Capital Campaigns

Note: An abridged version of this post can also be found at The Black Table.

Last night my alma mater called asking for money. Because four years of mind-numbing lectures have dulled my mental reflexes, I momentarily floundered in a sea of possible replies. A sampler:

Option 1: “Hold on while I find my checkbook. Nope, not under this pile of overdue loan statements. Maybe I left it underneath my last package of Top Ramen. Actually, I bet the rats took it. I think I heard them building a nest in my neighbor’s shanty – I’ll run over there and call you right back.”

Option 2: “I’m glad you called. Lately I’ve been having nightmares about apathetic undergrads drinking their frappucinos in a student center with only one plasma TV on each wall. All of this hurricane coverage has convinced me that my charity dollars will be best spent ensuring that rich white kids have every opportunity to ignore muted broadcasts of CNN while they throw trash at the mentally challenged janitor.”

Option 3: “Well, I usually just present a suitcase full of small, unmarked bills directly to the university president when we met up for our annual binge in Thailand. Early childhood education and neuromedicine are close to my heart, so last year’s gift financed a kilo of blow and six underage hookers.”

And finally, befitting the rhetorical skills of a decorated English major, my actual answer, Option 4: “Fuck off.”

Over-financed universities asking impoverished alumni for money: D.