Monday, August 11th, 2008
It’s amazing how, even though I’ve never played the lottery, I’ve won it. And I appear to have won it in England, where I haven’t lived for the past 3 years.
One email tells me I’ve won £1 million, another tells me I’ve won £800,000 and the last tells me I’ve won £738,000. When you combine all that and convert it to Canadian dollars, well I believe the technical term for that is: Baaaaaaallin’!
So, all I need to do is send these random people I’ve never met or heard of, my full name and address, bank details, social insurance number, phone number and any other details that would make it possible for them to steal my identity and clear out my bank accounts and they’ll send me the money. It’s so easy!
I’m so exited about my new fortune. Now I don’t have to bribe women who’ve given birth 18 times to grow things like a flat screen TV in their wombs for me. I’ll actually be able to buy it myself. Oh just think of all the wonders this new money will bring me; shoes galore, that trip to Brazil I’ve always wanted, high priced male escorts, the sky’s the limit.
And on top of that, this guy in Africa keeps emailing me telling me that a distant relative of mine has perished in a plane crash. Apparently this relative (whose name is never mentioned), left me $50 million. Wow, people are such givers. The African guy tells me this plane crash happened in 2000 and he’s just telling me about the money now because he doesn’t want it to be claimed by the bank. So, all I have to do is send him all my personal details, then he’ll send me half the money, keep 10% for himself as a ‘service fee’ and donate the rest to a charity (which was apparently specified in the will I’ve never seen or heard of).
I know you’re jealous people. But don’t hate – congratulate! Maybe one day, you’ll be lucky enough to get one of these emails too. Who knew it could be so easy to make money? I knew working was overrated. Eat my dust bitches! I’m taking my new found phony fortune and running for the hills!
Wednesday, July 9th, 2008
As any regular reader of this blog knows, there is a laundry list of things that annoy me. Yesterday, I was reminded of something that really gets my goat (sidebar: I have no idea what that phrase even means – I don’t have a goat. Or any other farm animals for that matter. Let’s move on.)
When someone stops me on the street with a clipboard and attempts to get me to donate money to a random charity, I really just want to donate my fist to their mouth.
I understand that everyone needs to earn a buck, but there must be better ways to eek out a living than that.
Yesterday, on my lunch break, I was bombarded by people with clipboards asking me if I ‘have time for sick kids’. Then when you say no, you sound like an asshole. I’m not an asshole – I’m just lucky if I get 15 minutes to eat lunch, so I’d like to make it to the food court without someone’s cloud of judgement hanging over me because I don’t have time for some anonymous sick kids.
Where I lived in London (Hammersmith), I’m not sure if it was an area known for the giving nature of it’s residents, but you could not escape the clipboard mafia. Between my house and the train station, I would be asked to save the whales, donate to AIDS research, contribute to finding a cure for cancer, adopt an African child for just £2 a month, preserve the rain forest, save some more sick kids and feed the homeless.
Do I look like Donald Trump? Exactly how much money do these people think I earn? It felt like all these charities were in competition and came out in force to prove a point. It was literally like running a gamut. The only way to get through it was to throw on some armor, keep your head down and charge through it. Do not look up. Do not make eye contact. Leave them with no doubt that there’s a big black hole where your heart used to be and a big hole in your pocket where your change used to be and just pray those bitches leave you alone.
When I’m in a position to donate some of my measly income to something I believe in, I will, but damn, can I breathe? Must I be accosted on the street, on a daily basis, by people who wish to part me from my moolah?
Tuesday, April 15th, 2008
The other day, in the last ten minutes of my lunch break, I had to hit up the ATM before dashing back to work. I got there and there was a line, but I calculated that if all moved along swiftly, I’d have cash in my pocket and be back at work in time to shoot the shit around the water cooler.
There were two ATMs and one line. Five college girls, a few people ahead of me, congregated together to form one giant person in the line. Things seemed to be moving pretty quickly as rushed wage slaves punched their digits into the machine and swiped their cash. It was all going good till it got to the college chicks.
When they were at the front of the line, waiting for their turn, I saw each of them take about eight cheques out of their pockets. I could vaguely overhear them using words like ‘deposit’ and ‘envelope’ and ‘how do I?’ and I knew things were about to go sour.
When their turn came, the college chicks decided to divide and conquer; three at one ATM, two at another. And not one of them had a clue how to make a deposit.
