Like most caring Canadians, Mrs. Badwulf and I give generously to charity. We give our time, without reservation. Mrs. Badwulf is an accounting professional, so owning and running and profiting from running a non-profit is a snap to her flying fingers. Also, we accept wages, bonuses, commissions, and expenses as meager recompense for our leadership role in this caring crusade. It is amazing the funding from state sources that can be tapped ... unleashed with a few simple misdirections on paper, some staged photographs, and trivial examples of wishful thinking.
Charles C. Charlatan the Third is our fictitious leader. He symbolizes the important work done by the organization. All of our volunteers receive recommendations signed in his name. A hushed cult of the personality exists around his shadowy non-existence. His voice mail is always active, and Charles responds to emails, writes correspondence, and occasionally leaves voice messages. His influence on the charity is everywhere, as if to make up for his never existing. His signature appears on grant applications, appeals for donations, and requests for funding. He even leaves fingerprints, if it comes down to a forensic audit.
William Monkey, Chartered Accountant. Billy, as he is known to the staff, is the second key fictitious member of the management team. His signature appears on every document, a veritable bread crumb along the audit trail. He has an office, a business card, and an email address. His invisible shoulders bear the heavy responsibility of being responsible in the event of tax audit or police investigation. Impeachable documents exist proving his timely exit from Toronto to places overseas. Everybody loves Billy, and nobody would suspect him of fraud, larceny, or bunko. As Mrs. Badwulf and I clink our champagne glasses together, we share a smile and practice our response: Where did the money go, detectives?
Christmas is a time of giving, and give they will. Give it up, those confiscated tens of dollars; give it up into our clutches! These progressives are engaged in a value for value exchange: they get their white guilt stroked. Oh, the touching images of waifs, of tears on childrens' cheeks, and gnarly lap dogs sad without a bone. There are keepsakes for the elite guardians of other peoples money: a touching letter written in pidgin English saying Thank You, a knotted doll made by a blind girl, or a paw print on a bit of kraft paper. How the tears flow; and then the zeros on the check. They give, I spend, and you pay.
Down in the basement of Fenris Badwulf live the people who do the actual work. Volunteers have spotty effort levels. Volunteers are just looking for volunteer hours for various statist requirements: high school graduation, corporate ballsack licking, or parole requirements. Nobody is a volunteer down in the basement. Over time, their skin grows pale: like winter in Toronto, there is no sunlight down there. Their hair is patchy; maybe they should wash ... but tap water contributes to Global Warming, so it is better, Gaia-wise, to let them scratch and stink. They make great telemarketers these basement citizens. They will close a donation to get a commission of a cup of rice, a spoon of beans, or a square of cardboard to sleep upon. The most depraved degradations are their familiar companions. How else to further the agenda of raising money to fight the demons of the age: Global Warming, Fracking, or Fag Awareness? These former people never celebrated Christmas, so taking the Christ of Christmas and making them agents of the Happy Holidays only seemed right, er, left.
I know you care. You care about the Thrall-Canadians in my basement. Send me your money. You will get a tax receipt. Ask for the brochure about pro-rating your giving to be in friendly proportion to your tax receipting. Tell me what favors and gifts should be showered upon the basement dwellers. I know you care.
I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.