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.