Here’s where my beef comes in: isn’t it just common sense that if you don’t know how to use a function on an ATM, you don’t decide to test it out during one of the busiest hours of the day, in one of the busiest areas of Toronto? Apparently not.
And these were college students. I deduced this from the multiple cheques. No doubt they were for $12 each and they made them doing online surveys or some such nonsense.
So, as they fumbled and stuffed cheques into envelopes, while forgetting their pin numbers and desperately trying to figure out exactly how to deposit their newly acquired fortunes, I watched minute after painful minute tick by. Haven’t they ever heard of a frikkin’ teller?!
Why do that when most people, who actually work for a living and have other shit to do, are on their lunch hour? Surely, these students could have found some other point in their action packed day to figure out how to use an ATM. They probably have one half hour class a day and spend the other 23.5 hours playing Dance Dance Revolution or some shit.
Eventually, with less than a minute left to get back to work, I had to abandon the whole mission and make a mad dash back to the office. I hope those chicks do something good with the money once it clears.
But I sense they’ll just piss it all away on leggings in American Apparel.
Saturday, November 24th, 2007
Homeless people are starting to piss me off.
Before I go any further, let me just say – I identify with the plight of the homeless. A few months ago, I was earning $10 an hour (ahh, the glamorous world of Fashion PR) working three days a week. Meanwhile my rent was $600, so by the time I’ve paid my phone bill and bought food – well, you do the math. Basically, I was one long distance phone call away from a cardboard box myself. So, I really do feel for the cause. I believe that it’s society’s problem and all that jazz. But I’m starting to resent the sense of entitlement some homeless people seem to have adopted.
Once – during my above-mentioned period of near homelessness – some guy approached me giving me his ‘I just need some change to help get into a hostel’ story. I took out my wallet and had about $2.37 on me. I emptied it all out and gave it to him. Every last cent. And you know what he did? Looked at me, sucked his teeth and stormed off. Cheeky bastard. I felt like asking for a refund.
Now I see the same homeless guys every day, standing in the same places, with their hand out. Hanging on the corner jingling a change cup does not make me want to part with my moolah. I need a little more bang for my homeless donation buck.
I work six days a week, for shitty money and if I’m going to part with any of that hard earned shitty money, I want some entertainment, a little conversation, maybe an explanation of your circumstances. What exactly am I donating money to – your fund for a hostel or your crack habit? Because the answer to that question would greatly influence my donating decision.
There’s one guy, in his late twenties who wheels a shopping cart of who-knows-what around. He’s pretty clean cut and not dressed too shabbily either. He has signs stuck to his cart saying; “Raising money for lobotomy to understand women” and “I’m a pirate. Give me money or walk the plank.”
Ummm, how about no?
Clearly he’s still eating well enough to have a sense of humor. As Chris Rock says; real homeless people are too hungry to be funny. And unless that lobotomy will stop him being a complete dick, I’d say it’s a waste of money anyway.
Canadian homeless folk are the lamest I’ve come across. In New York – the hobos work hard for your money. They’ll entertain you. Talent and/or paranoid delusions are always worth parting with a couple of bucks.
In London, there used to be a guy (someone tell me he’s still there, please!) who was in a wheelchair. He parked up outside one of the department stores and just blew into a tin whistle all day. He couldn’t play an actual tune, so it was just the one note, but you had to love this guy. If anyone could go for the sympathy vote, I’d say it’d be the legless war vet (he left the stumps exposed so you knew he wasn’t bullshitting). But no, he wanted to give the people of Oxford Street a little sumthin’ sumthin’ for their money. He may not have had legs, but he sure had some balls.
It’s a cruel world. You can’t get something for nothing. Even the lack of a permanent residence doesn’t count for much these days. So, I appeal to you, Homeless People of Canada (or, you know, people who know Homeless People of Canada and can relay the message, because I doubt they have computers and internet connections) – step your game up!
I’ll give my money to someone in need when I can. I’m just saying they could show a little more appreciation. Just because I have a roof over my head doesn’t mean I’m filthy rich. It’s not your God given right to have complete strangers give you money for doing nothing – so don’t act pissed when they don’t.
I see the hoards walk by homeless folk and not even bat an eyelid. If I were in that position, I think being ignored and treated like I don’t even exist would make me feel worse than not having a home. So I make sure to acknowledge, smile, exchange a word or two and when I do have change to spare, I happily give it.
But is it too much to ask for a rousing Broadway tap dance routine in return?