The second was Mr. Womack. LeeAnn Womack is, of course, the author and performer of a god awful song I used to have to listen to ad-naseum in Longs Drugs whilst I stacked creamed corn in pyramids. So I finished a long and professional response to Mr. Womack, signed my name and branch, and typed: "PS. I hope you dance."
I thought about taking my name off it, traveling incognito to a mailbox in a far away land where no one could ever trace my smartassness and depositing it, but I ended up leaning on the backspace key dejectedly. Government, you have squelched my creativity again.