I do not work for the Salvation Army. This place isn't fucking Amvets. Both worthy organizations, however both have very very little to do with mine.
So why, Mr. Dicknose, do you think you can just dump all of your shit on our doorstep? Now I have to haul all of your baby bottles and clothing up to my office, take an inventory, and then find somewhere for it to go. It's not my job to the be the fucking middle man, and you're telling all of your friends about us? We are doing you a favor, jagoff.
People with too much money piss me off. Oh, I'll just give you this old breast pump and these cracked dishes, so you can disperse it amongst needy elementary schools.
No, Dicknose, that's not how it works. We're humoring you, my boss and I, because you have an important daddy, and pretending we're flattered and grateful for this broken alarm clock, for these six artificial decorative pears, for used underwear and a furniture painting kit. Your generosity with the inner-city children is tremendous. I know that our schools will be able to put this horseshit to good, creative use.
That, or I'm just going to haul it over to Salvation Army myself, and save you the trip. Hopefully someday you will give us something useful. For example? Art supplies. Pencils, notebooks. Computer equipment.
And then there's Mr. Silver Spoon Scholarship Man, who feels like the reception we have for his scholars isn't classy enough, so could we throw a benefit at this expensive dinner restaurant? This will cost our organization four thousand dollars.
They're fourth graders, sir. I know you want them to have the experience of eating at some fancy establishment, but none of them are going to care about asparagus pasta with butter garlic sauce and whitefish vomit with capers. They want cheese fucking pizza, maybe sausage. They want to eat their swirly ice cream in tiny paper cups with flat wooden double-sided spoons. We do not have unlimited funds, here.
Okay, sir. Whatever you say.
I hate that my boss is a pushover.