HOP ZEPPELIN 
TRIBUTE. 
 
(Times Square, NY) 
PEEP WORLD ANNOUNCES "FAMILY ORIENTED" RE-OPENING FEATURING MARSHMALLOW PEEPS 
 
When the Giuliani administration practically chased all adult venues out of Times Square to make room for the Disney Store, and 
other family oriented entertainment, Joe Petti, the principal owner of the formerly successful, all nude club, Peep World, immediately began trying to figure out a way to re-open the doors, but also keep true to the family fun atmosphere of the new forty second street. Being Mr. Petti had spent his life savings on attorneys while fighting the prior administration in court, Petti states he can't afford to change the original name, as "it's engraved all over the outside and would cost thousands". 
"I think I've got it." he says. On Sept. 1, "Peep World" will re-open its doors for the first time in five years. 
Instead of sleazy, crack-addicted, women dancing nude for "Johns" twenty four/seven, Petti will have a round the clock show featuring the little marshmallow chicks known as "Peeps". "Since no one's really sure what sex a "Peep" is, it will be open to people of all genders. And although Peep's don't wear clothes, they have no sexual organs, so it will be a fun show for the whole family." Says, Petti. 
Time will tell whether this "public display of confection" runs "afowl" or succeeds. 
 
(Washington, D.C.) 
FDA TO GREENLIGHT OVER THE COUNTER USE OF "NIC-A-BUTT"; NICOTINE SUPPOSITORIES. 
In a move to combat many U.S. cities going non-smoking, Phillip Morris has introduced "Nic-A-Butt", nicotine suppositories. Unlike the patch, which is designed to help people quit smoking, one Nic-A-Butt will supply the equivalent of a pack of Camel brand, unfiltered cigarettes, in the recipients keyster. 
"This will completely repress the users urge to smoke while in a bar, airline, or friend's new automobile for up to three hours." says Daniel Bland, PM's head of public relations. The product, whose launch is scheduled to coincide with back to school month, will use the tag: "Nic-A-Butt. One In The Crack Keeps The Monkey Off Your Back."