Curmudgeonly Opinions

Quit Begging Me, You Dadgum Wombat People

Lester reviews his junk mail

Photo by Josef Holz on Unsplash

I got a letter today. Glossy, thicker than my mother-in-law’s thigh, and more colors than a box of Crayolas. Hell, the postage alone coulda bought me a week’s worth of soup.

It was from some dagburned outfit called Save the One-Eyed Wombats Strung Out on Ranch Dressing Foundation. Had a wombat on the front. One eye. Ranch all over his chin. He right sure looked sorry for himself too. And it says to me, “Winky needs YOUR help.”

Jesus H. Christ, they named the thing. Dagnabbit, I’ve seen everything now, and I’ve seen a lot.

I read the durned thing. Anyway, I’ve seen this episode of Perry Mason eight times. I think.

Those cretins want ten dollars a month from me. Ten dollars! Says it’ll “provide” Winky with “hope.” Slap me and call me Charlie. Not food. Not a vet. Hope. What the durnation is a wombat going to do with hope? Can’t eat it. Not gonna give him another eye. I’m on Social Security, dammit.

I looked into these people. Why hasn’t anybody done it yet? ’Cause they don’t have the goldurned sense God gave a doorknob, that’s why. Morons.

These wombat folks got ten billion dollars last year. Ten billion. And they blew it all on some building with fountains and big ol’ winders. Probably got themselves one of them infernal coffee robots too.

What the hell does a wombat need with a fountain? Not a dagblasted thing, that’s what. A wombat needs a hole and food that isn’t ranch dressing. What the sam hill are they doing with ranch dressing anyway?

I just crapped myself dammit.

Give me a damn shovel and a hose. I can solve this wombat problem with change left over to buy me soup to kingdom come, dagnabbit.

And these cretins got seven presidents. Seven! This country’s had 46 in 250 years. 45 too many, you ask me. Kennedy was the only one worth a damn, and they shot him. What do these grifters do all day? I’ll tell you what they do. They sit themselves in front of a 700-inch TV, which your ten bucks paid for, and watch their dumbass commercials. Eighty million smackers down the drain, you ask me. And they have the gumption to ask ME for ten bucks?

You doin’ the math? I am, and I played cards with Methuselah.

Ten billion pours in and they have to pay their power bill, then those presidents up to their monkeyshines have to get theirs, because they work so durned hard, bless their hearts. Six thousand people got to get a cut ’cause they had to lick the envelopes to send all over hell and back. And the lawyers. You bet your tuchus they got lawyers and those thieves probably take the rest.

What does Winky get? Maybe ten bucks. Him and the rest of the ranch lovin’ wombats. Probably get a nickel each. Oh yeah. And hope. Hope, dagnabbit.

Tell you what, back in my day you wanted to help some animal, you walked your goldurned rear over and helped it. Didn’t need no blasted palace and a room full of presidents to feel sad about it.

I wrote them back. You bet I did. I says to them:

Dear Wombat people,

Got your letter. I’m a 95-year-old man with cataracts and am strung out on Pepto-Bismol. I could use a bit of help myself. You got ten billion dollars, and I got a soup coupon. Please send me ten dollars a month. I’ll provide you with hope. Seems fair to me.

Regards,

Lester

P.S.

Fire six presidents. Any six.

Took me a while but I got it to my mailbox and mailed it. Best seventy-eight cents I’ve spent since…Hell, I don’t remember.

Winky’s a cute li’l feller though. Maybe I’ll send him ten bucks. Where the hell’s my checkbook? Oh, forget it. I’ll do it tomorrow.

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