Ah, the modern philanthropy playbook. It's not enough to have a number with nine zeroes; you need to build a gilded cage for your ego and call it giving back.
Let's be real. This isn't about solving world hunger. This is about building a tax deductible country club where the membership fee is sharing a bed with the founder. It's the ultimate I'm a generous person prop, a sparkling, shielded distraction from the fact that their soul is a vacant lot.
Think about it. They couldn't possibly trust their legacy to actual experts who've dedicated their lives to, you know, charity. No, no. That's far too risky. Better to hand the reins of a multi million dollar foundation to the 25yo of wellness consultant they met at a silent retreat in Bali. Her qualifications? A profound understanding of crystal healing and an ability to nod sympathetically while he complains about his superyacht's fuel efficiency.
It's the world's most expensive nepotism. The board of directors is just a euphemism for the harem. The annual gala isn't a fundraiser; it's an audition. The grant proposals aren't vetted for impact, but for which special advisor can cry the most convincingly about a recent trip to a vibrant, low income community (they spent 45 minutes there).
They don't build schools, they build monuments to their own libido, with a mission statement. They aren't eradicating disease they're just treating their midlife crisis with a tax write off and a new, socially acceptable reason to keep their entourage on a private jet.
So let's not call it charity. Let's call it what it is the most pathetic, convoluted, and publicly sanctioned form of simping in human history. They're not saving the world; they're just writing a check to make their own gilded circle jerk look like sainthood.
The only thing more pathetic than the scheme is the fact that we're all supposed to clap for it.
