I was trying to figure out a fun way to help raise more money for Dale Ray’s new liver, but all of the Twitter followers I contacted refused to send me boob pictures to raffle off. Since mine aren’t fit for public consumption, that idea flat-lined pretty quickly.
Next, I gathered my kids together to help me make some crafts to auction off, but as I stared at the table loaded with dead batteries and cell phones, old shoelaces, empty ramen noodle containers, and glitter, my inspiration began to flag.
In a panic, I sent out more pleas for mammary inspired pictures, ensuring the fine ladies of Twitter that they could Instagram filter those puppies to Playboy-level exquisiteness. (Yeesh, they’ll DM pictures to any idiot with an @ when they’re drunk, but when it’s for charity, suddenly they’re touchy about the size of their areolas.)
Alas, it appears I have nothing but books and a lot of begging to offer in return for your donations. I’m happy to offer both.
Meet Dale Ray, aka @JournalismJunk. You can read more about him on his webpage at the National Foundation for Transplants.
What I like about Dale is that he’s a decent, God-fearing family man who happens to tweet about hookers. A lot. He’s raunchy. He’s also the author of one of my All-Time favorite tweets:
This is one of the reasons I enjoy him so much. I’m always wary of people who work hard at maintaining a pristine public image because those are usually the ones who have lots of skeletons in their closet – skeletons busy having sex with the family goat (or watching The Bachelor religiously). Which is fine if that’s your thing… but don’t sex up the goat at night (or live-tweet the insipidness of reality TV), then stand at the pulpit on Sunday morning reading from the book of Job while pretending nothing sordid has occurred in the interim.
(NOTE: This is not an endorsement regarding goat sex (and most certainly not of reality TV), although I do recommend reading Edward Albee’s play The Goat - or Who is Sylvia. Good stuff.)
Okay, forget the random boob pictures, questionable taste in television viewing, and goat sex. I’m gonna give away a couple hardcover copies of I Wish I Were Engulfed in Flames. For those not interested in reading about my autistic kids, and things like the time Mom and I got taken off a school project after the superintendent found out we made Barbie porn, years earlier.* (*see video below) I’ll be happy to get you a copy of Waiting for Karl Rove or Rigor Mortis.
Here’s what you do:
1. Go to his donation page at National Foundation for Transplants website and donate.
2. You will receive a confirmation e-mail. Then e-mail me (firstname.lastname@example.org) something from that as proof of your donation. (Anything BUT your donation amount. That’s between you, your God, your conscience and/or your checkbook.
3. I’ll put your name into the hat for the drawing. At that time, if you want an e-copy of Rigor Mortis or Waiting for Karl Rove, just let me know what e-reader platform you prefer and I’ll e-mail you a copy for participating.
This contest will end on March 15th and I’ll notify the winners of the I Wish I Were Engulfed copies by e-mail. Let’s get this guy a new liver, shall we? This is America for God’s sake. Money should never be an issue when it comes to life or death.
“I beg of thee, give until it hurts to pee.” ~Shakespeare, probably