7: People who ask me for money and have no Goddamn right to

December 3, 2008

God, I fucking hate people who ask me for money and have no Goddamn right to.

Normally this happens pretty much every fucking day. Luckily, though, for whatever reason (cold weather driving them south? karma? “Scowling for Dummies”?) it hasn’t happened to me much as of late.

Yesterday, though, I was walking back to work from running an errand and these two kids, around 14 or so, asked a man walking a few feet in front of me for some money “to get some lunch.”

A) Lunch? It was about 3 o’clock. What, juvie served meatloaf again?

B) They had nicer shit than me. New clothes, nice shoes. Probably an iPhone. I can’t even access the internet on my shit, you little bastards. And I had not only my girlfriend’s birthday this last weekend but also an NFL game to go to; unless your daughter’s getting married I can’t think of one thing in the world that will suck the money out of your wallet faster than those two occasions. So I was 100% certain that those two kids had more on them than me, and probably the guy they hit up for a donation.

The point is, no matter where you live, especially if it’s a metropolitan area (like New York), you’re bound to run into some panhandlers asking for your change. On the subway, on the off-ramp, outside the mudhole – they’re everywhere.

Now, I’m sure a good portion of them are people who have lived long, hard, difficult, thoroughly shit-upon lives. Veterans come to mind – those people have been so resoundingly shat on they should be sponsored by Charmin. And I give to some of them when I can.

But for every lazy little punk kid who thinks it’s funny to try and ciphon somebody’s hard-earned cash just because there’s nothing fucking better to do, or for every wasted, filthy transient who thought it would be fun to hitchhike across the country, shoot up a metric ton of heroin, write heartfelt and/or witty passages that no one bothers to read on scraps of cardboard, get a shitty tattoo on their neck and drag along a poor, hungry dog for the ride, I ask you a question: you want my money? You want my fucking money?

Sure.

Only I’m going to find a shotgun, modify it to shoot pennies, and fire two of them right in your fucking ear.

There’s my two cents.