For those of you who don't have a cyborg sent from the future to protect you from weekend morning solicitors, turn off the lights, shut the blinds, and lock the doors.Anybody who has walked through the city with me will tell you that I’m the kind of guy who looks the downtrodden in the eye. When they want something I give it. Call me what you want; my friends always blast me for my giving nature, but I don’t care how these folks have gotten into the mess they’re in. If I can spare some change or the rest of my bottled water I will. If a guy needs a buck to purchase a 40 of Steel Reserve, I’m like Superman swooping in and extending a crumpled Washington. But, before you start throwing Nobel Peace Prizes at me and spitting at Mother Theresa’s supposed generosity, when it comes to certain other solicitors, I’m not so understanding.
Until recently, my resentment scope has been aimed at the Jehovah’s as they are always willing to walk up in their white button up and black slacks and ruin a perfectly good Saturday afternoon. I remember as a kid working with my dad in the garage and us running inside when we saw them approach. I think my dad might have even shut the garage door but the brain cells holding that memory have been sucking on an exhaust pipe.
Not even my pop, a pretty tough hombre, wanted to deal with these characters. Upstairs, we wiped our nervous sweaty brows and chuckled, knowing we had pulled off a James Bond like escape, and watched them, shoulders hung, walk next door to terrorize our neighbors. We had escaped, but, like the ending of a good film-noir, there would always be the “Until we meet again…”
Also, in this same category, are the Sunday pamphlet wielders ready to ruin a good hang over as they push their beliefs on my just rolled out of bed, alcohol oozing, hair fairy self, forcing me to awkwardly half smile until I can make up some lame excuse of why I need to go inside. “Umm…yeah…I hear what you’re saying, but…ummm...I think my laundry’s done.” Most of the time they are easy to avoid as judges aren’t allowed to grant them warrants into your home, but they have a knack for timing their arrival perfectly as I’m putting the keys in the door, breakfast in hand. No wonder the Chinese don’t want missionaries in their country.
The two above solicitors cause my heart to plummet every time I hear a knock on my door, but this rant is really aimed at Guerrilla Charity. At least Jehovah’s and pamphlet wielders have the cohones to stand in the open and fight in a gentlemanly manner. But, lately, I’ve been bombarded at retail stores and fast food eateries by at purchase, Vietcong foot in a spike trap box style $1 donations. The charities launching these missiles from afar vary quite a bit and sometimes the name tagged solicitor just says the dollar is “for charity.”
Very cunning. Very sly. No longer can I shut off the lights or ignore the knocking door. They’ve taken the battle out in the open and have used my good-naturedness against me. Either I give the dollar or feel like scum for not donating “only a dollar” and worry about the consequences. At PetSmart I’ll usually give $1 to help homeless animals but today at Taco Bell I declined giving a dollar to the Boys and Girls Club. Clearly, based on my dollarmenuaire order I only had so much moola, but did my refusal cause a loogey to be donated into my cheesey double beef burrito?
Until recently, my resentment scope has been aimed at the Jehovah’s as they are always willing to walk up in their white button up and black slacks and ruin a perfectly good Saturday afternoon. I remember as a kid working with my dad in the garage and us running inside when we saw them approach. I think my dad might have even shut the garage door but the brain cells holding that memory have been sucking on an exhaust pipe.
Not even my pop, a pretty tough hombre, wanted to deal with these characters. Upstairs, we wiped our nervous sweaty brows and chuckled, knowing we had pulled off a James Bond like escape, and watched them, shoulders hung, walk next door to terrorize our neighbors. We had escaped, but, like the ending of a good film-noir, there would always be the “Until we meet again…”
Also, in this same category, are the Sunday pamphlet wielders ready to ruin a good hang over as they push their beliefs on my just rolled out of bed, alcohol oozing, hair fairy self, forcing me to awkwardly half smile until I can make up some lame excuse of why I need to go inside. “Umm…yeah…I hear what you’re saying, but…ummm...I think my laundry’s done.” Most of the time they are easy to avoid as judges aren’t allowed to grant them warrants into your home, but they have a knack for timing their arrival perfectly as I’m putting the keys in the door, breakfast in hand. No wonder the Chinese don’t want missionaries in their country.
The two above solicitors cause my heart to plummet every time I hear a knock on my door, but this rant is really aimed at Guerrilla Charity. At least Jehovah’s and pamphlet wielders have the cohones to stand in the open and fight in a gentlemanly manner. But, lately, I’ve been bombarded at retail stores and fast food eateries by at purchase, Vietcong foot in a spike trap box style $1 donations. The charities launching these missiles from afar vary quite a bit and sometimes the name tagged solicitor just says the dollar is “for charity.”
Very cunning. Very sly. No longer can I shut off the lights or ignore the knocking door. They’ve taken the battle out in the open and have used my good-naturedness against me. Either I give the dollar or feel like scum for not donating “only a dollar” and worry about the consequences. At PetSmart I’ll usually give $1 to help homeless animals but today at Taco Bell I declined giving a dollar to the Boys and Girls Club. Clearly, based on my dollarmenuaire order I only had so much moola, but did my refusal cause a loogey to be donated into my cheesey double beef burrito?
I have nothing against giving to charity. In my current financial state I try to help out when I can, donating old clothes and what not, and, when things improve, I would like to help more. But, sadly, right now, all of those dollars add up. In the meantime, until I’m winning eight gold medals swimming in piles of cash, it would be nice not having to feel like an asshole whenever I buy a crunchwrap supreme or some cat food.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment