Ever seen 2 dozen sheep on fire?

Me neither, but there's a first time for everything.

As an ambivalently-mostly-former colony of the Imperialist Hegemony, we here in New Zealand celebrate Guy Fawkes' Day — in honor of early acts of terrorism or something.

Since I live on an apple orchard, I'm in the envious position of being within sneezing distance of a pile of pruning off-cuts from the recently-deceased winter. This is no backyard bonfire pile — we're looking at what I'd guess to be about 50+ meters squared of sticks and thick branches, standing up to 2 meters tall.

(For those of you living in the one country still stuck using the antiquated imperial system, meters are like yards, but slightly longer. Also, please observe the irony of your situation viz-a-viz imperalist hegemonies. It's a small victory for us, but we savor it every chance we get.)

So tonight Smokey the Magnificent is making Treats and Burgers, and we are inviting friends over to have the mother of all bonfires. We may dance around it naked, unable to resist the flames — I cannot promise anything. (Also what else will there be to do — it's not like I have an asbsestos suit handy to get close enough to roast shmallows.)

The sheep who mow the grass are, fortunately for their lanolin-heavy coats, pastured on the other side of the orchard. But I have visions of Lamburghini escaping, getting too close to the fire, and running back to light his brethren like some kind of 4-legged torch.

Smokey the Magnificent sometimes tells me I should not share my visions.

So instead, I try to share my skills — this month I will be sharing a large number of advanced little copywriting tricks, in the Shirtsleeves Marketing Communiqué.

If you don't have a subscription, it is very modestly priced, and you can grab one here:


Talk soon — assuming the fire doesn't get me,