Through the Looking Glass

Cigarette Taxes

This is in rebuttal to a blog on-line about how smokers “cost” the American Public.

This will probably be a waste of cyber ink, but heck:

Cigarettes are the HIGHEST taxed entity in America. Your communities are suffering a major economic loss at this point in history. Correlation? A HUGE amount of muni-bonds were financed by the MSA. If you don’t know what that anagram stands for;  I’ll help you out…Master Settlement Agreement, the case that provided the states with this windfall tax.

            Hold This Thought, I’ll get back to it.

1. The 2 bucks a pack enjoined by the State of Arizona does NOT go to AHA, cancer, American health ANYTHING; it goes to “early childhood education”. Well…screw Nadine Basha (the bills creator) I own a home, have no kids, will not have any kids, yet a huge proportion of my property taxes goes to education and the schools system. Why must 28% of us fund 100% of your kids education?

2. Back to the MSA - I am a smoker, as such, based on commonly accessible actuarial tables, I will die BEFORE I can recover the bucks I’ve paid Social Security, Medicare, et al.

3. Finally, this party is not over: Article I, Section 10 of the U.S. Constitution states: “No state shall, WITHOUT the consent of Congress…enter into ANY agreement or compact with another state.” The legal term is collusion. There is more than a good possibility that the MSA could be overturned. For funs sake, I’ll give you the numbers: In 2004 (the last year I could get data on) ALL 50 states reaped $12.3 billion dollars in cigarette taxes.
Point: America loves it’s REP’s (Revenue Enhancement Programs) which loosely defined are fines, tariffs and taxes derived from victimless crimes and penalties on LEGALLY purchased goods, i.e. prostitution, drugs, gambling, cigarettes, liquor, lotto etc.

If the product, harmful or not, is LEGALLY allowed for sale, it is unconscionable to continue to increase revenue based on the systems ability to afford it.

Citations:  January 1st 2006 - Washington Post - George Will.  

It has come to my attention that an undue amount of criticism and harassment has been directed at new Hummer owners. People with unusually small penises will do this.

I am going to try to set the record straight on numerous Hummer/SUV questions. Remember: They’re not jealous of your small penis; they’re jealous because now you have two.

A1: Some new H2 owners will experience continued feelings of inadequacy for some time after they purchase their surrogate penis however rest assured that your perceptions are false. Women really do want to have sex with you, it’s only the lesbians who continue to call you names and take out restraining orders against you. Also don’t worry–your penis is humongous now. Trust your new Hummer.

Q2: When I bought my Ford Expedition about a year ago, I was told that I would be going to the mountains, driving through deserts and heavy mud, camping out under the stars with at least two hot high school girls. Instead I’m stuck in traffic 90 percent of the time, slogging back and forth between home, K-Mart, and work. When will I start being a rugged mountain logging man?

A2: If you’re experiencing city traffic and have not yet become an adventurous mountain man, the problem isn’t with your SUV, it’s with liberal environmentalists and Communist Democrats who are conspiring to destroy America’s freedoms hand-in-hand with Iraqi terrorists (which really, really do exist).

Q3: My neighbor bought a really manly SUV so I had to go buy one even bigger to prove I’m a better man. I was amused about a month later when he came around a bend on the freeway at around 100 miles an hour and rolled it, killing himself and all his family members, and everyone in a couple of other cars. But I started wondering if I’m going to also die in a screaming, burning wreck taking other people’s kids out with me like he did. Should I worry?

A3: No, there’s no need to worry! All SUV accidents are investigated by the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) and media reports about massive carnage and an 11 percent greater fatality rate involving SUVs compared to girly cars are highly exaggerated. The NTSB has consistently found in every single accident involving SUVs that other drivers have always been at fault; it’s never been the driver of an SUV that’s ever caused an accident.

An education campaign is planned to inform drivers of girly cars that they must stop getting in the way of real men like you and stop causing these accidents which took out your neighbor’s family. You have nothing to worry about.

Q4: I can’t stand it any more. I’m really getting tired of all the men, women, and children who flip me off when I’m driving my H2 Hummer around town. What’s their problem? What can I do about these people who shout stuff like “PIG!” and “ASSHOLE!” and stuff as they flip me off?

A4: They’re jealous of you. It’s not just anyone who can purchase an H2 Hummer, after all, it takes a real man and these people — even the high school girls who flip you off — are jealous of the fact that they can’t be as manly a man as you are. What you should do is sit there and glare at them really, really bad. Let them know you’re not going to take that guilt trip abuse without giving them the glaring of their lives. Also many of them secretly want to have sex with you but are too embarrassed to ask so you should ask them.

