“One man’s larceny is another’s just distribution of goods.”—Robert Bork
The World’s Oldest Profession
Prostitution gets all the plaudits, but the beggars came first. Back in the days when people lived in caves and ate dirt, there were no hookers but plenty of hands out for dinosaur meat. In ancient times, when hunters and gatherers met for coffee at Starbuck’s, there was always that guy in the parking lot with a “Will do research on the wheel for caramel macchiato” sign. The Greeks called beggars “ptochos,” the passive poor, and the New Testament contains several references to Jesus’ status as the savior of the ptochos, considered the most wretched portion of society.
The Beggar’s Opera is a ballad opera in three acts written in 1728 by John Gay. Poverty was a widespread problem in eighteenth century Europe with beggars estimated at 25% of the population of Bologna and 30% of the citizens of Mainz. By the end of that century, 10% of the people depended on charity or begging for their food. The acceptability of begging varies from country to country and century to century. In medieval India, for instance, it was considered an acceptable occupation within the traditional social structure; in contemporary India, beggars are often stigmatized as undeserving.
When we were kids, beggars were in short supply. Slovenly derelicts did not dot the early-morning doorways of the shops on downtown Essex Street in Lawrence, Massachusetts and our experience with the practice was nil. Walking down Essex one Saturday afternoon, my boyhood pal, Jackie Mercier, pointed to a blind man sitting on the ground with a cup of sharpened pencils before him. I had never encountered such a scene before. “That guy there’s a beggar,” Jackie advised. “No,” corrected my father, always one to right a perceived wrong, “that man is selling pencils.”
While the general public may observe a thin line between begging and selling pencils, that line is nonetheless extant. Thus the greater success of “will work for….” signbearers than their placardless brethren, though their expressed intentions are often a fraud. Try bringing up your henhouse that needs cleaning to one of these characters and he will soon start bringing up old war wounds. Actual warriors, of course, are another matter as the flood of “Vietnam vet out of work” signs will attest. Everybody wants to help a vet but many of these Interstate Andys are little more than veterans of the open road. Ask them to show you Vietnam on a map and they will promptly point to Zimbabwe or Pago Pago. I took a taxi one day past an Interstate ramp in Ocala and the driver waved to a sidewalk solicitor. “One of my best customers,” the cabbie smiled. “I take him to and from the Star Motel every day. Makes about a thousand a week.”
Derelicts have seen an upsurge in public concern for their welfare in recent years with the increased sympathy for “the homeless.” The actual homeless are sometimes difficult to decipher. In the 1970s, I was periodically visited by a clever and engaging street person named Eddie, obviously an educated man with a wry wit and a happy smile. Eddie could walk the walk and talk the talk and I offered him a part-time job at the Subterranean Circus. He accepted the offer, became a useful employee, even got an apartment. Then one day, he came in and gave his notice—he was moving up in the world, newly hired as the manager of a plasma bank. Everyone was happy for the rejuvenated Eddie, who left smiling. Twelve months went by before I saw him again. He had quit his job, dumped his apartment and was living on the street again, but Eddie did not consider this a regression. “I missed the life,” he said, “missed getting up in the morning with the whole day to myself, seeing my friends, doing what I wanted to do. I like the streets. Call me crazy, but this is the life for me.” Okay, Eddie—you’re crazy. Rotten food, Grade Z sleeping quarters, no medical attention and a drastically reduced life span. Have a nice time, but don’t ask me to subsidize it.
Spare Change
The hippies, of course, institutionalized beggary, running off to large cities with no visible means of support and relying, like Blanche DuBois, on the kindness of strangers. Had it not been for the herculean efforts of iconic figures like Wavy Gravy in San Francisco who mobilized a group called the Diggers to generate and deliver meals to enormous numbers of the penniless, people would have been dropping on the streets. The hippies, of course, devised the clever phrase “Spare change?” which made bumming money almost semi-respectable. Hey, we’re not asking for much, just a few trivial coins you were going to throw away anyway. As usual, we’re not talking about ALL the hippies, just the significant numbers who decided society owed them a living. Food should be free! Housing should be free! Music should be free! Which is a great plan when somebody has to foot the bill for someone else’s sustenance.
Go Fund Me
So now we have been reduced to this harsh charade, where anyone who wants to levitate over to the Burning Man Festival, open a yoga studio or take sitar lessons (for the betterment of mankind) merely has to open and promote a lucrative internet account under the auspices of an outfit called GoFundMe.
Oh, it all started out innocently enough, as these things often do. In May of 2010, Brad Damphousse and Andrew Ballester promoted their inspiration as a tool for collecting money for needy accident victims, people with impossible medical issues and the like. It didn’t take long for the nation’s ample legion of parasites to recognize a brilliant new tool, a fact which allowed the two founders to sell a majority stake in GoFundMe for enough money to retire on the Bay of Fundy. The deal valued the relatively new company at $600 million. Practitioners of the art of scamming figure the boys deserve every cent they got. After all, Damphousse and Ballester created the ultimate Spare Change? vehicle, The Con of the Century. At least, The Con of the Century so far.
