Great. Now I'm Making Fun of Poor Kids Who Play Polo.

I don’t consider myself particularly charitable or saintly. I do, however, consider my smartassery to be a valuable public service. So color me thrilled when I hopped a few links to the left of the state dinner crashing Scandal of the Century, and wound up at a charity that teaches polo to at-risk youth. (Though nowadays we call them at-promise youth.)

I'm not doubting the value of equine therapy. I rode and cared for horses back in Woodbridge, spent several summers at Camp Wingaroo, and I believe there are few things more gratifying than hanging out with horses.

But, admit it. Take a deep breath, hug your inner smartass, and 'fess up: don't you get a tad giggly at the idea of rounding up a bunch of urban at-risk kids to teach them how to play polo? As in, the world's most hoity-toity rich person Biff-and-Muffy prenups-and-summering in the Hamptons sport? Like, maybe they pulled in some extra funding from the charity that teaches kids to drink tea with their pinkies sticking out? Or borrowed a business plan from the charity that teaches proper deportment at cotillion, or how to drink a G&T on a yacht? My brain is a total flood of hilarious mental images.

Though, perhaps my laughter signifies that I'm the sort of throwback reactionary who would have snorted at Carnegie's libraries. Or that I'm a raging class warrior who hates rich people. Or that I hate kids. Especially poor kids.

Nah. Most likely, I just think polo is kind of dooftastic.

In the comments, invent a charity that exposes at-promise children to the opportunity to try on their very own pair of fancypants.