News & Articles

The other day I received a form letter from a student at my alma mater, the University of Wisconsin-Superior. It was one of those donation requests where a current student writes asking for money. I’d feel bad if I didn’t respond, so I’ve decided to do so here.

Please note that the last printed letter I responded to was from my grandfather. He’s dead now. I don’t think there’s a The Ring situation happening here, but consider yourself warned.

Dear Ms. Bergstrom,

Is it Ms. Bergstrom or Mrs? Are you single? Are you easily amused? Do you enjoy the company of immature gentlemen? Do you like small things, like miniature banana hammocks or thin sausages? Can you provide any photos of yourself making a duck face? Please excuse my bold inquiries, but your Facebook profile is set to private, so I’m unable to stalk you in the traditional manner.

Asking for money is tricky, Ms. Bergstrom. You have to get creative. Trust me, I should know. I have more experience being unemployed than I do working in an actual career field. I ask people for money all the time. Sometimes I still ask people for money, forgetting that I’m now gainfully employed. I also save an unreasonable number of ketchup packets from fast food restaurants because I fear that I will someday run out of food and need to make hobo stew.

That withstanding, I regret to inform you that I will not be able to donate money to the university. I spend everything I earn on collectible Pez dispensers, video games and a rather impressive array of drugs that help me forget that my former journalism professor/advisor at UWS, John Marder, was an alleged rapist and creative masturbator whom the university fired and decided to NEVER REPLACE, leaving me completely on my own for the last two years of my collegiate life with no guidance, support or useful references when I graduated. One newspaper I interviewed with after graduating actually argued with me over whether UWS even offered a journalism major. Good times.

But I’m not bitter. Not when I’m asleep, at least. Have I mentioned that I now work for a t-shirt company?

Fortunately, your letter seems to suggest that you’re already doing great. You have a double major in biology and psychology, have interned in Nepal, you recently earned a research fellowship and you’re president of the honor society for psychology students. You don’t need my money. Why are you hitting up some t-shirt monkey for cash? You’re going to be a NEUROPSYCHOLOGIST. UWS should be asking YOU for a donation.

How much cash do you have on you? Give it to me. All of it. Yes, that one too. All of them. I approve Snoopy t-shirts for a living, so I need it. What’s your ATM pin code?

If your letter had taken the opposite approach and informed me that you and other UWS students were eating out of a dumpster, were forced to take turns going to the bathroom in dixie cups or had witnessed firsthand the deaths of many of your classmates from ceilings collapsing on them during class, I’d probably stop buying useless crap for a few weeks so I could write a check.

Perhaps we can reach a compromise and help each other out. You have asked for a $25 donation. That is a reasonable request. I will fulfill this request, on one condition: You must take $5 of your own money and place it in the pages of a random book in the Jim Dan Hill Library along with a crude drawing and instructions for the person who finds it to do the same.

The drawing can be anything, as long as it’s bizarre or offensive. I’ll provide some examples. Miley Cyrus being devoured by a pelican. Batman sitting on the toilet. President Obama with penises in place of his eyeballs. Ron Gardenhire coaching the Minnesota Twins for another two seasons. Chancellor Renee Wachter lighting a kitten on fire. Local TV weathermen waterboarding each other. An intensely detailed diagram predicting what each professor on campus looks like naked. A drawing of me and Duluth News-Tribune columnist Sam Cook making out while smoking crack while watching The Price is Right and shining laser pointers in each other’s eyes.

Will anyone ever find the money and drawings? Probably not, but that’s half the fun. It’s like me writing this column. The Reader publishes it in every issue, knowing full well that no one will ever read it.

So those are my conditions. $25 can be yours, Ms. Bergstrom. Show me photographic evidence of the Jim Dan Hill drop and I will donate. Otherwise, all you’re getting is ketchup packets. Not too many, though. I may need them someday.