Q5: Someone keeps putting citations on my SUV’s windshield claiming I’m supporting terrorism, killing the environment, that I’m a selfish pig, and that my SUV is maiming other drivers on the highway. These traffic citations are piling up because I don’t see an address of where I need to go to fight these tickets in court. Will they come and arrest me for not paying these tickets? I don’t think I should have to since there’s no address I can see on where to mail in fines.

A5: No, you don’t have to pay those or do anything with them. You may tear them up and throw them away along with any parking ticket or other traffic citation you may be issued. As an SUV owner you’re entitled to special driving privileges that inferior men don’t share, and if any police officer tells you differently, you should explain to the liberal about your rights as a SUV driver to do whatever the Hell you want when you want to do it.

Q6: Why do so many people in other cars and people walking on the sidewalk hold up two fingers a couple of inches apart and point at my SUV and laugh?

A6: They’re probably trying to tell you that you have a door ajar or that they believe one of your tires is under inflated. Check to make sure that all of your doors are closed properly and if they are, be sure to check your tire pressure.

Q7: About once a week or so I walk out to my SUV and I find a bumper sticker on my H2 Hummer either saying I’m changing the environment or that I’m compensating,” whatever that means.

What’s happening to me?

A7: There’s a Communist liberal by the name of Arianna Huffington who hates America and she travels around the world putting these bumper stickers on people’s Constitutionally protected SUVs and Hummers because she hates America. It’s just loony liberal nut blather which doesn’t mean anything so you can ignore it. If you want it to stop, you need to send her email and demand that she stop harassing you else you’ll call the FBI. That’ll make her stop.

Q8: I think there’s something wrong with my Hummer. Every two days I have to refill my gas tank even though I only drive around the city from home to work and back. I’ve checked for leaks and I don’t smell leaking gasoline when I’m driving so I’m thinking there must be some reason why I’m only getting 10 miles to the gallon. What’s up with that?

A8: There’s nothing wrong with your car. What’s wrong is the notion that as an American your personal vehicle needs to be engineered for fuel economy — a Communist notion if ever there was one. When you drive a Hummer, you’re driving freedom, liberty, apple pie, and God — the Christian God — and nobody — absolutely nobody! — has the right to tell you to drive some French wimpy girly car. When you fill your gas tank every other day, you’re filling your
tank with freedom.

Q9: I got me one of those Hummies with the jungle camouflage paint job, really big tires, and I wear Army clothes when I drive my Hummie, just like my fellow Hummie drivers in Iraq.

Question: am I allowed to shoot brown people like they do and get away with it like they do?

And if so, what about homos? Can I shoot homos too if I see homos on the sidewalk?

A9: Yes, as an H2 Hummer driver you’re entitled to shoot as many brown-skinned people and homosexuals as you want to. There are a few police officers who might pull you over after engaging in your Constitutionally protected Second Amendment rights, but most police officers will notice your Hummer, its really cool camouflage, and support the troops by not stopping you or giving you problems. If a police officer does pull you over, all you need do is show him or her your Republican Party membership card or your National Rifle Association
membership card and they’ll cut you loose to continue exercising your American rights. Any police officer who still gives you a hassle is a closet queer and, of course, fair game.

    “Time for an early morning hike” reflected Garand. “…can’t put off visiting the scene too much longer.” He started his ascent on the Medicine Wheel trail, pausing to inhale and smell the scents of the early morning hills that surrounded him.
Making average time; Garand would need a few more days before the spring in his step returned, he crested the trail at the wheel in forty minutes. He closed his eyes, feeling the warm sun on his face, and smiled.
He thought of Jackie. …”can’t wait ‘til Friday,” he mused. Of course he also had no inkling of why, or what he would do differently come the weekend. But, nonetheless, …can’t wait ‘til Friday echoed again in his mind.

Death By Misadventure

Monday slogged slowly by, shrouded in the veiled whispers and words that accompany a tragedy such as this.
“Poor Anders…” mused Shirley. “Such a nice man, and far too young to have fallen like that.”
“Think of all the lonely woman in the world, now…” Smitty joked.
“Can we hike the trail now?” asked Kay.
“What happened?” Garand looked up; it was Jackie Barnes.
“Haven’t you heard?” queried Garand; “One of our regular guests took a spill on the main trail.”
He didn’t think Jackie was aware of who the dead man was.
“Anders Vilene”, said Garand; “He was one of our long-time visitors”
“I’m sorry”
“Well, it wasn’t your fault.” Garand smiled. When he saw that face, he forgot about the current problems and only thought of her.
“I’m off,” she replied; “I’ll be back next week. Have you an open cabin?”
“Not a problem, how about number two?”
“Sure, sounds great”
“Well. We’ll see you Friday night Jackie.”
“Have a good week”, she said; “If you can…”
Garand smiled as she turned, “Boy oh boy, what a beauty”.
And then, as if on cue, a quick shot of reality filtered through the palm trees at Paraiso Springs; a tragedy had taken place and left in its wake an opaque cloud.

