64 lines
3.1 KiB
Plaintext
64 lines
3.1 KiB
Plaintext
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CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME,
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BUT WHERE DOES IT END??
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By M.L. Verb
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Everyone in the world, it's clear, is trying to raise money for some charity
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or other.
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Massive international concerts feature the alleged talents of hundreds of
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entertainers and technological gimcrackery unknown to previous generations.
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Overexposed celebrities appeal to my guilt and heart on telethons that seem to
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go on for weeks.
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Little boxes near the cash registers of convenience stores beg for my spare
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change. People phone and want me to send kids to a circus or want me to buy
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tickets a police or firefighter's ball. Adorable children at my front door try
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to sell me candy or candles or hot hubcaps (I just made up the part about
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candles. I've ever seen that done door-to-door. Yet.) Pitches come in my mail
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by the pound. Political parties want my money to save the nation from
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communism, Republicanism or worse. Homes for the criminally obtuse need funds
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to add a new wing. Churches, charities and worthy civic causes write earnest
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letters, and keep the Postal Service afloat in the effort.
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Once or twice a week Lee Iacocca writes to tell me my original $15 gift to
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save the Statue of Liberty wasn't enough.
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Colleagues in the office creep around my desk to get my pledge for a dime or
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quarter for each mile their kids can surf in the Great Metropolitan Surfathon or
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for each comic book they can read in a disease readathon. A week later they're
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back taking orders for boxes of cookies or tulip bulbs, trash bags or sterling
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silver candle snuffers.
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The Save the Coal-Generated Whale group is having a clothes-line sale and
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wants my old ties (narrow or wide, it doesn't matter), while self-help agencies
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covet my broken appliances, soiled furniture and thread-bare suits and are ready
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with fleets of trucks to dispatch to my house this afternoon (tomorrow for sure)
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if only I'll say the word.
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Libraries and college alumni groups lust after my dog-eared books. My own
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college alumni association wants me to send scholarship money and to buy
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expensive black wool pants with dozens of gold letter "M's" embroidered on them.
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My children's schools want my old newspapers, shoved into paper bags, please,
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and dropped into a big metal wagon on Tuesday or Wednesday of this week, if you
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don't mind.
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Street people ask me for a quarter, apparently having spent the one I gave
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last week.
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Public radio stations are on their poor knees for a few of my disposable
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dollars, and TV evangelists think it won't hurt my chances with their Boss if I
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will send them a fat check.
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If I didn't throw them away eventually my collection of charity raffle tickets
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could fill my basement. (I'm still waiting to be notified if I have won the
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Cadillac in the 1982 Elba, N.Y., Onion Festival.)
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Actresses want me to save the children. Actors seek my donation to help build
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great hospitals in countries I can hardly pronounce. And sports stars want me
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to now that, thanks to me (and the payroll deduction plan), it's working.
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Everywhere people are passing the plate and the hat. Everywhere. And do you
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know what? It's kind of nice to be needed.
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