Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Fango Mourns an Icon

In every generation, there comes along a character that, for one reason or another, rings truer than any other. For me that character was Richard “Boner” Stabone. Before I proceed with my final thoughts, I must first fill in some of my background to convey just how personal this loss felt.

As a teen, Lil’ Fang dabbled a bit in the show biz. Between the ages of 11 and 15, I booked several jobs on my native Long Island - first in print, as the adolescent Eastern region rep for Zubaz, then transitioning into a lucrative Kids R’ Us modeling career. As my endeavors progressed, I found that it was time to take a step closer to my dreams. So I began auditioning for film and TV.

I booked several things including a commercial spot for Sheepshead Bay’s own Randazzo’s Clam Bar and “Pizza Eater Number 4” in the pilot episode of Who’s the Boss. I was making the big time. I knew I had the goods when Tony Danza himself told my agent, “That kid’s sitting in my chair.” I thought with any luck – I soon would be, Tony. Then I met Andrew Koenig.

You see, Andrew and I were both up for Boner. I don’t like to talk much about it because it marks the greatest failure of my life. After my agent got me an audition, I spent weeks prepping. When the sides came in the mail, I slept, drank, and ate Boner. I didn’t know what method acting was at the time but, looking back now, I see that I allowed this role to take over my life.

When it came time to board the plane to L.A. I felt this part was mine to lose.
After an arduous audition and several call-backs, it came down to me and Andrew. Because the casting agents were so torn, they suggested that we audition in the same room, back to back. I went first. I nailed it. I was already getting excited at the prospect of lapping up Kirk Cameron’s leftover beaver. Then it was Andrew’s turn. After a minute or so into the audition, I felt jealousy turn to awe. This part was tailor made for me, and I watched this kid come in and play Boner like a Stradivarius. I went white and they went with Andrew. I discovered later that this had been Andrew’s first call back. It was my 6th. I never acted again.

Many actors have suffered from playing a part too well and simply setting the bar to unattainable heights. The result? A cross to bear for the duration of one’s career. I believe that to be Andrew’s curse. He simply was too good at Boner.

In this time of grief, I laud Andrew’s theatrical turn as Richard ‘Boner’ Stabone to be an achievement that far surpasses any in recent memory. Forgive me for personalizing Andrew’s passing for, with Andrew, died Boner and a part of the Fang’s youth with him. Rest in peace, sweet Boner.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Fango Watchin' Stuff: A Farewell to Tards - Jersey Shore

The curtain is set to close on the cultural clusterfuck that was MTV’s Jersey Shore. I for one, as a positive Italian American Icon of sorts, feel both a swell of pride as well as anger as I gutted out the final episodes as startling details about the cast were revealed, but I’ll get to that later. First let’s examine the highlights of this asshole casserole.

First, I would like to address the relationship between Ronnie and Sammi. I was sorely mistaken in an earlier post when I made my character assessment of Sammi as being the “patron saint” of the house. I have to blame my misfire on the boner I had when I saw her in a bikini during the intros, but I digress. This twat has done nothing but rattle Ronni’s already hyper-emotional, steroid infused psyche. All this dude wants to do is fight, fuck, or cry. The three things together is probably the most accurate representation of what culminates into his ideal sexual encounter. The last thing he needs is Sammi pouring gasoline on an already raging, roaring, roid inferno.

Sammi is a sourpuss of the very first order. The only thing that seems to bring even a glimmer of joy into her life is the misery of others, or more specifically, Ronnie. Even on the boardwalk when Ronni was walking away from that bald turd, she kept stirring the pot. Happy now Sammi? Your boyfriend clobbered a big mouth jabroni until Ronnie was almost too tired to run away from the cops. But somehow at the end of the night Ronnie begged her forgiveness.

Ronnie is not exonerated here. Three weeks in a house with Sammi and he’s shopping for promise rings? Let’s call this what it really is - territorial pissing between Mike “The Situation” and Ronnie. The exact same thing would have happened with J Woww had she been dubbed “the hottest girl in the house”. The two have been grunting at each other for Sammi’s affections since day one.

