2005-05-06 - 11:34 a.m.

Just the other day, the ever talented and creative rhidundantx2 was telling me about a Hoagie she bought at a local fundraiser.

She described how her delicate, soft hands firmly grasped the large, thick manly sandwich and she gently eased it past her pouty crimson full lips, forming a wet soft seal. The sandwich was big, but not too big. Mmmmm. She pushed the meaty sandwich deeper into her eager mouth. Her velvet tongue softly flicked across it, savoring each taste, licking, wanting, craving more...deeper...mmmmmmm.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” She softly purred

“Yes.” I could barely muster the words. “Who the hell buys a sandwich from a fundraiser?

Good lord woman. I hope it wasn’t the “Eastern Leprosy Foundation”, or worse, The Incontinent Odd Fellows Group. I doubt they wash their hands before making those things.

Well, I was happy to learn that at least some organizations still sell things at Fundraisers.

In my neck of the woods, it seems that if your organization needs to raise money, they no longer have a car wash, or sell overpriced stale candy door-to-door, they simply beg for it.

That’s wrong.

I blame PBS, and Jerry Lewis. Those selfish bastards have taught our youth that it’s ok to beg for money.

I refuse to give into this extortion. I remember last spring...

"Honey! There’s a young boy at the door raising money for Little League" My wife called out to me on a warm, sunny day last April.

"Release the Hounds!" I said in my best Mr. Burns voice.

I didn't want to be interupted. Hogan’s Heroes was on TV. A good one. It featured Fraulien Helga, not that skank whore replacement; Fraulein Hilda. "Doesn't Klink realize that there's a tunnel under the stove?" I mused to myself.

"Honey!" My wife repeated. This time a bit louder, more sternly.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Begrudgingly I got up from my beer, and fumbling for my wallet I made my way to the door where a tousled haired youth looked innocently up at me.

"Sir? We’re raising money for baseball." His voice cracked nervously.

"Watchyagot Kiddo?" I asked.

The kid blankly stared back at me. “Baseball. Gus’s Septic Service. Last year we went All State.” He held out a coffee can that had been wrapped in white construction paper with a crudely drawn baseball on it. He jingled the can in front of me.

My cat could draw a better baseball than that. I thought to myself. I wonder if this was a “special team”?

He jingled the can in front of me again.

“Any Candy Bars?” I inquired.

“No”

“Magazines?”

“Uh-un.”

“Greeting cards? Seeds? Trashbags? Lightbulbs? American flag pins? Calendars?

Looking shyly down at the ground, mindlessly digging the toes of his worn tennis shoes into the dirt, the pint sized beggar silently shook his head “No.”

“Raffle Tickets?”

The frightened child now looked as if he might start bawling at any minute. Great.

“You know what? You know what you should sell?” Offering my advice, “Cookies. Boy, I sure could go for some cookies right now. You got any cookies there, kid? Huh? Do ya?!”

Tears welled at the corner of his eyes.

“When I was a kid, we didn’t beg for money. No sir. We went out and earned it. I remember in scouts…”

“For god’s sake give the kid a dollar!” my wife interrupted me. She stuffed a sawbuck in his jar and gave me a mean look. The future midget liberal democrat took off, running down the driveway, looking back at me as if I was Michael Jackson and I just offered him a taste of my hoagie.

What’s with kids today? It irks me that if they need money, they no longer work for it, or sell something. They just beg for it. What the hell? I honestly don’t think that’s a good lesson to be teaching kids.

But the worst offenders are firemen.

If it’s a sunny day and the local intersection is blocked up for miles, I’ll bet dollars to donuts it’s the firemen standing in the street collecting money in their empty boots. Hell, at least they give you a sticker that you can point to at the next intersection, so the firemen know you already gave and let you pass with out making you feel like cheap piece of soiled underwear.

I still have my sticker from last year. I keep it close at hand in my cars console. I’ll pull it out next time the firemen are doing their yearly shakedown. I plan on getting my moneys worth out of it. Damn straight.

I tell you what though, if they started to sell some foot long hot dogs to Rhi, I’ll buy the whole bunch.

Cash Out - Another Round