An Open Letter to the Staff Appraisers at Cash4Gold.com

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 Cash4Gold.com, 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 Cash4Gold.com'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

Bums Learn Life Lessons From 1780's French Peasant

I was driving home the other day from a very exhilarating game of frolf, frisbee golf. I thought I'd fit one more game into the season. I'm so glad I went out because I hit an albatross (that's a double eagle for you weak-kneed, regular golfers) on the third hole and beat my best total score ever. So, like I was saying, I'm driving home and I notice a bum sprawled out against a building on the corner of Montrose and Ashland. Huh? Generally, bums aren't seen this far north of the Loop. This was no classy Loop bum either. He was all grizzley. He looked like Zack Galifianakis dressing up as Jerry Baskin, Nick Nolte's character in "Down and Out In Beverly Hills".

Since the Thanksgiving spirit has been with me all week, I thought to myself, "Thank Jesus Christ in Heaven I'm not a fucking bum like that guy." You know? We have to be thankful for all that we have. So, when you see someone less fortunate than you you really should be giving thanks (especially durning Thanksgiving week) for not being like that pathetic wreck.

I started thinking about what his Thanksgiving dinner would be like. He might not even have any turducken scraps this year with the economy and everything. And that got me thinking about how American bums don't have any qualms about eating garbage out of dumpsters.

Then, I got to thinking about those stupid, uppity French peasant bastards again. The French peasants of the 1780's were real d-bags. At the time, an El Nino cycle caused a little ice age and destoyed many crops, which led to a grain shortage and an escalation on the price of bread. As we learned from the dirty Irishman of the 19th century, potatos are more resilient in cold weather. Unlike the dirty Irish of the 19th century, however, potatos were in abundance for the 1780's frog. But, these stinky frogs refused to eat the potato because "potatos were dirty food." If they just ate the f-in' potato, they would have lived. Instead, these too-good-for-potato frogs died! YOU'RE A DIRTY PEASANT! EAT THE DIRTY FOOD AND LIVE!

In this age where we barely learn from history, I can't help but applaud the American bum for learning a hard lesson from the stinky French.

I'm So Over Kiersten

My roommate Lowell found the picture I drew last night. He confronted me with it this morning, right as I was heading out the door to be deloused. He was all, "Dude, let her go. You guys broke up eight years ago. She's probably, like, CEO of a major company now. She doesn't want anything to do with you." And to that, all I could say was, "Doubtful."

It doesn't even matter. Just because a dude smokes a Graffix three-footer full of sticky k.b. and then spends the next three, no, four hours of his life meticulously-crafting a charcoal drawing of his first and only love doesn't mean said dude's still in love. I mean, let's not simply life to the point where we don't even think critically about shit anymore here.

I don't know why I felt compelled to sketch Kiersten last night. I usually just end up sketching F-16s dropping their payload on Libya when I get baked. Something stirred in me, I guess, and I just can't explain it.

Besides, last I heard she works at the Auntie Anne's at Woodfield Mall. That ain't that cool.

I Think For This Thanksgiving I’ll Do More Acid Than I Did For Last Thanksgiving

With Thanksgiving approaching, like many Americans, I still haven’t made all the necessary preparations. For one, my mother asked me to pick up the turkey, and I can’t decide if I should get a 14 pounder or a 20 pounder. (I guess it depends on if uncle Javier comes!) Or I still haven’t entirely decided on just how much acid I should bring. I mean, you have to be prepared. Especially for the holidays!

Last Thanksgiving I decided to eat two hits of acid I had scored off my then girlfriend’s dad, but thinking about it now, I should have eaten at least four. By the time my mother had set the table and asked everyone to take a seat all I saw was one turkey spirit floating over the dinner table. I mean, really? What low grade shit did I take? When I eat acid at Thanksgiving, I should be seeing at least a thousand turkey spirits floating over the dinner table, an army of turkey spirits seeking revenge, so, let’s say an army of bloodthirsty, M16 wielding turkey spirits who speak Dutch. That’s what I’d like to see. Just for the fuck of it! I'd also like to see entire nebulas floating in the kitchen, not shifty little light shows coming out of the basement door.

Another thing. Last Thanksgiving, by the time my sister and father had started their annual Thanksgiving argument about the “role of communism in South America” I was petting the pecan-pie like it was a kitten and laughing uncontrollably every time my sister said Che, but what I would’ve rather been doing was staring into the living room mirror naked and looking at myself, the multiplicity of myself, as if for the first time, and talking to Che about his role in history and his role in my future-history. I would’ve asked Che all sorts of freaked out questions like, “On a metaphysical or even spiritual level, do you think we are all one?” Or “Are my bed sheets a quantum leap away from purity?” Or “Do fish feel man? Do they?” The point is when you do a little acid you talk about people in new and interesting ways, but when you do enough acid you get to talk to the actual people in new and interesting ways. Know what I mean? And instead of an electric like buzz running through your fingertips and toes, when you do enough acid, your body feels like a thousand deep-sea mermaids having a simultaneous orgasm. The difference, especially during Thanksgiving, is significant.

Anyway, all in all, last Thanksgiving last year went well. The food was good. My sister only cried once. I was found the next morning in an alley building a pyramid out of cardboard boxes. But when it comes around to this Thanksgiving I think I'll be doing a shit load more acid.

Point/Counterpoint: Sloth v. Chunk

First of All, It Wasn’t Your Cocatiel: It Was Our Cocatiel

Let us at once set this record straight – that bird was a part of this household, as well as our shared struggles and triumphs. Or, perhaps it would be more apt to say your struggles and my triumphs. If you got off of the couch and became a little more vested in your own future, that bird wouldn’t have had to struggle with the strife of this dialectical drama which has become the pervading narrative of our relationship – a relationship that has slowly morphed from a loving kinship to the veritable dojo of passive aggressiveness that prevails today. A bird of that majesty just doesn’t just drop dead, Chunk. You may be amenable to attributing Thaddeus’ demise to my grotesque appearance and zealously embrace of his plumage, but you and I both know that a beak full of keef probably had something to do with it as well. If you were a little less careless about the narcotic flotsam you leave festooned throughout our quarters, the magnificent bird may not have languished on its perch.

Put the bong down, Chunk and turn off Ninja Warrior. This should be a call to action, a call for you to seek the world outside. Once Vassar grants my tenure, there will be a reckoning for your idleness. Our beloved cockatiel lived a courageous life but I submit, in the end could not endure your gluttony. Your wings have been clipped, sir. Your flabby little wings render you a fat flightless little butterball. Our cockatiel’s spirit could not be mended watching your protracted demise. Ultimately, the mighty Thaddeus died of a broken heart.

Fuck Off

Are you shitting me, Sloth? You're really gonna pin this one on me? Wow. I mean... Wow.

Dude, that bird partied. I know that, Thaddeus knew that... Fuck, even our landlord knew that. Or has our Arbor Day party already become a repressed memory for you? Because, as I recall, that fuckin' bird shot more blow up his beak that night than Len Bias and The Olsen Twins combined. Do the words "narcotic-fueled thrashing of my futon" mean anything to you?

Look, I know you're grieving. You're struggling to make sense of all this and, trust me, I understand this impulse. But pointing fingers isn't going to get you anywhere but the Craigslist "Roommate Wanted" posts. Because I'll blow this popstand, bro. With a quickness. I don't need this shit right now. Not when I'm trying to shed a few pounds and enroll at DeVry.

So, take a long walk, read the DSM-IV, rub one out to TiVo'd Rikki Lake episodes (again)... Whatever it takes for you to blow off some steam and put Thaddeus' memory to rest. Because I won't be your whipping boy. Not this time.

Fango at the Flix: The Twilight Saga: New Moon

So, I’m dating this 16-year old, and she insists on going to see this movie about queer vampires and slightly-less faggy werewolves. My generation is no stranger to teenage werewolves - bringing us such classic fare as Teen Wolf, starring that shaky little bastard from Family Ties. You can say whatever you want about the Eighties, but one thing is for sure – if there was ever a decade to produce a film that spoke to the transfigured party animal aficionado, it was the decade of the New Wave. Improve on the genre? Bring it on, Generation Z.

