I Didn’t Join A Fraternity To Do All Of This Damn Philanthropy

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Nice Move

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What did I get myself into? When I rushed, I thought fraternity life would just be a perpetual four to five year party where I’d live off my parents’ dime until eventually backing into a corner office gig solely based on moderate to above average charisma and graduate brother connections. Yet, here I am waking up at the ass crack of dawn for the fifth straight Saturday 5k to sweat out a body that’s currently 90 percent liquor pitchers all in the name of the Boys and Girls Club of Poverty and Cancer Stricken Child Soldiers of Sierra Leone.

They brought a bunch of terminally ill, tumor-ridden blood diamonds and their shaved domes to wait at the finish line, too? Jesus. Talk about a buzzkill. Sorry little Djimon, but I’m in no mood right now for your depressing sob story of how you were abducted from your village as a toddler and handed an AK47 to cause nothing but death and destruction. I just hurled chunks for 45 minutes back in the parking lot and am severely dehydrated. This 5k is my Michael Jordan flu game. The fact that I’m here is a miracle onto itself — I had no business driving this boozed up.

Besides, you made it out of that shithole and into America. Yes, I’m sorry you have since then been diagnosed with an incurable form of cancer, but maybe you shouldn’t have been burning three packs of heaters a day at age seven. What’s my $25 entrance fee even going towards? You’re fucked anyway. How about instead of me giving you a high five and asking asinine questions like “how you’re feeling” — clearly not great — we just have a few of these sorority girls pop their tops off and let you get a squeeze of a real life American titty? I don’t understand a word he’s saying, but that smile says it all. He’s game.

Not to mention, we have the university’s speed read for The United Illiterate Society Of The Blind, Deaf, And Mute tomorrow, three different sorority dance competitions within the next week with proceeds going to The Paraplegic Interpretive Dance Society, a chili cook-off for the National Eating Disorder Coalition Of Single Mothers For The Equal Treatment Of Animals, and stand-thon where I won’t be able to sleep or sit down for 168 straight hours. Is that even humanly possible? If I die will they start a foundation in my name? Keeling over and going into an eternal sleep might not be that bad of an idea actually. I’m exhausted.

This whole charity thing is turning into a full-time job that’s crushing both my parents’ wallets and my youthful soul. Autism or our Military? Sure. I can get down with that and help out. But when we’re so far down the line that I’m getting into a penny war competition that goes toward the jerking off of giant pandas in Indonesia because they refuse to stick one another and continue their species? That’s where I draw the line. Fuck ’em. That’s their problem. Let those lethargic, asexual, bamboo munching assholes go extinct.

I’m running on benevolent fumes. There’s only so much compassion and sympathy my earnest heart can dish out. Philanthropy, you take and you take and you take until I have nothing more to give. You’re legitimately killing me with kindness.

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