The thing that may have finally doomed this whirlwind affair for good happened on the reunion show when Ronnie was presented with an outtake that showed Sammi batting her spider leg lashes at “The Situation”. Judging from his reaction, Ronnie seemed well on his way to dropping Sammi like deuce in a boardwalk port-o-potty.

And now for one of the most egregious reality show misrepresentations of the past, oh say, 3 days. J Woww is not…are you ready for this? J Woww is not even Italian! She is nothing more than a scab in disguise. Us card carrying dagos have to stick together. If any of the other cast were worth their weight in cannoli, they would’ve blown the whistle on this balloon knockered fraud the minute they found out her last name was Farley. MTV executives should be ashamed of themselves for making a futile attempt at affirmative action. Outrageous. On second thought, the second W may be for Wannabe. Wannabe authentic Guidette. For shame, Jwoww.

I have to make another retraction, this time regarding Vinny. I was a little hard on the guy for clearly being the only dude in the house not jacked to the gills on steroids and for being about as interesting as a fart in the shower. He stepped up to the plate as a formidable foil to Mike “The Situation” by constantly threatening to bone Mike’s sister. His mother’s appearance also brought tears to the Fang’s eyes by bringing enough food to the house to feed a Shriner’s convention and cleaning the house from top to bottom. Some would argue that engaging in such obsessive behavior only keeps the mind busy enough to distract from fact that your son is a total douche bag, but suffice it to say, it made me want to call my mom.

And then there’s Snooki. She wound up the season much the same way she started – as a drunken sexual omnivore whose craving for attention is only surpassed by her appetite for booze. Still, I can’t help but feel a soft spot for her honest, unabashed sluttiness and her willingness to get her little ass kicked all over the place. She ended her tenure at the Jersey shore getting basted in the frothy filth of the house hot tub with “The Situation’s” tongue in her mouth.

With products already being marketed, including a weight loss supplement endorsed by J Woww called “Insane Liquid” and spinoffs undoubtedly in the works, I would like to take this opportunity to implore the TV execs at CNN to change their current wack-ass format for The Situation Room and replace Wolf Blitzer with Mike “The Situation”. That’s pretty much all you need – The Situation, a room, and a couple of broads. Have the ladies describe in sordid detail, the various ways in which Mike got creepy with them in a room. Maybe have DJ Pauly D holding down the wheels of steel a la Kid Capri during the hay day of Def Comedy Jam. I’m just sayin’ it would be a hit.

As the Fangman sat waiting for the final chapters of Jersey Shore play out, I couldn’t help but get a little misty knowing that I may not see chemistry like this until next season, when it is rumored that this exact same cast will get another crack at joining such other Italian American luminaries as Gotti, Stallone, and Danza in the hallowed annals of Italian American history. But for now, the curtain is closed and we must find a new way of dealing with winter ennui. For me, it’s late January - time to get my base on for the upcoming beach season. See you on the Shore.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Fango Watchin’ Stuff: Jersey Shore

Ok, you all knew this was coming. Finally, a series that speaks to the Fang. Ah, to be young again. Frankly, I’m surprised that it took MTV this long to figure out the perfect storm for what the network routinely toils in – youth, self indulgence, sex, fighting (both verbal and fisticuffs), and the holy grail of reality TV, the walk-off – look no further than where yours truly spends his summers, the Jersey Shore.

The formula is simple: take a couple of Guidos and Guidettes and stuck ‘em in house and give them all jobs at a t-shirt store the size of a sweat shop in Indonesia. “What do I have to do to get you in a ‘MILF Hunter’ shirt today, sir?”

Let’s start with the broads - Angelina, from Staten Island, NY. This sassy, in your face, tart with diarrhea of the mouth got her guinea ass tossed before I even knew her name for sure, already delivering on the aforementioned walk-off.

