I’ve seen the so-called kindness of their hearts, and let me tell you, it’s usually hiding something vile. A tax write-off. A press photo. A slow crawl toward sainthood with a martini in one hand and a contract in the other.
These people — the ones who smile too long and talk about “giving back” — are the same bastards who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire in the desert unless there was a check involved or an intern live-streaming it.
They thump the Bible at rallies and cut ribbons at brothels they quietly bankroll through shell corporations.
They build playgrounds near sex offenders’ homes and call it “community uplift.” They run on family values while laundering their sins through LLCs with red-lit windows.
These are not random acts of kindness. These are precision airstrikes of image control. PR-engineered sainthood. You think they’re saints? No, friend. They’re vultures in cashmere, picking clean the bones of moral decay and farting out platitudes for the papers.
And still—still—people believe. They swallow it like communion wafers dipped in Ambien. Because the alternative is too bleak: that we live in a world where kindness is often counterfeit, minted in the basement of opportunism and polished by spin doctors in silk ties.
But somewhere — God help me — somewhere there is a flicker. A bartender who listens without judging. A stranger who carries your bag when your back’s shot. Real kindness is quiet. No Instagram. No gala. Just one savage primate helping another across the fire.
So when someone offers you something from the “kindness of their heart,” check for strings. Or a camera. Or a knife.
And if it’s real? Grab it.
Then run like hell.