Fundraising fail.

The Muscular Dystrophy Association held an event today, here in Bismarck, which provided me with further evidence of why I would never find success as a telemarketer.

It’s not every day that your boss asks if you’d like to be arrested.

“Julie, do you want to be arrested?”

“No.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

“I don’t want to end up in the pokey.”

“It’s not for real.”

“I don’t want to go to the slammer.”

“It’s a fundraiser.”

“I have no interest in the clink.”

“We’ve been saving the tip money for your ‘bail’.”

“I don’t desire a trip to the Big House.”

Thank goodness for years of watching police and crime shows on TV.

Finally, after being told we’d be picked up in a limo (and not a paddy wagon that reeked of urine) and taken to the Ramkota where there might be free snacks, I acquiesced. Initially, my first moments in the limo were exciting, since I’d never been in a limo before. However, I began to notice the extreme wear on the interior of the vehicle and began to wonder how many people hand thrown up in the back. I was eager to arrive at Stripe City.

It wasn’t long before we arrived at the jail, which was, indeed, the Ramkota. I figured we’d just walk in, hand over our “bail”, stick it to the prison guard, and then head on back.

Oh, no. Not so simple. We were taken to a table which had cell phones made available as well as fundraising forms that made multiple copies, phone books, instructions, and, for me, a general feeling of sickness in the pit of my stomach. I was already regretting my life of fake crime.

I’m not calling my friends and family, I thought right away as I began to take my seat. There was absolutely no way I would do that to them.

The instructions at the table said that we were to call everyone we knew. I immediately called my dad.

“Dad…” I said, “think of this as a telemarketing call from your daughter. And oh, I’m in jail.”

It went downhill from there, but I managed the shakedown and extracted a $10 donation from him. I filled out the form, putting my own phone number in instead of my parents, because I know the scene that occurs when a telemarketer calls our home: the walls lose their paint and the cat loses his hair.

I put my pen down. Now what? I began scrolling through my personal cell phone contact list. There wasn’t anyone there I would call and ask for a donation. If my friends did that to me, I’d be extremely annoyed. I looked around. The people at the other tables were calling and filling out forms left and right.

I’m going to be here for a ten to twenty, I thought in a panic.

I sent a text to my friend Mark, explaining my predicament and asking if he’d donate.

I waited.

I waited some more.

Finally, my phone beeped, and I had his reply: “No hablo English.”

Scowling, I muttered a few uncharitable expletives under my breath. I think you probably meant inglés.

Some movement over at the door caught my eye. There stood the pastor from Evangel Assembly of God, working the phone and eventually handing in over an inch-high stack of fundraising forms. The forms were as high as the Tower of Babel, maybe.

Probably guilted people into donating, I thought, relishing the sour grapes of the moment. I then immediately felt guilty. I began drawing a cartoon on the scratch pad provided so that it looked like I was filling out more donation forms.

I looked around. Even the Bobcat hockey team players were having more success. They actually had the phone book out and were making random cold calls, telling the people on the other end of the line that their name had come up on a list of interested donors. I slumped in my seat, re-writing the address of my parents so that it looked like I was filling out lots and lots of forms.

I don’t make cold calls.

I played with the cell phone they provided, and explored its many features.

Then, after a sufficient period of time had passed, I went to the main table with my co-worker, sheepishly handed in my one form, and left.

Stay out of jail, kids. Let this be a lesson to you. It’s a horrific place of loneliness and guilt.