J-Woww the second w is apparently for whore because somewhere in the second episode, she cheats on her boyfriend and gives a weepy repent into the ass of a duck (for some reason the lone phone in the apartment is shaped like a duck. It took these ding-dings half an hour for them to figure out that it was a phone).

If there was to be a patron saint of the house, it may have to be Sammy “Sweethart”, the house poet laureate who only muses on the positive side of things and breaks hearts like she breaks acrylic nails opening beer cans.

Finally there’s my favorite, Nicole, otherwise known as “Snooki”. Her life’s pursuit is to find the Guido of her dreams and she goes from gym to gym stalking her prey like a hungry, feral cat may stalk a discarded piece of rotisserie chicken. She has also been the attention of some national news because she decided to get into the face of the wrong douche bag gym teacher.

Now for the dudes – We’ll start with DJ Pauly D. Perhaps the finest example of a “blow-out” haircut on the Eastern Seaboard sits atop Pauly’s head. Pauly is the house artist and his wheels of steel and accompanying equipment are a monument to Italian nationalism – the flag is on every piece of equipment he owns. God bless you, Pauly.

Then there’s Ronnie. This juice head lost his neck sometime back in the early 2000s but he may have the most sound philosophy of any one member in the house, “don’t fall in love on the Jersey Shore.” He should heed his own advice because he can’t stop himself from putting his dick all over Sammy. This romance may be doomed but this hopeless romantic listens to his steroid addled heart.

Vinny calls himself a natural entertainer and a mamma’s boy. I personally think he’s on the show because they needed a Vinny. He has yet to do anything interesting except for trying to bone his boss’s wife.

And finally there’s my favorite, Mike, “The Situation”. Ok, Mike, I know I’ve only watched a few episodes but it seems that the only “Situation” you seem to be getting yourself in involves only almost getting laid. Even when you had Snooki in the hot tub and she was screaming “fuck me in the fucking ass!” at the top of her lungs into a bottle of Brut, you failed to seal the deal.

With the season fairly young, I look forward to watching the rest of the series with my own hopes for each one of these complex characters. From when the taxi picks “The Situation” up for his weekly visit to the VD clinic to when Snooki gets popped in the face by a fat chick, I’ll be watching on the edge of my leopard print La-Z-Boy praying for God to make me fifteen years younger so I can audition to be part of next year’s cast.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Have You Seen My Jacket?

I think that prick Reggie stole it. He's always stealing my shit after I pass out at parties. Over the weekend, we both went to Dirtbike's bon voyage party and we both had way too many pulls off the old Hypnotiq bottle. Plus, I may or may not have smoked a bong made out of an owl's skull. The jury's still out on that one. Anyway, I do remember wearing my UNLV jacket to the party, as it's always a real pussy magnet. And I'm pretty sure I was still wearing it after I fell down that flight of stairs and passed out in my own piss on the landing.

All I can say is that any dude that's willing to pry a UNLV jean jacket off a dude that's so fucked up that he fell down a flight of stairs and passed out in his own piss is a real jerkoff. We're talking professional-grade here. The Ford F-150 of dickwipes.

Reggie, if you're reading this, be ready. I'm gonna come after you with the force of fifteen falcons and make you wish you'd just stayed home and watched the Bonus Features from Airwolf: Season One instead.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Fango at the Flix: Super Mario Bros.

Fango at the Flix: Super Mario Bros.

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I decided that it was time to introduce the Fangman’s nephews to a little tandem known as the Super Mario Brothers. Since I didn’t have an original NES, I thought the next best thing would be to play the movie for the little squirts.

First off, let me just say that the Old Man was a plumber from Brooklyn, the very same profession and origin as the title characters. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I brought home the first Mario Brother’s edition of Nintendo Power. “Finally some positive Italian American role models.” He said as a tear came to his eye. Well Pop, it’s a good thing you succumbed to falling down an elevator shaft years ago cuz this one’s a real shit burger.

