Need Money For Rocket Fuel

Man, the venting and fist clenching barely begins to relieve the insanity that burns in my bones when some guy with a dog or some girl with a sign decides to take offense when I don’t have any “spare change” or “extra dollar” to add to their panhandle swag for the day.

Man, oh man, oh man!

I understand the plight of the mentally ill and those folks otherwise deemed unfit for “normal jobs” or “productive places in society”  but when you’re wearing nice, name brand shoes and have a North Face backpack while asking me for spare money, I sense a problem brewing. And then to be smug with a sense of streetwise entitlement on top of it? (Man, oh man, oh man!)

There is a guy who goes up and down a main road by my house, he’s wheelchair bound and travels by pushing with one foot and going backwards mile after mile, collecting as many bottles and cans the side-hanging bags on his chair can hold. That dude gets paper money from me every time I see him and never asks for it but never refuses it either.

Apparently the economy is so bad that busy intersections are now the new kiosks for donations. These jokers on every off ramp and red light with a cardboard sign god blessing me have too much competition for me to believe they’re in dire straits. It’s as if Home Depot and Lowe’s were both across the street, which one really needs my money? Answer: Neither of them need your money. I’ve seen panhandlers giving each other the same look given when salespeople compete for customers. Motivating each other from across stop lights. I’m not holier than thou, just holier then them.

For every sap that rolls down the window to hand out a dollar to someone who’d otherwise insult them for not doing so, there’s me waiting for the unfortunate soul to get the buck without even asking for it.

It’s 2010, now where’s my rocket ship?


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