Fuck the MDA.

Lame.

Earlier today I was in the supermarket buying food and mixers for my big St. Patrick's Day party. When I was sure that I had filled my carriage enough Doritos and cranberry juice to last until 3 AM, I made my way to the checkout department. After I unloaded my groceries, they were scanned and bagged without incident. It was shaping up to be an unusually painless shopping experience when suddenly the cashier asked me if I wanted to buy a shamrock for a dollar. When I asked her what the hell she was talking about, she explained that the store was selling paper shamrocks in conjunction with the Muscular Dystrophy Association and Pepsi-Cola to help fight, you guessed it, muscular dystrophy. Then she asked me again if I'd like to buy one. It was at that point that I told her as politely as possible to fuck off.

Why the fuck should I help people with muscular dystrophy? I mean, have you ever actually met any of these kids? I have. One summer my parents rented a cottage up in New Hampshire and the boy who lived next door had MD. Man, that kid was a total prick. We always tried to involve him in our games of basketball and freeze tag but he would just sit around all day. One day his sister almost drowned in the lake. I heard her screaming for help, so I jumped in and dragged her to the shore. Meanwhile her fucking brother just sat there. He didn't so much as lift a finger to help his sister. So when people ask me to donate money to help fight MD, I get pretty fucking angry. People with muscular dystrophy are lazy pieces of shit who lie around all day staring off into space. They are worthless and if you help them, you are too.

1,065,826 people decided to donate money to kids with cancer instead.

haddox@sydlexia.com

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© 2006 by Haddox