Charity and Ginger Baker

You can well imagine my fury when I found out my charity, "Rok Finger's Kids," hadn't been in operation for a number of years. Worse yet, I was still writing all my donations off on my taxes, and the IRS is just this side of pissed about that. What a middle-class nightmare. I immediately went down to see what happened to my charity, and why they apparently closed down after a month.

This is the worst time for money problems. My one source of income—the commune—has put me on early warning that I may be losing my job, the car is in desperate need of X-M radio, Camembert is getting married in three months, and I just spent $12,000 on that exorcism and that guy Eugene is still sleeping in the attic. What a waste of money. Did I mention Camembert proposed to his girlfriend? Funny how I forget to mention all these major things. I'm pretty sure I did three or four extensive columns on X-M radio already… but as I said, this could not be a worse time for money issues.

Since the building for the charity is now a Taco Bell, and all the bank accounts are closed and everything, I had to track down the former president of Rok's Kids and see what the deal was. How does a charity go out of business after a month? Uncharitable bastards, perhaps. But I couldn't second-guess the situation. I wanted facts.

That former president I mentioned was a woman, it turns out. Always look closely at those forms your applicants fill out. I thought by her name, Ginger Baker, she had to be a man, but turns out I was wrong. Sure, she was quite qualified for running charitable organizations, having ran the March of Dimes for five years before she was fired and charged with embezzling, but it doesn't change the fact she's a woman. And you know how I feel about women and how they deal with money—they're hopelessly good with math, and will always be on your ass about where the expenditures are going. I didn't need that.

Too late now, of course. So I found Ginger Baker at her new job, running a talent agency for pets, and demanded to know what happened to my charitable organization that shared my namesake. She said it bottomed out very quickly, that no one wanted to give any money to an organization named after a guy they had never heard of, an organization whose recipients, for all intents and purposes, were kids with no discernible illnesses or afflictions. I said it was horse hockey, of course, and then laughed for several minutes at the idea of horses wearing ice skates playing hockey. The shape of the goalie mask alone nearly put me into a permanent laughing coma… heh heh… horse hockey…

So everything worked perfectly, and I have a date with Ginger Baker for Saturday. She's quite an attractive woman, for someone who refuses to smile unless it's tax-deductible. And sexy, too! No, not at all. But thanks for getting my hopes up. In truth, you may or may not know this, but I do not write my column "live," and in fact write it several days ahead of the time it actually prints. So Saturday has, in fact, come and gone already. To you, Rok Finger of that Saturday: Way to go, you sex factory! Or, by alternative, way to blow it for all of us, dickweed. One of these is probably applicable to you.

Oh, and if it need to be said, don't worry about the kids. They were bed-bound, some of them comatose, and in either case they weren't very aware I started a charity for them at all. They probably don't know the gravy train ever began, so they won't wonder where it went to.

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