When a company decides to ban the Salvation Army kettles, you wonder if it's a conscious effort to get some lousy publicity.

And if this doesn't work, we'll slaughter reindeer in the parking lot and make them into sausages. Balloons for the kids!

It's like kicking out the Girl Scouts when they want to sell cookies: Sorry, kids, that's a wonderfully American blend of charity, capitalism and dessert. You'll have to leave.

Fleet Farm was the latest company to get out the PR Elephant Gun and shoot itself in the feet by banning the kettles at its stores. It's the standard argument: If we let the Salvation Army raise money, what's to stop the Perdition Army from setting up black kettles in March and raising money to cast people's souls into eternal damnation? What reason could we give to forbid them?

Gosh, I don't know. Private property? A corporate decision? You could put out a press release saying "only the Salvation Army gets to raise money on our premises because we like them, and it's tradition, and if you don't like it, there's a sale on hammers and bags of sand."

This might ruffle feathers, and modern companies are forever in feather-smoothing mode these days, but the policy of forbidding everything in the name of fairness smacks of laziness and cowardice, as if they're terrified that a group denied the chance to fundraise will -- steel yourself -- create an unflattering Facebook page about the matter.

To be fair, the company said it would donate directly to the Salvation Army, which sounds like they're paying protection money. As a gangster might say: Nice store you got here; shame if someone stood outside and rang a bell in front of it and reminded people of their elemental human obligations. A corporate gift is not the same, not at all: The point of the kettles is to let us contribute, not have the company do it on our behalf.

But. Some people might be pleased when the kettles are kicked to the curb, because they don't like running the gantlet. They don't like the guilt as they blow past.

Sorry, no time for charity. I have to buy ... vitamins. If I stop now they might sell out.

But this presumed judgment is just conscience giving you a jab. Ask not for whom the tinkly handbell tolls! It's thee, dude.

Some might think: If I hit the kettle on the way in and he doesn't recognize me on the way out, it's like I did it for nothing! It's like tipping the barista when his back is turned. Maybe he can stamp my hand?

Yes, it's all about you. But what do the bell ringers think of us? This is where the clever columnist thinks, "Gosh, if only there were a way to find out what bell ringers think." So I went to a place where I knew I'd find ringer. Let's call him Deep Kettle, since he preferred to keep his name out of the paper.

Do you think anything about people who don't even look at you? I asked.

"No, no. I got no right to judge," he said. "If people can help out, then OK, but some can't, you know. I do this because they helped me." The Salvation Army, you mean? "I lost everything. Everything. I don't know how, but I ended up at their door. They helped me get back."

As for people who say they'll hit the kettle on the way out? "If that's what they say, then that's what they'll do."

You stand outside in the cold all day and maintain that amount of faith in humanity.

There are rare exceptions to the Kindly Bellringer image; a few weeks ago in Inver Grove Heights, a bell ringer was suspended for haranguing a fellow on the way into the store and following him to his car afterwards. (Hats off to local media for not using the phrase "ring-rage" when describing the incident, by the way.)

There was a small child present, which puts this in the category of seeing a mall Santa in his car between shifts smoking a cigarette and knocking back a Schlitz. Rogue ringers are just as rare, but it makes you worry that the human element may be eliminated in the future. Unmanned kettles with pre-recorded bells and a debit-card reader. Thank you for swiping.

Until then, let 'em ring. And that's what happened: Fleet Farm changed its mind, and the bell ringers are again welcome.

But they can't come in March and sell cookies. That's Scout turf. Don't mess with those girls.

jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 More daily at www.startribune.com/popcrush.