The coroners’ verdict had been issued early Wednesday morning: Death By Misadventure; a seldom-assigned reference generally used to placate the insurance companies and keep the barristers at bay.
Garand’s’ friend Wiley, the local county sheriff, had called to let him know. End of story, end of conversation, end of the line for the flamboyant womanizer known as Anders Vilene.

Thursday morning, as if by proxy of the Gods, the sky was lit by brilliant sunshine. Echoing off the canyon walls, vibrating through the trees, and arriving, in all its glory, to rest at the feet of Garand Jarrett.

Business as Usual

As the coffee klatch wound down, it occurred to Garand that he had not seen Jackie Barnes this Saturday morning. He quickly dismissed the thought, realizing that many guests did not share Garand’s love for caffeine fixes and sugar highs so early in the day. She could be engaging in an early morning swim or hike; or, here’s a thought; some people actually like to sleep late when they’re paying you one hundred and fifty bucks a night for the privilege of sleeping on your property.
“Get over it” he thought, “Although I would like to see that face again…”
Garand opened a ledger, penciled in a few figures, and Saturday officially became a day of business as usual at Paraiso Springs once again.

Our Story Continues…

Sunday morning, a.m… As dependable as a Swiss timepiece, Garand Jarrett, age 42, begins his weekly ascent up the trail known to Paraiso locals as The Medicine Wheel.

Garand rushed down the hillside towards the resort office. His first objective: Call 911, call the sheriff, call the fire department, call SOMEONE! He spotted Lucio, his right-hand man and assistant manager watering the flowers near the clubhouse deck.
“Lucio! We’ve got an issue!” Garand said with trepidation.
“What’s up Patrone?” A Spanish informal term for boss…
“Lucio, It’s Anders…He’s fallen off the Medicine Wheel trail!”
“Shit, Garand, is he OK?”
“Not exactly.” Garand’s words trailed off. “I’m gonna call 911. I tried to get down the hillside to him, but I couldn’t get through the brush. He’s not moving, and didn’t respond when I       shouted to him.”
“What can I do?” asked Lucio.
“Don’t mention anything to the guests just yet. Once the authorities arrive, you can answer questions, it’ll take some of the shock off”
“Will do”, he answered.
Twenty minutes later unholy noise filled the air around Paraiso. What were common audibles in the city were unknown out here. The sound of sheriffs’ sirens fought valiantly against the wails of an ambulance; an ambulance going through the motions of futility thought Garand. The eggbeater hysterics of a helicopter stirred the otherwise calm Sunday air. Then the entourage of law enforcement vehicles entered into sight at the bottom of the hill leading up to Paraiso. “Looks like Dukes of Hazard,” thought Garand.

Hauling Anders’ body out of the ravine took some time. A coordinated effort involving the Sheriff, local police, and the forestry department finally extricated him from the chasm off the trail. All told, the effort took more than four hours. As the ambulance, obviously an afterthought, finally rolled down the main drive, Garand thought, “What a bring down for our guests.”  Kind of a silly perusal on his part; yet he didn’t envy the task of explaining the commotion to his guests.

The balance of the weekend played itself out in slow motion, surreal as a Dali painting; yet as tangible as the six-o’clock news.
No word or finality had been issued by the attending authorities, whom had left Garand with the understanding that they would contact him at a later time with their findings and conclusions.

(Paraiso Springs)

Greta and Fred entered, bringing homemade strudel for the clubhouse. Greta was a tall lanky Swiss lady; someone you would refer to as refined. Her significant other, Fred, was a professional chef in the city. Anyone who is “in the know” down here refers to San Francisco as “The City.”

Shirley made a limited appearance, pausing to say hello to the others on her way towards the coffee maker at the counter. Shirley was a “disciple of the land” in her words. Garand had limited tolerance for the holistic, vegan, mantra-chanting crowd, but made an exception for Shirley, who was as kind-hearted and generous as a human being could be. Shirley really believed that all mankind’s’ ills and errors could be corrected with the partaking of the proper herbs, Amazon rainforest variety preferred. In fact, that’s exactly as her business card read. Shirley kept the Paraiso tenants well stocked in their herbs and dietary supplements. Other than a one-time run-in concerning Shirley’s inability to discard any written material not at least twenty years old from her one hundred year old tinderbox of a cabin; Garand had rather enjoyed his conversations with her in the past.

Josef came and darted directly for the coffee. Upon slaking his thirst, he said hello and smiled effusively. Josef was a Polish Jew who was an artist, a writer and a schoolteacher. Da Vinci’s uomo universal, Universal Man, personified. Garand liked discussing Middle Eastern politics, as well as other Jewish issues with Josef. He was a learned man.

