by Mullinator
It’s not easy being a Sacajawea dollar coin. Oh sure, you might think it would be a lifetime full of parties, excitement, interesting transactions at the local Sharper Image. But no, I have to resign myself to a lifetime spent in a little plastic baggie at the bottom of your sock drawer to be remembered only when you go through your clothes looking for things shoddy enough to send off to the Salvation Army. For this, I blame all of the other coins in circulation.
I blame pennies. Pennies are just so commonplace. They show up under couch cushions, in random pockets, and I defy anyone to walk through a parking lot without finding at least one grease stained penny on the ground. People often ask, “a penny for your thoughts?” Does anyone aver ask “a Sackie for your secrets?” No! Hardly any secrets are worth a buck, and who would want to tell their secrets for a coin that will just collect dust for 12 years? Pennies have already cornered the market on different coloration, so once again I have been beaten to the punch.
Nickels represent all that is wrong in the world. Their smooth edges just cry out to be fondled. People love numbers that end with a five. Nickel is a neat substance unto itself, plus it now has a useful coin associated with it. I had hoped that the nickel would fall out of favor with the dissolution of the whole “5 and Dime” store concept, but they keep turning up like a bad pe-- wait, scratch that remark.
A dime is like a puppy and that is why it is so inherently evil. People just love smaller versions of bigger things. Puppies, kittens, baby seals, travel-sized toothpaste. A dime is like a baby quarter. It’s smaller, it doesn’t go as far, and it can’t do much on it’s own; but if someone had to choose between a dime and myself I guarantee the dime gets chosen while the person mutters phrases like “Ooh, look at the little dime,” and “I bet that would look cute next to a puppy,” and “Gootchie gootchie goo.”
Don’t even get me started on the quarter, by far the most arrogant of all coinage. The quarter knows haw valued it is and believe me, it lets the rest of us know. Need something from a vending machine? Out come the quarters. Need a newspaper? Out come the quarters. Phone call? Video game? Vibrating bed a at a seedy motel? Quarter, quarter, quarter. It fulfills all of the purposes I am supposed to help with, plus it gets to look like George Washington while people routinely confuse me with that crying Indian and the Mazola Oil Indian.
Even international coins have a certain kitsch that I can never hope to match. Picture a party setting:
David: Wow, Chet, what’s that giant stone disc sitting in your corner?
Chet: Well, David, it’s a giant Tongan death coin from the wilds of Borneo. There is a wonderful interesting story behind it.
David: I bet there is, Chet. That certainly doesn’t belong in a sock drawer.
Together: Ha ha ha ha ha.
Do you see what I am up against? Do you understand my struggle? Believe me, I don’t want your pity, I just want you to know what it’s like to be the coin that has a to sit at the children’s table at Christmas, the coin that has to carry the bags of the other coins when we travel, the coin that has to listen crazy old Aunt Susan B. talk about how she could have been something big if it weren’t for the size of those darn molds at the U.S. Mint.
Thank you for listening. I have a musty bag to roll back into underneath the tube socks. Would it kill you to use a little bleach every now and then?