I thought about really digging in here, finding out who funds the Charity Newsies, who oversees them and makes sure everything really goes to charity, where they get their swank outfits and impressive-as-far-as-buckets-go buckets. They have a website, for example – right here – and I’ll bet a guy could click on it and learn all sorts of stuff.
But after that, I’d have to really investigate the dark side, you know? I couldn’t just cheerlead for them – I’d have to also expose the seedy underbelly of the Charity Newsies. The allegations of bucket-skimming, the Ponzi schemes, the stuff that doesn’t stay in Vegas, all of it.
But that sounds like journalism and that’s not how we do things around here and investigations are difficult. By and large, I am not crazy about difficult.
And anyway, it doesn’t matter. I already believe that the Charity Newsies are non-profit, staffed by volunteers, and that they do a good thing raising money every year. Sure.
But they’re creepy, aren’t they? That’s the real problem, in my mind.
Go ahead and gasp, I’m just the one saying it out loud. I think they’re creepy and you think they’re creepy. They’ve always been creepy – that’s why you slide them a buck when they come and loom around your car, not technically asking for anything, just sort of lurking and judging, judging and lurking.
Here you go, you weird-looking Christmas Carny, here’s a buck. No trouble here, everything’s fine. Go Christmas, yessiree Bob, thanks for the piece of paper.
I can’t decide if they remind me more of the Penguin’s henchmen from cartoon Batman, or a grim and eerie team of custodians from Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Either way, they’re scary and I think it’s weird that somebody went ahead and issued them licenses to lurk around in gangs right there in the middle of the street, collecting “donations.”
Like if a bunch of CHUDs climb out of the sewer with cheeseburger buckets, and surround your car as you’re leaving White Castle, that’s just you donating your cheeseburgers to the Carnivorous Humanoid Undergroud Dwellers, right?
What are these Charity Newsies going to do to us, if we don’t “donate” to them? We don’t know, do we? Because we’ve never dared to defy them.
Today I grabbed one of them and threw him in my trunk, and drove him back to my lab for study, see if I could figure out a cure like in I Am Legend. Did you know that Charity Newsies are 100% human? Yeah, you’re not supposed to do that, it turns out. I had to pour a bunch of rum into him and let him go.
I mean, I know, I’m supposed to be cool about these walking guilt trips, cause they’re all volunteers, but you know, that’s something to really think about. All the ways to make a difference at the holidays, who selects Panhandling In A Creepy Jumpsuit as their weapon of choice?
It’s like when someone decides they want to be a judge. I mean, you like to judge people, is that it? You’d like to do that all day long? That’s weird, man – you’re weird. Weird people shouldn’t be judges – it’s a real paradox.
I think that the most likely explanation for volunteer Charity Newsies is cold, hard cash, followed by some sort of seething, underlying contempt for people who are freaked out by jumpsuits, followed in a distant third by really nice people who love to do charity work and give back to their community. See how all of the top three possible reasons are super duper creepy?
The cash motivation makes sense because there has to be a weakness in the bucket security systems. I conducted a scientific research project to extrapolate how much money the average Charity Newsie Bucket takes in by watching a single bucket for maybe fifteen seconds.
Guess how much it made? A dollar. So that’s four dollars a minute, two hundred and forty dollars an hour. That adds up to something like 300 septillion dollars every weekend.
Oh yeah, that’s it, right there – volunteers, my ass.
In fact, damn it – those guys have quite a racket going there. I’ll bet by now, here in 2010, the Charity Newsies are about as crooked as the Youngstown mob. I mean holy crap, a couple thousand dollars a day? That’s stripper money, for crying out loud.
Makes you think that what you really need to do is get with the winning team, you know? I remember what my old pappy used to tell me, back when I was just a young pup, all wide-eyed and full o’ beans. Son, he’d say, if you beat up a Charity Newsie, then that makes you the Charity Newsie. That’s your jumpsuit. That’s your money bucket.
Just like the Sheriff – all you got to do is beat him up and take his badge and his hat away.
And you know, my old man’s pretty sharp, but I doubt he was the first foul-mouthed, gun-toting, whiskey-drinking biker to think of that idea. By now, every Charity Newsie on Earth has probably been beaten up and replaced by a thug or a grifter. I mean, who the hell issues the licenses for the these guys?
I don’t know, but whoever it is, if you beat him up, then you’re the one who issues the licenses. Who wants a Christmas Time Money Bucket License? Watch how that kind of power eats your soul up inside, just like Gandalf tried to warn us.
But nobody listens to me or Gandalf at Christmas anymore. People act like neither of us have anything to do with Christmas or Charity Newsies at all, they just go ahead and do what they want while grown men in toddler pajamas conduct festive highway robbery right there in broad daylight, everyone so brainwashed that they smile at them and tell them Merry Christmas, while they fork over the toll.
Wake up, America. Me and Gandalf are powerful wizards, but we can’t save Christmas all on our own. You can help by clicking on that book over there on the right and then buying ten copies of it. For every copy sold in the next twenty four hours, me and Gandalf will roll one (1) Charity Newsie and take his money bucket to the tracks with us.
At the end of the weekend we’ll subtract our travel expenses and bar tabs from it, and then we’ll give it to the Salvation Army guy outside the grocery store, because for some reason we’re pretty sure he’s on the level. I guess because he’s got a little jingle bell.
Anyhoo. Blog’s over. Get over there and start clicking. Rudolph’s trapped in a well or something – go on. Go! Only my books’ll save him, there’s not much time.