I don’t know if it was all of the barely-illegal beav in the audience or the undue influence of the Maui x Kush x Swuggets + Mad Dog combo we imbibed prior to ticket purchase, but The Fangman was completely into it... for a while, at least. After this Bella Swan, or some such shit, cuts her finger on some wrapping paper in front of a family of vampires, this dandy of a blood sucker that I’ve been seeing on all of the magazine covers tells this broad to beat it because she’s giving too many vamps too many boners. So the dandy bids her farewell. Bella gets all Girls Gone Wild on that ass and starts hanging out with this beefy twink-werewolf. He is part of a gang of other shirtless Guido Larva that reminded me of high school back in Long Island, when I first started spikin’ my butt with the juice. After ole girl starts adrenalizing to the tune of cliff diving and motor sports, the vamp-fop returns to the fold after receiving false information about his former love’s death.

Here’s where it lost me – somehow, this broad is immune to all vampires powers and she’s ordered before some council of pasty twats who decree that she must either die or become a vampire too. What the fuck? Who cares? If she’s immune to vampire powers in the first place, why keep her away from vampires? If she’s immune to vampires, wouldn’t she have a hard time becoming one too? By the hour fifteen mark, I was seriously confused by Lichen this and Volturi that and I had a serious craving for Scott Howard to dribble up to the lot of these over-dramatic goons and slam dunk on all their asses. I’m not one to split hairs, but Christ on a cracker, at least Teen Wolf made some sense.

By the end of the movie, I was so busy texting to all the new digits that I scored while I was in line for the crapper that I completely lost interest. So, I went again two days later with this babysitter chick named Briana and liked it even less. Perhaps I’ll like it a bit more tomorrow when I bring this drama club geek, Antigone. Say what you like about fruity teen flicks, one thing is for sure – my calendar’s booked. 2 Camaros.

When Men Turn Into Zombies

Now, I don't really enjoy going to readings in this city, but I happened upon one the other day full of young writers and poets and thought I'd share a poem by a particularly sad and horny young man by the name of Skylark Hidenburg. What struck me about Skylark was just how sad and just how horny he was. This, my friends, is a deadly combination...


When Men Turn Into Zombies
by Skylark Hidenburg


Did not Thomas Campion say
'Now winter nights enlarge'
Did he mean what I think he meant?
That, this winter, I am enlarged

And that, this winter, I need to find
some winter booty
to assist in my winter enlargement, the deep
winter booty. Before I turn into a zombie

So, Thomas Campion, be my winter booty crooner
and croon me some winter booty.
You see. Without the winter booty
the wintry shades reveal a zombie in me.

A fettered, horny zombie
roaming and ranging the streets
Grueling and groaning, as the living dead,
in search of my living winter booty.

Endlessly.

And endlessly.

Cancer All Over Your Lady Parts

WTF, panel of experts? R U serious?

If you haven't heard yet, earlier this week a panel of absurdly obese experts gave the recommendation that women should not get mammogram exams (that's for the boobies) as early or as often as previously recommended. Doctors and women (especially womyn) were confused and, more importantly, angry.

"Why?" they kept screaming until all hours of the night.

During this week-long debate I thought to myself, "Hey, you can still get those tests as often as you like, little lady. It's okay. They can't stop you from walking into a patient waiting room and demanding that someone squish your boobies in between two cold sheets of glass."

Then, today, another panel of slightly-less obese experts gave the recommendation that women should not get pap smears (that's for the kooter) as early or as often as previously recommended. These experts claim that the research was in the making for the past few years and regretted the timing of the recommendation. Surprisingly, doctors and women (even womyn) were mostly in agreement with this.

Getting tested for cancer later in life and not as often as before? At the end of the day when I look back at these two studies I can't help thinking "Cancer lobby, you win again, you sly devil."

Know What This Office Depot Could Use More Of? Hot Chicks.

Seriously. I do my best to not be superficial, but the reptilian part of my brain is driving pretty strong to the hoop these days. We're talking Thunder Dan Majerle-strong.

Maybe my biological clock is ticking. I'm twenty-seven now, and I have no issue to my name. Who will carry on my legacy? I'd be a real sad-sack if I couldn't even crank out at least one kid during my run on Earth.

Anyway, you heard it here first: Office Depot has to be the suckiest place to pick up hot chicks. Ever. I mean, you'd think the place would be crawling with 'em, what with all the touch lamps and replacement toner cartridges and paper shredders and shit. Hot chicks are entering the workforce in greater numbers than ever, and you best believe they need office supplies. Yet I saw neither hide nor hair of them today after I swung by after getting my t-shirt cannon serviced. I can't wrap my head around it.

