Joyce, years ago, made the world a better place by giving $10 to some dying children. Since then, she's been added to the mailing list of every charity and religion in the history of the universe.

I, instead, chose to spend my $10 on colored saran wrap I wrapped into a shirt that lasted one night, made me lose approximately 40 pounds, and had to be cut off by a big knife.
Junk Mail Charity
a very special report

Some groups that have never heard of car washes and bake sales have started massive postal charity drives. Evidently all the Santa outfits, bells, and little red buckets of the world are sold out.

Somewhere along the way, somebody read a memo wrong or something, and instead of asking for things, they give them away. With all the god damn address labels, stickers, postcards, and books they jam into bird and flower decorated envelopes, you have to donate $30 just so they break even.

The first group I read about was The Paralyzed Veterans of America. They sent my girlfriend 3 sheets of address labels, 11 full color greeting cards (mostly of the majestic birds of the Pacific Northwest), and a number of testimonials from satisfied users of the cards. So yes, it's sad that there are paralyzed people giving away postcards, but not as sad as the fact that THESE POSTCARDS GET FAN MAIL.

Incidentally, all testimonials came on non-recycled bluejay stationary, and when I called Kinko's to see how much it would cost to create a full package like that for my own cock's charity -- forty dollars. Good job, veterans. Maybe spending a hookers-worth of money on labels and postcards for a $5 donation isn't the best way to raise your plate-in-the-head funds.

This is the picture the Paralyzed Veterans used to convince her. As you can see, your money can turn a distant daydreaming man in a wheelchair into a man in a wheelchair who feels you are entitled to a settlement if you are injured in an accident. Call his offices today to see if you have a case, or even if you just need some nice bird cards to brighten a friend's day.

I was not only impressed by the vast improvement the group makes in its members' lives from no-books to books, but I think their logo is the greatest thing ever made. The excited man in a wheelchair zooming across all of their letterheads shows all the dignity of this proud group.

And at the risk of being derivative, I've designed logos for two other organizations in the Paralyzed Veterans tradition. For the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance (N.A.A.F.A. - left), I've made their main mascot a bouncing fat lady who instills a joyful pride, but also take careful note of the small figure on her right. It is her cheeseburger pal, and he joins her on her journey for acceptance.

Another group I've donated my talents to is the Idaho Retarded Potato Farmers (I.W.T.M. - below?). I believe this compelling potato sack racer speaks for himself.

The next charity institue I sent the staff to investigate were the Mouth and Foot Painters. This is a group of artists who have been crippled or dismembered and can no longer use their hands, forcing them to continue to paint beautiful landscapes of the American countryside with their feet or mouths. And I know what you're thinking, girl chasers - Yes, you have to be handicapped to get in the club. They made me leave the club even though during the winter months, I've been known to do some very nice scrawlings using only a tight pelvic dance and a thermos of beer. I think their exact words were, "Please leave. Your peeing is making us all cry."

Why are these guys asking for money? They already have a job. That's like starting a charity for auto mechanics. And what does your donation go for? You can't buy a new hand. If you could, I could guarantee you I'd have them up to my elbows and sit at home watching ESPN cheerleader competitions all day. At least when you throw change at a homeless guy, you know he's buying Mad Dog 20/20. These foot people could be spending it on terrible things like dolphin unfriendly tuna or ballet tickets. And anyway, who's handicapped? That's a fucking sweet christmas tree postcard. I think we, the people with working hands, whose christmas trees look like the ones on the bottom right are the ones that really need help.

They were nice enough to send six lovely Christmas postcards late in the summer. At first I thought this was a little bit crazy, but if you think about it - if you're missing body parts, you probably have to start your holiday shopping a lot earlier than the rest of it. Good parking spots don't save enough time to make up for how long it takes to pull yourself through the mall by the paintbrush in your toes. Anyway, the cards filled my hateful functional hands with a holiday cheer using inspirational Bible quotes like "The Holy One to be born shall be called the Son of God. - Luke 1:35." Yeah. Nice try, dumb asses. His name was Jesus. Everybody knows that. Plus, these assholes didn't send even one return address sticker. I personally won't support the battle against any disease or handlessness unless it supplies me with tacky, yet soothing duck stickers with my address on them.

The USO was next, asking for donations for overseas soldiers. I know they have all their limbs, and die from dirty foriegn bullets instead of cancer making them much less elligible for our charity, but at least army movies aren't as gay as mouth painter movies. It didn't matter, since after reading what they were going to spend my saran wrap shirt money on, I decided against sending them anything anyway.

Airport Centers: Work day and night to assist American miltary families and unaccompanied personnel on the move.
I've been informed this is usually a couch, and most soldiers have trouble deciding between spending the night there or on the airport terminal floor. I didn't see what a few dollars would do to help, so I sent an alarm clock, a Starsky and Hutch poster, and a few boxes of chocolate mints labelled, "Thanks a MINT! from"

Fleet Support Centers: Operate at ports-of-call offering US Navy and Marine personnel respite from long periods of sea duty.
If these guys are going to buy hookers with donations, shouldn't they try to hide it a little bit better than this? They might as well have just had a picture of tits next to this with a hooker bio. A duty I'm honored to carry out for them now.

Mobile Canteens: Bring morale-building services to a highly expeditionary military force and assure that a USO will always be close by.
blah blah blah. I stopped reading this crap after the second word or so What's wrong with the canteens they have? I thought that was a pretty perfected technology. How mobile do you need a bottle of water to be? Are they buying these guys the hats with the beer cans on the side, or are they creating little flying "aquabots" to dispense morale-building water to our troops? That'd be pretty cool, but it seems like an irresponsible way to spend supporters' money. "Beedybeedy - would - you - like - some - more - water - sarge? blip! blip!"

Family and Community Centers: Help military families adjust to their new surroundings during personnel transfers to unfamiliar countries.
Don't they make films for that? I remember seeing them back in the days before all of our class films had chancres and vaginas. One was called, "Canada: Our Neighbors to the North." It was narrated by Alan Thicke and he taught us how to recognize their people in case any of them escape the concentration camps we'll be forming after we march into their dirty country to claim their lumber. You don't need donations to get those; shit, I have a copy if you really need one, USO.

Celebrity Entertainment Tours: Bring love and laughter to troops stationed far away from their loved ones.
Sorry, USO, but there are guys over there steering wheelchairs with their tongues and painting pumpkin patches with their fucking feet. I'm not going to keep them from new turpentine so Bob Hope can bring you love and laughter.

And let me tell you something about those Celebrity Entertainment Tours. My brother, Captain Mattbaby, was stationed overseas, and while this is highly classified material, he and his men were treated to one of these Celebrity Tours. These are soldiers living in the desert. They hadn't done anything in six months except masturbate in their tents to sand drawings of camels drawn by some GI's foot that don't even look like camels. If they wanted some excitement, they shoved the fat guy outside and watched him get sunstroke. Then a christmas treat arrived for them, a country rock band. My brother called me, probably from one of those giant camoflauged phones, and said to me:

"Sean, listen to me. They SUCKED. They sucked so bad, I wanted to just go back to my tent. I was as bored as I've ever been in my life in the middle of bumfuck fucking Kuwait. No entertainment for fucking months, and I couldn't listen to another fucking minute of those fat fucking hillbillies. And nothing is more fucking weird -nothing- as being out in the middle of the fucking desert watching hundreds of men dance with each other."

So if you enjoy torturing our military, go ahead and donate to the USO, hippies. See whose missiles keep YOUR gas prices low. And if you need four lifetime supplies of address labels and shitty christmas cards, give a dying kid a dollar today. Thank you.