by Lance Wildorf
Brought to you by guest columnist: Lance Wildorf
Aside from quenching their thirst with the blood of the innocent and paying for their hookers’ abortions, students of the Wharton school of Business (also pronounced Bizznaaassss) and Management are also encouraged to create a nonprofit. As a recent transfer into that group of monocle wearing elitists, I will relay to the readers my management team’s story. I hope that, like my team you will shrug off my successes and ridicule my failures. Enjoy the gripping tale of Handjobs for the Homeless.
Our nonprofit spawned from one simple fact. There’s a lot of fucking homeless people in Philly. I mean I can’t even buy a good top hat anymore without one standing around, muttering to himself about cheesesteaks and Amy Guttman’s vagina- oh wait that’s a college student. Regardless, they’re like ticks. Everywhere I go I find a homeless man asking me for change? Change? Do I look like someone who would make a mere 200,000 a year? I don’t carry around change.
I saw these homeless men and women infesting the streets of Philadelphia, like a gaggle of sophomores pantlessly creeping around the quad, and I realized something. These people most likely never felt anyone’s loving embrace. They’re treated like animals, but even animals have those guys who jerk them off to harvest their seed. I therefore came up with the hypothesis that a little helping hand might turn their sorry lives around.
Things were going well. We started a facebook group and quickly raised a couple of thousand.
Greedily however, we decided to keep the money for ourselves. This meant we were the ones who had to Steinberg their Deitrichs. My management team jerked those homeless men as if they were the CEOs of JP Morgan, they even jiggled their Goldman Sacks.
The results were disappointing to say the least.
Resident homeless man Krazy-as-shit Lary had this to say,
“Why’s dis oriental boy fiddlin’ wit my manhood?”
Our plan was failing. So we did what any Wharton student would do. We had our daddies fly us to Guatamala, we took a 500 dollar handle of Vodka to the face, then we made the natives drink our piss. Don’t feel bad for them, what do you think Naddy Light’s made of?
Then we got to thinking. Homeless people are homeless because they well, they don’t have jobs. I had a lightbulb moment! We shouldn’t be giving handjobs to the homeless, the homeless should be giving handjobs to the homeless.
It was such a simple plan. These homeless people were already selling their bodies for crack cocaine or warmth, now they could do it for money!
The group’s growth in revenue skyrocketed faster than my (formerly) engineering penis after seeing a ribbon I mistook for a bra strap. We would collect money from people like you, and pay the homeless to give other needy citizens handjobs.
Our service is still pumping along. We have branches in every major city and 30 countries across the world, not to mention that oversized hemorrhoid the locals insist we call New Jersey. Some of the homeless are so used to jerking, they forget that they’re even working. Listen to how happy Grimy Grady is.
“The man in the suit tells me to pump the beef stick or he’ll hit me.”
In the last three months we’ve increased our market share of handjobs to rival that of Jenna Jameson! In conclusion I implore you, donate to Handjobs for the Homeless today. We provide employment for the underprivileged while simultaneously allowing them to enjoy much needed sensual contact.
Our motto is a simple one: Give a job to get a job.