It’s better to give than to receive, they always say. I’m not sure who “they” are that always say this, I think they might be Santa Claus. Or maybe the court system. The courts make me do community service all the time. Whoever “they” are, I have to admit, I never really understood that saying until recently.
I mean, you’d rather get a cool gift from someone like a set of steak knives or a crossbow than spend your hard gotten cash on a gift for someone else, right? Giving sloppy, disinterested oral sex doesn’t compare to receiving sloppy, disinterested oral sex, yes? That’s the philosophy I lived my life by for many years and look where it got me. I’m a sad, unfulfilled man who doesn’t get invited to birthday parties and who even Mormons with brochures won’t talk to. Or at least I was, until I discovered the purest gift of all: Giving.
It turns out there really is something to be said about this whole generosity thing. Giving for the sake of giving, who’d have thought? I always thought all those filthy hippies were just about awful music. Awful music and crabs. But then one day that all changed, like a strawberry alarm clock going off in my head, I suddenly got all that brotherhood of man bullshit.
It all started when I found a really nice looking gold bracelet in the hallway of my building. Obviously I was going to pawn it, I needed oxygen money for my recreational oxygen machine. But it was late, so I decided to wait until the next day.
On my way out the next day I noticed a poster up by the door in the lobby about a lost bracelet and a reward. I figured a reward was just as good as pawning it, and I wouldn’t even have to go outside into the fresh air, away from my oxygen machine. So I returned it. And I got a ten dollar reward. Ten dollars. I probably would’ve gotten at least a hundred for it if I’d pawned it. I might as well have gotten nothing. And that’s when it hit me. Like a rush of pure oxygen to my brain. That I had done something good for someone, for nothing.
It was unlike anything I’d ever felt before, and I began to crave feeling it again. I started to do good deeds for people anywhere I could find them. I helped a little old lady cross the street, and even when she became hysterical because she thought I was assaulting and robbing her, I persisted. I even called an ambulance for her when we’d gotten to the other side of the street and she collapsed. And the money she desperately thrust into my hands in an attempt to get me to leave her alone I used to buy beer for some teenagers.
Speaking of beer, I embarked upon the noble pursuit of being a designated driver. A grandly selfless gesture, that one, saying to a group of people, “go ahead, get as drunk as you want, make merry and bad decisions, but be safe in the knowledge that I will get you home soundly.” And as long as I stayed within my limit of nine beers or seven cocktails, they did. Minus the occasional dent or scratch on their vehicle. But what’s that, really, when compared with peace of mind?
Then I really hit on something. Nothing brings greater joy to someone than the safe return of a beloved pet that they had feared dead or eaten or worn as fashion. So, I began reuniting people in the neighbourhood with their cats. It was pretty easy to start scooping up these cats as I encountered them walking down the street and hang on to them until the missing posters started going up. The difficult part was keeping track of which cats I’d returned and how recently. People start getting suspicious if you return their cat to them more than once within a week.
I got pretty good at it after a while. I started keeping a chart of cats from around the city with photos and addresses and schedules for bringing them back. It was beginning to be a lot of work. Plus it was starting to get expensive looking after and feeding all these cats in the interim. And I guess some of the cats weren’t fixed and they were having cat sex constantly, and now there are these kittens too. It’s like a full-time cat shelter over here, so I decided if I’m going to keep doing this I need to start charging people. And things have really taken off.
Hey, twenty to adopt a cat, that’s a good price. And I’m a reasonable man, so if you can prove it was your cat in the first place I’ll give you two dollars off. The kittens I’m selling for $15 each. These are high-end kittens. And I’ve got a special promotion going right now, for $50 you can take home a pregnant cat. That’s four to seven cats right there. That’s a really good deal, man.
I’m the main cat guy in town now. I don’t just move cats anymore, I produce cats. I’ve built what you might call a cat empire. These cats ain’t got shots or tattoos or nothing, these are real, yo. Pure. Straight from the pussy’s pussy. No messing around with licences or permits or any of that official shit. Just straight cat. No questions asked. You want some white cat? Black cat? Some of that sweet motherfuckin’ calico? You come to me. Don’t be messin’ with those South Side motherfuckers. Their shit ain’t even cat half the time. I heard they cut it with vole.
Photo by harry harris via Flickr