The Tangs would be totally remiss if he didn’t address the casting. If there was ever an opportunity to give an authentic Italian a job, the role of Mario Mario (if you think about it, it’s his first and last name) would have to be it. I know at least half a dozen spaghetti slurping dagos that could knock that shit out of the park just by playing themselves. Instead, the job went to none other than the poor man’s Phil Collins, Bob Hoskins. An Englishman? You can’t get any further away from Italian on the caucasion scale than that of a limp-dick snaggle-toothed dandy.

Although angry, I thought I could forgive this gaffe if the plot was half-way decent. When John Leguizamo was introduced as Luigi, I took it personally. The dickhead can’t even grow a mustache! If the dude doesn’t have the requisite testosterone to grow a suitable mustache, he should stick to mincing around on stage as a Puerto Rican whore. I didn’t know what to tell my nephew when he asked, “Isn’t that the Puerto Rican guy from Ice Age?” Jesus. I found that I had to tell several lies to protect these young boys from the terrible truth – yes, you’re watching a film about Italian video game icons and, save fore a couple of steppin’ and fetchin’ goomba extras, the film contains exactly zero actual waps.

I’ll be brief summarizing the plot. For some reason, Luigi falls for this NYU broad who likes diggin’ in the dirt for fossils and shit. The next thing I know, she and Luigi are being muscled by the mob and, bing - they’re in another dimension dodging the likes of lizards in suits and “King Bowser Koopa” the arch-villain played by none other than that hyper-ventilating psycho from Blue Velvet. Also, said NYU broad is now princess? There’s this battle over a piece of meteorite, primordial ooze is involved somehow, dimensions may or may not merge, and a bunch of other bullshit.

Suffice it to say, this movie ruined Thanksgiving. Instead of bonding with my nephews over Italian pride, we were lobotomized and butt-fucked by the brainchild of some Japanese dick game programmer, who, for some reason decided to fetishize a couple of dago plumbers from Brooklyn. 1/2 Camaro.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Point/Counterpoint: Billy Lee v. Jimmy Lee

I Was Clearly Misguided When I Trusted You To Scale That Ladder And Retrieve My Chain

Remember the Level Two junkyard, when I took on three dudes at once so you could scale that ladder and retrieve my chain? How I was left to fend for myself with a series of tornado kicks and punches to my opponents' throats? Because I do. I selflessly repelled several members of the Black Warriors street gang just so that we (emphasis on we here) could recapture vital weaponry and actually stand a chance of rescuing our common love interest, Marian.

Or have you completely forgotten what this is about, Jim?

You know what they say about hindsight. Well, right now it's pretty fuckin' crystal clear. Because I now know that when you scaled that ladder and got your grubby paws all over that chain, my chain, the chain I had to beat the shit out of a huge black dude in a leather vest to obtain, it was just too great a bounty for you to stand. All you did was stand on that platform and swing that chain around like it was your dick at a Girls Gone Wild release party.

And what happened to your brother, your twin brother, you might ask? I got the shit kicked out of me by two mohawked, neon-yellow skinned attackers, both of whom we would've destroyed if finding in tandem.

You need to get your head in the game, Jim. We still have a factory and the woods to fight through before we even step foot in the boss' lair. So I suggest you Google "brotherhood," and quick. Because I'm fuckin' sick of this shit.


Chains are Intimidating as Hell…Duh?

Jesus, Billy- you really need to stop watching Charmed re-runs and learn how to hold down the fort so a brother can buy some time and get into his opponents' heads. Did you forget everything Sensai Dave taught us? How Roman soldiers would bang their shields with their swords in order to instill fear in their foe? Or how the terrible sound of bagpipes spelled death for the unfortunate hoards that opposed the Scots? I don’t mean to get all History Channel: Special Weaponry on you, but did you ever think for just one second that my wicked chain swing was at least part of the reason you beat the dudes you did? My game is both mental and physical, Bill. You seem to have completely ignored the former. We bring a comprehensive battle plan to the streets or we’re no better than those goldbrickin’ dicks, Bad Dudes.

