In My Mind, Jeff Corwin Was Narrating It. It Was Awesome.

Saturday, I found myself running to my local grocery store. This is not unusual for me, however this particular trip was marked with an unfortunate occurrence. You see, once again a troop of Boy Scouts had set up shop outside of the exit, attempting to accost passer-bys and force unto them overpriced tins of popcorn.

I do not abide by this.

It's not that I begrudge the scouts their mission, whatever that may be. I was a boy scout myself for all of three or four weeks. As I recall, we were given a bag of loose art supplies (an egg carton, pipe cleaners, that sort of thing) and told that we would be competing for best creation. I turned up later with a little puppet guy, not exactly competition for the scale model race car, complete with tailpipes and headlights, that won. I recall how proudly the father looked upon his son's prize, a moment that made a lot more sense when my own father explained that they guy had made the thing himself. As I didn't feel like competing with adults, and my own father lacked the artistic talents to assist me, I called that off toot sweet.

Still, good for the ones that carry on, but they have fallen under the umbrella of fund raisers that, frankly, suck. I'm sure it eats away at them, the way their female counterparts have built a global empire on mediocre cookies that get treated like manna from Heaven because they keep them from us for the better part of a year. (Of course, I make an exception for Carmel Delites, which I'm pretty sure are, if not actually from Heaven, at least from a dimension of delicious, fattening goodness that our puny minds cannot fully comprehend.) While the Girl Scouts are buying private islands and building vast, pony-filled fortresses on their cookie money, these shmoes are trying to convince me that if it's for a good cause, I should be happy to pay $22 for a tin of cheesy popcorn that is undoubtedly no better than the 99 cent bag of the same product I just walked by in the store. Not happenin', junior.

Still, at least these kids have a physical product. The ones that really slay me are the kids who show up at my doorstep with a %#$@ing catalog, hoping that I will leaf through it and place an order. I remember when these things were done right. I was handed a box of chocolates. Given that my parents were not the type to sell them to their office mates, I would sell three or four of them to my neighbors, eat about fifteen of them, and return the rest. Easy peasy. I don't mind picking up a bag of M&Ms for a good cause. I am not, however, going to commit to a set of overpriced cookie cutters, pizza pans, or oven mitts. If I need any of that, I hit up Bed, Bath, and Beyond, as opposed to waiting around for the rocket football fund raiser.

Anyway, I played my exit perfectly, having had much practice at dodging the young salesmen. As I was leaving, I took my place behind an older woman, putting her between me and eager scout that awaited us. As she fell to him, I moved past swiftly, not unlike the antelope leaving the weak and the old behind to be preyed upon.

I feel it was a righteous maneuver.