Sorry, guy on Broadway, standing at a card table swiped from a church basement circa 1971, but if I heed your shouts to spare some change for “the homeless” and plunk what’s rattling around in my pocket into the empty water-cooler bottle propped on your table, I’ll risk being one of “the homeless” on whose behalf you’re ostensibly making the plea. Although my cloth bag, well-worn jeans, and reusable bottle filled with water from my kitchen sink scream, “Moneybags!” I’d appreciate if, when I decline, you wouldn’t glare as if you think I use wads of “C-notes” as toilet paper.

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