You tell me to look ahead to the boss’ lair? My eyes are on the prize. I can’t help it if you can’t handle your shit. You and I both know that the window above the ladder is host to a whole grip of those dykes with whips who come out in droves if you’re not ready. I was standing there waiting to take on the lot of them. I can’t help it if they got second thoughts at the sight of my voluminous mane and sinewy chest, as I swung the fuck out of that chain and made those warrior Gertrude Steins re-think their sexuality.

Marian is gonna hear about this. Make no mistake. If we both make it to the final boss, I have a feeling it’s gonna come down to brother vs. brother. Will our sibling bond overcome the lusty eye of Marian fair? Or will you and I battle to the death for her hand? I, for one, am ready for anything. Can you say the same?

Saturday, November 28, 2009

An Open Letter to the Staff Appraisers at

Dear Team:

During these Troubled Economic Times scores of Americans, present company included, are parting with our valuables in reluctant, if not desperate, attempts to remain solvent. As you can imagine, there is an emotional toll that is levied each time we do so. When we deposit our Broken, Unwanted, or Mismatched Gold into one of your Convenient Pre-Paid Envelopes, we surrender to the Trained Professionals at your Secure Processing Center our memories and our connections, our triumphs and our failures, our loves lost and redeemed.

We surrender to you, the Staff Appraisers at, our stories. Our lives.

Thus, it is with a heavy heart that I proffer for your appraisal this 2.5mm, 14kt-Gold Rope Chain With "Da Baddest Bitch" Nameplate. Enclosed please find the same.

It is at this juncture that I beg your absolution, should sentimentality color any portions of this letter. I assure you that my primary motivation in writing you today is to edify, to supplement the submission of this most exquisite of accouterments with unassailable fact. For I believe a fair and accurate valuation of this piece is in both our best interests; yours as America 's #1 Gold Buyer, and mine as an overzealous Texas Hold 'Em enthusiast with a desire to offset recent catastrophic losses.

Now, after an exhaustive review of's Frequently Asked Questions, it is my understanding that you will determine the monetary value of this piece first by measuring (a) its weight and (b) the quality and quantity of its Precious Metal Content. You will then consider (a) and (b) in the context of the ever-fluctuating Daily Price of Gold. Objectivity shall reign supreme; human emotion will be conspicuously absent throughout the Valuation Process.

However, and at the risk of conceit, I have little doubt that upon handling the cool braids of the Rope Chain for the first time, you will be mesmerized by the luminescence of its flawless finish, the way it brightens even the darkest recesses of the Secure Processing Center . You will marvel at its heft as you adorn yourself (in private, of course, and while Senior Appraiser Jeff O'Malley is making his daily Quizno's run), amazed that a piece so fine and understated could be so substantial. You will shed a single, viscous tear as you become transfixed by your own reflection in the Employee Bathroom's full-length mirror, the Nameplate flush against your heaving bosom. You will envision yourself as the focal point of a decadent neighborhood celebration, standing before an assembly of friends and well-wishers (all enjoying sweet tea and lemon bars) as the Master of Ceremonies announces your ascension:

"It is my great honor to present to you, the Citizens of Ravenswood, Da Baddest Bitch!"

Can you believe it? You're Da Baddest Bitch! Did you ever dream this day would come?

Forgive me, for I believe I have trespassed upon my own pledge to remain judicious. Perhaps it is best that I draw this communique to a close and leave you to your handiwork, lest meanderings like the above debase the treasure before you.

I sincerely thank you in advance for the assuredly thorough and professional review to follow. It is with great aplomb that I await the results of your appraisal, one which I anticipate will yield, within 10-14 business days, a sizable payout.

Because this shit retails for $249.99. Trust me- I looked it up.

Best Regards,

Rusty Kluth