Maybe they have assistants who go on Office Depot runs for them. That's probably it. Next time I go back, I should try to track down a sharp-looking gay guy and ask him if his boss is a hot chick.

I'll bet this-week's root beer float money she is.

Fango at the Flix: Baby Boom

So I’m getting my make out on with this chick who works at Sunglass Hut when my attention is moved to the feature film, Baby Boom, starring that broad from The Godfather and Look Who’s Talking Now. She plays a business woman by the name of J.C. who is known in the business world as the ‘Tiger Lady’ for her ruthless business reputation. She has it all: a killer bod, a thriving relationship with Egon from Ghostbusters, and a key to the executive shit house. She’s about to get promoted when it seems that things will be getting even better for her – she is going to inherit something from a cousin who hails from the exotic land of Great Britain. What is the inheritance you may ask? A million samolians? A Dodge Viper? No, a cute little dickead of a baby girl, named Elizabeth - no doubt after the limey-broad figurehead.

This is where the plot really hooked the Fang. That half a fag Egon Spangler walks out on J.C when the baby turns out to be too much of a commitment. I mean, the kid wasn’t even hers. I would be more concerned about a baby’s head wearin’ out the goods than anything. Anyways, this baby comes into the picture and starts fuckin’ everything up and next thing you know, J. C. loses a partnership that she spent years kickin’ corporate dicks to get. Long story short, that slimy turd from Pretty in Pink swoops in and makes J.C.’s ill-fated domesticity complete. She loses her job completely and ends up in a country house in Vermont schleppin’ apples n’ shit.

By the end of the second act, I wasn’t even thinking about the Sunglass cooze. What’s to become of J.C., the money hungry tigress with the heart of gold? Spoiler alert! J. C. takes apples and makes apple sauce. That is, the business savvy heroine realizes that she can exploit her daughter’s taste and market mashed up apples and get to the top of the business food chain once again. Owning a debt to the little crap monkey that seemingly ruined her life. Oh, I almost forgot, she ends up with that one dude from Steel Magnolias and they fuck. Moral? Broads is better at broad stuff like applesauce. It would have been nice to see some cans but nonetheless, I give Baby Boom 3 Camaros.

The Meaning of Life

All to hell! Here's a little analogy for you intellectuals out there. Fantasy Football is like life, man. I mean even though the word "fantasy" is used... it's used loosely. Like the way I use the word "analogy" loosely. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I agreed to join a fantasy football league this year. I reluctantly joined because my good friend Skitter was in dire need of a 10th owner. Anyways, let me get to the point. This past week, known as Week 11 in the league, was a real topsy-turvy week for me. My team kind of sucks because I drafted a busted-up, old man, dream team. I'm talking L.T., Larry Johnson and Kurt Warner. Yeah, I haven't watched the NFL for a few fucking years! Sue me! And no, I don't have SportsCenter, assholes. Back to the point, I was heads up against the number 1 this week. He was projected to beat me 151-77. That's 74 points! So, I accepted my fate and actually watched some football on TV instead of on the computer. Haha. Turns out I fucking won 115-114. I won by 1 point. Later, I found out that I should have loss but for the fact that a supposedly selfless running back, Maurice Jones-Drew, took a knee before going into the end zone so his team could run some clock and win the game. What an idiot. I read that MJD's fantasy football team loss because of his move. My opponent would have won if MJD went into the endzone, but he loss because, without any control of his own, a third party decided his fate. Well, I thought FF was like life, but now I'm not really sure. It kind of is?