GoFundMe administrators will protest that their intentions are noble, their projects worthwhile, and some of them are. Jeff Bauman, who lost both legs in the 2013 Boston Marathon bombing, netted over $800,000. Barbara Garcia, who lost her home—and her dog—in the 2013 Moore, Oklahoma tornado, picked up almost $75,000 for a new house. Mark Patterson of Georgia sustained and eventually died of serious injuries while trying to save a child during a fishing trip with his son. A page created to fund a trust in his boy’s name brought in $120,000. There are many more positive stories. But since the fund keeps 8% of all dollars generated, it’s in their best interests to approve far less meritworthy hijinks and they’re approving them like crazy. For instance:
1. J. Allen Day wants a treadmill. He needs to run. Running outside in the Winter is too dangerous. J. Allen Day thinks YOU should help solve his problem. This is his GoFundMe message to you:
“Dear friends and family: I am cold and weary. I need a treadmill. My son needs me to have a treadmill. My girlfriend needs me to have a treadmill. My employer needs me to have a treadmill. Without a treadmill, I will die.”
If I am one of J. Allen’s friends or family, my message to him is this: Say hi to St. Peter for me. Or, you know, that OTHER guy.
2. Pat Fraser would like to make a record album. So would I, but it’s too expensive. Pat Fraser is not worried about the cost, however, because he has a plan. He expects you out there to pay for it because his music will benefit humanity….more than food, more than housing, more even than the Duck Dynasty TV show. Here’s Pat’s message to the donors:
“This is actually a DOUBLE album—two discs, 12 tracks each, 24 tracks in all. Although the actual cost to make the album is only $10,000, it won’t be as good as the world needs it to be unless I accumulate $80,000 to pay off my student loan. In order for me to really do music on a level needed to create the quality that people deserve, I need to remove this financial black cloud over my head.”
Nice to know Pat is focusing in on “the quality that people deserve.” Remember when vaudeville interrupted unworthy entertainers by reeling them in with a hook? We need that hook for Pat.
3. Khadijat Yussuf decided to go to New York City from Pittsburgh for a two-week vacation. She liked it. So much so that she decided to stay for a while. You folks out there would be happy to pay for the extension, right?:
“I would like to continue to ride the wave of opportunity for the next several months before returning to university studies. “
Hey, why return to university studies at ALL if the cash keeps coming in? Who knows if there even ARE any university studies? Kadijat Yussuf might be Eddie the Shyster from Sheboygan for all we know.
4. Aaron needs $349 to buy his buddy Nick a PS4. After all, Aaron and all the other guys have these gaming systems and Nick needs one, too. If this doesn’t happen, and soon, Nick could become psychologically damaged. Here’s what Aaron has to say:
“Being spread out around the country leaves us with only one gettogether a year. After that, all we get is a daily group chat and hours of PS4 action filled with laughs, cries and yelling. Unfortunately, Nick does not have a PS4 and cannot participate in our male bonding time.”
Well, what a damn shame for Nick. Maybe, you know, you and the rest of his close friends could sorta chip in and buy your buddy a PS4 yourselves. Or is that too radical a solution?
5. Sarah Fankhouser, alas, is in dire straits. Even though she has already seen the band Phish FIFTY-ONE times, she’d like to go again. And she even has the tickets. She just wants YOU to pay for the amenities.
“All I have been doing this Summer is dreaming about seeing these wonderful music acts, especially Ween and Phish doing a festival together. Not to sound ungrateful, but getting to see Phish again means a lot to me. And the tickets I won were not as inclusive as other people’s free tickets because mine did not come with a camping pass.”
Hey, lardass, maybe if you’d spend a little less time dreaming and a bit more working, you could pay for the frills yourself. And by the way, NOBODY needs to see Phish fifty-two times, even their mothers.
6. Dylann Roof is in the news these days. He’s the nitwit who shot a batch of Charleston, South Carolina churchgoers for the crime of being black. Worse yet, he tremendously upset his sister, who had to reschedule her wedding which was scheduled for three days later. I mean, sorry about all those dead negroes but Amber Roof has a big problem:
“Our wedding day was supposed to be the most important and special day of our lives. It turned out to be the exact opposite. Our wedding day was full of sorrow, pain and shame, tainted by the actions of one man. The Charleston Massacre took place and our lives were forever changed. The media abused our privacy and published all our wedding information and destroyed our dream day. Therefore, we have decided to create a Go
FundMe account to cover lost wedding costs, pay bills and send us on our dream honeymoon. 10% of all funds raised will be donated to Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church.”
Gee, where do you begin? First of all, thanks a lot Amber for that 10%, money you could be using to move up to first-class accomodations or buying a few extra bathing suits. Tough about your dream day, but try as we might we can’t help being a smidge more concerned with all those funerals, the unfulfilled lives, the weeping friends and relatives. Boy, can the media ever catch a break? First, it’s Trump taking away their press credentials, now it’s Amber Roof bemoaning lost opportunities. On a positive note, we’re glad to see all those Methodists and Episcopalians got their differences ironed out and finally decided to join forces, and we sincerely hope everybody will generously contribute to their GoFundMe account to help procure some new and very much needed stained-glass windows.
There is no end to the GoFundMe Extravaganza of Asking, perhaps because there is no shortage of saps who contribute to these things. Currently, there are requests to finance meth habits, purchase Teslas for penniless drivers and open the first yoga studio on the Moon. That’s an expensive one. Seems like nobody wants to work two jobs any more to advance his lot when he can just stick an appendage out and receive electronic alms. If there was a sucker born every minute in P.T. Barnum’s time, the phenomenon hasn’t receded. If you’ve grown weary of all this beggary, it’s beyond time to announce your ire. The next time you receive an inquiry from a pair of watery eyes, just respond in the age-old language of the hard streets of Baltimore, of crusty military barracks, of the sullen ranks of the prison yard:
Go Fund Yourself.
That’s all, folks. Not a penny more.