Next up was Smitty, beaming from ear to ear. This was de rigueur with Smitty, he always smiled as wide and as gracious as any department store Santa at Christmas time. His wife, Sharon, was still asleep; her graveyard shift at the state prison up the road ended at seven am. Sharon was a Psychiatric nurse at the corrections facility. Smitty had, at one time had a promising career as an up and coming ad man in Memphis, Tennessee. But, he had become increasingly worn down by the demands of servicing an industry he didn’t fully believe in. Smitty’s last two ad campaigns had sunk him. The first, for a shoe manufacturer on the west coast had precipitated his downfall. His catchall slogan “From our sweatshop to yours…” was not appreciated at sneaker corporate. He was offered a second chance, creating a new brand name for the American Cereal Group in Minneapolis. Smitty’s brand name for their new children’s cereal, “Fruity Bastard Motherfuckers…” was not the inspired stroke of genius the ad company’s bosses had been looking for. He took it in stride, and was now finding the happiness he’d been seeking in the form of a simpler existence in the hills of Paraiso Springs.
Bart, also employed at the prison, entered next. Bart started every morning off with a brisk run and a swim. Garand liked Bart from the moment he had referred to his working in the “culinary” department of the prison. Bart was a state corrections officer and the term culinary, as applied to the inmates eating facilities gave Garand a laugh.
And Anders of course was last. Anders was not a “social butterfly” by nature. As such he said his hellos and goodbyes, and kept to himself in the corner. Usually he would sit out on the deck with his concubine du jour, finish his coffee and be on his way back from whence he came.
Garand said hello.
“Hi, Garand, how’s tricks?”
“Another day in paradise. And you?”
“Just peachy, just peachy. Well, I’m off for an early hike to the Medicine Wheel, catch you a bit later.”
Garand flashed his signature Admirals salute and bade him farewell.
“Have a good hike Anders.”
That was the last time anyone saw Anders Vilene again, alive anyhow…

Anders was the human equivalent of a Quarter-Pounder with cheese. You’ve seen a million of ‘em, but couldn’t recall an individual one.
Anders Vilene was unremarkable and ordinary; neither warm nor cold; neither friendly nor unfriendly, just there; not unlike the 13,000 stores around the globe that held the Quarter-Pounders under their infrared heat lamps.

Garand greeted him, “Hey, Anders, how’s it going?”
“Not bad”, He replied.
“Cabin for two?”
“No, just me; I need a little bit of rest and quiet time this weekend.”
“Cabin nine ok?
“Sounds just fine”
And so goes conversation with Anders Vilene.
Garand handed him the key, one key this time; and nodded his head when he turned to exit.

The Paraiso Springs Irregulars

Saturday morning came upon Paraiso like a Peterbilt hustling down Highway 101. The nascent sun crested the Pinnacles National Park and traced its tendrils across the valley floor. A game of hide-and-seek amongst the shadows of the palm trees ensued. The solar orb won out. The resort was bathed in light. You could envision the first light, eons ago, peeking over the newly formed rock, bringing with it the hope and warmth of a new day dawning.
Saturday brought out the Paraiso long-term tenants. Coffee and pastries were being served at the clubhouse where Garand’s office was located. Like the star over Bethlehem; this was the weekly, impromptu gathering of the Paraiso Springs Irregulars, as Garand had lovingly named them.
First light brought out Derek, the oil painter extraordinaire from his weekly domicile in Pacific Grove. Derek reminded Garand of an English duke, and he referred to Derek as “The Viscount” in conversation. Six feet and three inches in height, salt and pepper beard and mustache; immaculately trimmed and manicured; the viscount was one of Garand’s favorite guests.
Following Derek was Ash. Ash was a physical therapist who worked in King City; the next village down the road. Ash was of average height and build, yet when he smiled (and he always smiled) he could’ve been eight feet tall and bulletproof. Ash was permanently welded to an ancient Indian wood flute, which he played with grace and dignity. Always one to offer a helping hand to the tenants; he was, as well, Paraiso’s unofficial trail guide and docent. Garand referred to Ash as the Alcalde, a Cuban term for an unofficial, honorary mayor or wise man in the village. As a human being, Ash was the closest thing to a Jesus in this day and age. Ash and Derek were the best of friends.
The rest of the gang sauntered in periodically after Derek and Ash.

Kay and Jay were long-term partners who worked part of the year in the frigid ice floes of Alaska as Halibut fishermen. (Fisherpersons?) They would earn enough to carry them through Spring and Summer, which they spent in quiet reflection at Paraiso. Quite a contrast compared to the life and death possibilities of commercial mariners in the Pacific Northwest.

 Below are pictures from Paraiso Springs