How I Fell in Love With America at R Kelly’s Ladies Make Some Noise Tour

Last Tuesday I worked security detail at the R Kelly concert downtown. Mad loco baby! I know my manager told me to keep my (steel-gray) eyes on potential security problems, but the ladies were out in swarm and a man is only a man. And I’m a man. Know what I mean? So, R Kelly comes out in a blaze and all these scantily clad chicas start screaming, tragic screams or catastrophic screams, the screams of a dying or horny eagle, a dying and horny American eagle, and as I asked a small assembly of chicas to stop dry humping the railing so they wouldn’t fall over, I got to thinking, “Jewdor, this is what America is all about. America is a place, no, it’s a concept and that concept is an Idea and that Idea is a Vision, the Ultimate Vision, of freedom and liberty and virtue and black presidents and R&B and chicas dry humping things and immigrants and parties, the type of parties that reach into the Stygian night and even deeper into your soul, the type of parties that seem to be endless, as if they were parties that had started at the dawn of humanity 150,000 years ago on a now ravaged and deserted exotic African beach, the type of parties where you meet and sleep with scantily clad women who scream like dying, horny American eagles. That’s America! And that’s why my father and eight month pregnant mother snuck over the border years and years ago. So his son, his only son, could partake in this Ultimate Vision!” So, by the time R Kelly said it, I didn’t even need to be convinced. I knew this country was for me.

All you ladies out there! MAKE SOME NOISE!

And man, did they ever!

Whoopsy Daisy

I barfed at Arby's. Again.

The first time it happened, I was at this event in Atlanta:

http://www.arbys.com/admin_upload/press_rlse/45AnnivPressRelease%20FINAL.pdf

They had all these free Jamocha Shakes laying around and I drank, like, thirteen of them. Then I barfed them all up onto a Dominican guy's Nike Airs. Man, was he steamed! I got the hell out of there and called a cab. What else could I do?

Today's incident was baked potato-related. My buddy Richie told me he didn't think I could eat five of them, fully-loaded with the whole megillah (sour cream, chives, and butter), in under fifteen minutes. So I tried and, well, kudos to you, Richie. You really know my body.

I Think God's Trying to Tell Me Something

I keep finding all these dead raccoons in my basement. I think it's God's weird way of saying, "Hey, Rusty, let's cool it with the Teddy Grahams. I mean, four boxes in a weekend? Christ."

Of course, God's referring to my weekly owl-hunting trips with my cousin Luke. Luke has a tendency to get us all baked on White Widow before we head out at midnight, and by that time we're starving because it's already been about six hours since dinner. Not to mention the whole munchies thing. So, instead of eating a normal meal, we've been tearing into the Teddy Grahams lately. Sue us.

God may have a point here, though. I have noticed that I've gained about seven pounds over the past month. He probably knows I've got that company picnic coming up, and I have to look good in my jams.

He's always looking out for me like that.

A Boner In The Locker Room Means Nothing!

So, I'm on my last set blastin' my glutes with a set of squats that would make Ferrigno puke from fatigue when I see this short haired goddess across the gym makin' eyes at the Fango's bulge. I crank up the Bullet Boys, get psyched and go over to get the digits. Like two cats of prey in heat, I smell her desire as I walk across the gym floor. I, a panther licking my chops from a freshly fallen Impala, and her, a lust-driven sex-lynx poised to present in a gesture of mating. Smooth Up in Ya pulsed as I popped the buds from my ears and put my line on her.

"Need a spot?" I say. My junk-yard dog in full-on go mode, only neoprene mico-fibers between me and ole girl's no-doubt inflamed nethers.

Turns out she did not need a spot. She was just stretching, and she was a dude. In Fango's defense, I just saw the dude from behind - he must have been some kind of model. Anyway, he didn't hear me so no harm done.

I get downstairs, I'm halfway to the shower and I realize that the Tango's dealing with a full adult boner. What can ya do? Anyway, long story short, an employee sees me and writes me up on grounds of lewdness. He says once more and they revoke my membership. I told him that's the way I roll. The Fangtango's always gotta be ready.

I'm Not Crazy About This Shirt

It's kinda tight and it's got Sweet Baby Ray's all over it. Still, I'm wearing it. I'm getting a lot of stares but maybe that's because this is a funeral and people don't know what to do with their eyes when they're nervous.

But I don't mind the spotlight. I thrive under it, blossom into a whole new me.

Today's not about me, though. It's about my buddy Wide Load and paying our last respects. He died trying to chase a badger out of his crawl space. The badger bit his throat and he bled out back there. Took his wife Judy an entire afternoon to find him. Wide Load was kinda quiet, so it wasn't odd when she didn't hear him for awhile.

Anyway, the mortician is a real magician with a makeup brush. You can't even see the bite marks. Wide Load looks terrific in that casket. It's just too bad he has to be dead to be in it.

Life, huh? What a crazy ride.