Tetas. That is all.

DISCLAIMER: I hate a lot of people.  People hate a lot of me.  Get used to it.

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2009.  Breast Cancer Awareness was all over the place.  Every month had a day.  And then there was also an entire month for it, too.  And don’t forget the pink helmets on Mother’s Day in the MLB.  This brings me back to my favorite place to donate to charity.

My local Wawa.

Last time I talked to you all, I blabbed about a Veteran who called me a racial slur, just to get some lady to cough up a few extra coins to round out the dollar for the fake poppy flower that she probably wadded into a ball of plastic and is now at the bottom of her purse, hanging out with a gum wrapper and a discarded “discreet” tampon that’s wrapper broke…

Good times.

Well, this one time at band camp, there was your classic scene.  Two ladies with a huge table of trinkets no one wants, with a pamphlet for everyone who donated a dollar.

Now, before I go further and leave you going “this guy is weird” let me note that when I believe in something, I don’t just hand over my pocket change.  I give a five dollar bill.  There is a reason for this.  Pocket change means you don’t care, you just don’t want the stigma of giving nothing.  A dollar means you didn’t have any change.  Five dollars, though, means you went out of your way to find a significant amount of your daily usage and gave it away.  Five dollars can get you a meal.  It can get you enough gas to get home from a half hour away.  It can get you five games of Guitar Hero at the arcade.  It can ALMOST get you four large slurpees.
Five dollars is not a joke donation.  Sure, it’s not a whole paycheck, but it’s something that lets them know you aren’t just thinking of their cause as an afterthought.

So I sift through my wallet before going inside, and pull out a fiver… but instead of putting it in the jar, I put it in my pocket… then go inside.  I bought something… probably a soda or a sandwich… but probably a sandwich AND a soda AND some chips… because I’m a fat bastard who obviously doesn’t give a shit about his health… or because I’m just hungry at lunch time.  You figure it out.

On my way out, I go into my pocket and pull the five out and walk over to the table where the ladies are standing.  I put the bill into the jar, and when the lady replies with “Thank you, that was very generous!” I quickly respond as rudely as I possibly can.

“I like boobs.  I don’t like boobs getting chopped off.”

The stuttering was phenomenal.  I’m pretty sure she was offended, but at the same time could not fault my honesty.  The funny thing is that this sounds like I was bad ass, maybe tossed aside a half full can of soda afterward for effect.

No.  I just like boobs.  They are fun to play with when I’m allowed.  I don’t get allowed that often, so I want to keep as many boobs in play as possible.

There you go ladies.  This dork loves you for your mind!

Good night!