LEND A HELPING HAND

by

Larry Williams

Have you ever met anyone who had the dreaded Good-Samaritan Syndrome? You know, one of those dastardly Do-gooders who makes the rest of us honest and hard-working citizens look like jerks? Well, my neighbor, George Matthews, was just such a person. The man had been a thorn in my side since the day he moved in next door.

I had become accustomed to living alone. The wife, God rest her Soul, wasn't able to have children and, with my hatred of the impish creatures, that was just as well. Who in the hell wants a herd of screaming rugrats under foot, always begging for things as if money grew on trees? Not me. I always had to work hard for my money. Now that I'm retired, the money I've saved by not having to worry with kids will surely come in handy.

But there are some people who think that money is as plentiful as water: people like that spy from the planet PlentyGood who moved in two months ago. He made me absolutely sick to my stomach.

  George Matthews was a silly-looking man of around 55 or 60 with a round bald head and a nose so big that it would show up ten minutes before he would. What got to me was his god-awful obsession with kindness. He was always on the lookout for somebody to help. He would seek out decrepit old ladies and help them across streets. He would take down the names of people in the neighborhood who were having money troubles and send them food. He would even give - yes, I said give - his money to street people. Can you imagine anyone giving his hard-earned money to those filthy bunch of social parasites? Well, George Matthews did regularly.

I swear, our neighborhood had the best dressed collection of bums in town. Why was that? It was because that refugee from the Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice Club would take them into stores and buy them clothes. I actually saw a wino begging for quarters in After Five Formal Wear. Great Good God in His Heaven , that Matthews was one aggravating sonofabitch!

He made me so mad at times that I felt like I would blow up. The man knew that I couldn't stand him, but he would still go out of his way to greet me with that stupid little grin of his. Jeez, the unmitigated gall of that man was making me a nervous wreck. How could a person living in a world so full of war and pestilence, murderous street gangs, soaring interest rates, and Gay rights always be so damned happy? He was not human and a true menace to our society!

It was on the night of July 12 when Mister Goody-Two-Shoes overstepped his boundary. I had just bought a brand new Dodge Ram truck (white with blue vinyl interior, power steering, air conditioning) and for some reason it wouldn't start. There I was in my own garage, minding my own business when that lunatic walked in. He smiled that stupid little smile...I began to itch...and asked me what was wrong. I told Mister Nose, as if it was any of his business, that my truck wouldn't start. As usual, it was Jovial George to the rescue, asking if he could lend a hand and that did it. That was the very last straw! Damn his clammy little helping hands!

I grabbed my ax off the tool shelf and hit him over the head with the broadside. While he was down, I took it upon myself to relieve him of the two wretched things. WHACK! WHACK! They came off with considerable ease. You know, that was the only time I ever saw Old George without that stupid little grin. He was actually frowning as he watched me throw the severed nuisances into the trash barrel. I told him not to take it so hard. Things could've been a whole lot worse: my ax could have been dull and, boy, that would've hurt like a screaming bitch!

And to top everything off, as if it wasn't bad enough that my brand new truck wouldn't start, the man had the audacity to stand up and bleed all over it. He could have just stayed put, but no, Georgie Boy couldn't do that. Do you have any idea what all that blood did to my truck's beautiful paint job? It was ruined. RUINED! The least he could've done, what with always wanting to be the first to help at anything, was to stay alive long enough to help me clean up the mess that he made. But did he? Of course not.

Boy, there's only one thing I hate worse than a Do-gooder, and that's a messy Do-gooder.