Keep it going, because the chances to win are rife.

If you donate money to Tam's tip jar to help her with her cancer surgery, the chance of you winning something amazing is surprisingly good.

No, REALLY.

Now, you may say, "If they're willing to donate that stuff, why not just sell it, and donate those profits?" Answer: because the chances of leveraging this into more money for the good cause is greater, and really, this is all about raising the most money for our friend. By buying a chance, you are getting a 100% chance of your money going to help someone who needs it.*

Also, this way, the swag stays in the family-- people who helped our Tam.

And, if you really want to, you could sell off your winnings and donate the proceeds back to the pot.

But you don't have to. :)

This Friday is payday for a lot of you.  Clink the tip jar, after clicking on the image below:

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*I swear on my badge that I know for a fact that this need is legit. This is not speculation. This is not hearsay.

Giving a little something.

Look, I'm a poor man. And, I'm a pragmatist. I've got mine, you know?

But I'm sitting here in my climate-controlled sun room, drinking decent coffee out of a clean glass, typing away on my magic elf box. My stomach is full, and I'm about to register for Spring 2010 grad school.

I may be a "poor man," but I ain't really hurtin'.

And, if you're reading this, neither are you. You're reading this on your computer or your super phone or your netbook or your cybertronic feed or whatever. You're probably seated comfortably. You probably aren't too worked up about where you're going to get your next sip of clean water.

I just sent $10 to the Haiti earthquake relief effort, and it was about as easy as I could imagine. Open your cell phone. Text ""HAITI", and send this message to phone number 90999. Press "Send." This goes to the Red Cross.

The text is free (as in, you'll not be billed for making a text). Your phone bill will be charged $10. You'll get a (free) text message asking you to text "Yes" to confirm that you really want to. You reply "yes." Then you get a text confirming that they got it, and offering you the chance to cancel.

This is about as easy as it gets.

I'm about to do it again.

Here's an interesting video of before and after satellite pics of Port-au-Prince. It appears that, if we get some dozers and earth moving equipment in quick, and clear the roads, real relief could happen quite suddenly.

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EDIT:
Here are some other organizations you can donate through.

EDIT:
There are some hoaxes out there, I understand. This is NOT A HOAX. I researched it thoroughly before I did it, and before I posted this. I wouldn't steer you wrong, friends.

Lemme get this straight:

According to Pat Robertson, if Haiti hadn't made a pact with the devil 200 years ago, there would be no earthquake there, and the horrible poverty that preceded it likewise could have been averted. "True story," he said in his telecast on The 700 Club.

Because, as we know, there's NO other way that anyone could have possibly defeated the French. Only by using Faustian strategy could such a thing be accomplished.

And it took two centuries before the time was just right, eh, Pat?

Folks, there was a time when this guy had a real shot at the Republican presidential nomination. [Shudder.]

Note to would-be mass-shooters:

Well, for the umpteenth time, it's happened again.

One of y'all has decided to Make A Statement before eating his gun.

Here's an idea-- rather than burn in Hell or whatever actually passes for it in your soul kingdom (you like that? I just made that up), why don't you just publish a nice advertisement in the New York Times or your local paper, then call a news conference, make your statement, and then eat your gun.

See where we're cutting out the middle man? I mean, by not going into a mall, or a lecture hall, or a church, or a school cafeteria, or a Luby's, you actually get to:
a) get much more control over the nature of the outcome of your little "woe is me" stunt, and
b) not kill strangers, some of whom happen to be very nice and send flowers to their mothers on their birthdays.

Just a thought. I mean, really: do you really, REALLY think you're going to finish the thing without a bullet breathmint? If you think about it, that's where you were going to take this anyway, right?

So if your plan all along is to make a spectacle of yourself in your death, do us all a favor, and do the right thing.

Sometimes you get a little taste of satisfaction...

Early morning, and almost the end of deep night shift. I'm monitoring the main intersection in town.

I stop a guy in a pickup.

"Sir, I'm Officer G. with the Generic Podunk Po-leece Department, and the reason you were stopped is that you failed to come to a complete stop at the stop sign there."

"Well, I think you're mistaken-- I believe that I stopped back there."

"No sir. I've been watching that intersection for half an hour, and haven't stopped anyone yet, before you. The others stopped, and you didn't. May I see your driver license and proof of financial responsibility, please?"

"Well, I thought that I had..." At this point, I, in a complete fit of Situational Awareness (read-- bored with his argument, looking elsewhere for a second while he blathers), observe a familiar Cadillac come to a complete stop wayyy behind the stop sign, wait 3 seconds, and then slowly motor through the intersection.

"Gotta go," I say, as I shove Mr. Hollywood Stop's license and insurance card back into his hands, and hop back into my car.

I fire up ALL the lights and wigwags, and quickly pass another car to get to all of about, oh... 4 feet off of the Caddy's rear bumper. I radio in the LP, knowing already who it is. It pulls off the road into a driveway, and I block it neatly in, checking out on traffic. I make a quick approach, with my hands clear, my flashlight illuminating the inside of the car, and my right elbow up.

"Good morning. I'm Officer G. with the Generic Podunk Police Department. Sir, the reason that you were stopped is that you have an inoperative tag lamp. May I see your driver license and proof of financial responsibility?"

He provides it.

"Thank you, Mr. S. Bag. You still live in HellHole, Texas?" He does. Or says he does.

"Okay. And who's this with you?"

"My girlfriend."

"Well, ma'am, I'm pleased to meet you. What's your name?" She gives it.

"I'll be right back," I say, as I head back to my car.

I run both names through Dispatch. Hers is clear. His makes bells and whistles go off. Dispatch advises to use caution, because he is a Bad Guy. Not just considered such by nomination among the scientific community, but an honest-to-Gawd, convicted Bad Guy who has visited Index Crimes upon his fellow man.

In all my years on patrol, I've probably stopped 500 cars for no license plate light. Maybe more. I've written hundreds of written warnings for it. I've given quite a few verbal warnings for it. I've happened upon a few people who, due to warrants or intoxication, ended up going to jail pursuant to the stops initiated by that infraction. But I have NEVER, in my entire career as a cop, ever written a citation for "Inoperative Tag Lamp."

Well, there's a first time for everything, isn't there?

See, the first time I ever saw this particular car, I had noticed that his tag lamp was dark back then, too, and I had turned around to attempt to overtake him and inform him of that minor infraction of the Texas Transportation Code, to give him my usual warning. But alas, he did not see fit to stop to receive his warning. In fact, he accelerated to over 110 mph, through winding country roads at night, committing a felony to escape. He wanted to get away more than I wanted to get into a wreck to catch him, and I called off the pursuit.

Since he didn't want to stop to receive my warning, perhaps he would rather have something else. I finish writing, and approach the rear of the car. "Mr. Bag, can you step out, please?" He gets out.

"Sir, this is a citation for Inoperative Tag Lamp..." Blah blah. . . respond by X date at blah location, blah blah, sign here, blah blah not an admission of guilt, blah blah. "You're free to go." He takes his copy and turns on his heel.

"Oh, and S.?" He turns, looking suspicious. And annoyed.

"Thanks for stopping for me," I say. "This time."

"Can I go, now?"

"Sure. Catch you later."

And I will, too.