I have something to confess. I’m not quite the philanthropist I’ve led you to believe I am. Far from it, actually. I’m notoriously tight-fisted with money and despise people, particularly the truly destitute. I once wrestled a bottle of water from a thirsty homeless man so I could cleanse my palate on my way to a fancy business lunch. (I’d just finished snacking on caviar in the corporate hovercraft and didn’t want the aftertaste to eclipse the subtle essence of the cucumber bisque I planned on starting with.)
The few charities I do donate to are self-serving, like the Cure Colorblindness Foundation, the IT Band Syndrome Institute and the non-profit group that does free oil changes on antique cars, like my classic Bentley. I could always pay for an oil change, of course, but I enjoy the tax game and get a kick out of withholding legitimate revenue from our socialist government.
And rather than feed and clothe a dozen starving African kids, I buy a delicious, overpriced coffee every morning and savor it while lounging in an overstuffed arm chair. The brazen self importance with which I disregard hungry children would make Susan Sarandon roll over in her grave.
I am a human being, however, and my icy heart can only get so cold and dark before it needs some warming. Twenty four ounces of Kobe beef and a bottle of thirty year old scotch usually does the trick, but I decided this time to try something different. Last week, I had the opportunity to volunteer with inner city kids, and at the urging of Mrs. Bacon (and the promise of a free lunch), I signed up to volunteer at the ING KiDS ROCK Marathon in Philadelphia.