Back in the 60s my grampa, my dad, and my uncle used to drive to Kansas City to stay in an apartment and work all week, then drive back home to southern Missouri on the weekends. Dad said when they got back to the apartment, my uncle would get out an old can and say, in his most pitiful voice:
“Alms, alms for the poor!”
Dad and Grampa would laugh and throw change in his can.
Dad said they thought it was pretty funny–until the end of the month when my uncle had an extra $20.
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