MONTECITO MURMURS: OLD JOURNOS DOING DRINKS, DISCUSSING FLAT TAX

The Underbelly of America's Most Expensive ZIP Code

Last summer, owing to the high amount of methane emitted by their cow population, New Zealand announced plans to institute a flatulence tax on cattle farmers.

A tax on cows due to their methane output is already a reality in Denmark, which charges $110 annually per cow. And also in Ireland, which assesses a gas tax on $18 per cow.

This is because Bill Gates, a flatulent expert, has declared that cow flatulence is the leading cause of global warming.

Lest such a tax be considered here, those who govern us should bear in mind that colonists revolted against King George III over the issue of taxation. 

After American independence was declared, and Britain beaten, Americans paid no tax of any kind for 78 years… until Abraham Lincoln instituted a 3% income tax to help pay for the Civil War

Since that time, taxation has gotten way out of control and government has become almost as tyrannical as… King George III.

With that in mind, we offer this cautionary tale of woe:

It came a time when there was a tax on everything.  

Well, almost everything.

There was tax on money earned, a tax on money unearned.  A tax on money spent, a tax on money saved.  Sales tax on everything you bought and sales tax on everything you sold—and an extra tax on booze and tobacco.  Tax on buying and owning a house.  Tax on buying and owning a car.  Death tax, inheritance tax, dog license tax, fishing license tax, hunting license tax; a tax on this, a tax on that, and a tax on everything else.  It went on and on and on.

But government still needed more money. Because government was growing larger and larger while those employed by the government were doing less and less work. (Every other Friday off, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseum, as The People tried to get government’s attention to get things done but rarely got past robotic phone recordings.) More government employees meant more health benefits and more pensions, the cost of which grew higher and higher. 

And yet the little work government employees did made more and more demands on the people they purported to govern, which meant more red tape, as in, rubber-stamped approvals at multiple levels for just about everything.

And thus, a supposedly “democratic” form of government had become more like communism then, well, communism.

So one day, Old Journos Doing Drinks enjoyed one too many and thought it would be a nice gesture to assist government by conjuring up a new tax so they could honestly pay for everything instead of printing money out of thin air and pretending that creating money based on nothing was the solution, even though their nonsense resulted in massive inflation.

"But there is nothing left to tax," says Old Fashioned, so named for his favorite libation. 

Martini (named for his own favorite) shakes his head. “We have to think of something. Government needs more money." He takes a sip of salty gin.  "There must be something taxable that still is not taxed.”

"I know," I say knowingly.  "We must do as they’re doing with cows in New Zealand and Denmark and institute a flatulence tax. But not only. We must assess and exact a flatulence tax on all U.S. citizens.”

The table goes silent while its occupants breathe this in. 

Finally, Old fashioned gets it. "A tax on passing wind? That’s ingenious!”

“And environmentally correct,” adds Martini.

“But how can it be enforced?" asks Old Fashioned.

"Easy," I say. "It is a fact that everyone passes wind. Can that be disputed?”

Old Fashioned and Martini shake their heads in unison; been there, done that, cannot be denied.

"Which means,” I continue, “nobody can argue whether or not such tax is owed.  Furthermore, those who pass wind a lot should pay more tax than those who do not."

Martini sips his gin and nods. "That is very justifiable," he reasons. "Those who pass a lot of wind are polluting the air we breathe.  So they should pay more tax."

"Precisely," I say. 

"But how can one determine who passes wind a little and who passes wind a lot?" poses Old Fashioned.

I smile a knowing smile as I dip into the pocket of my jacket and pluck out an instrument.

“What’s that?” asks Martini.

I hold it up. "The Flatulator."

"The what?" 

"My own invention." I wave it around like a baton.

"How does it work?" asks Old Fashioned.

"I consulted a gastroenterologist and he dissected all the various gases of flatulence and determined that flatus contains five ingredients that cause odors:  ammonia, hydrogen sulfide, indole, skatole and short-chain fatty acids.  Next I consulted an inventor who created a gizmo that identifies one or more of these gases in the immediate vicinity. The Flatulator.” I  flick a switch and turn it on. The Flatulator immediately sounds an alarm and flashes red.  "Hey, which one of you guys farted?"

Old Fashioned blushes.

"Ingenious," says Martini, holding his nose  "But we can't follow everyone around with Flatulators, can we?”

"Of course not," I reply. "We don't follow taxpayers around for income tax either.  We have an honor system, with random checks and audits to keep our populace reasonably honest. With our Flatulator,” I wave it around, “we can conduct random checks and audits."

"How would that actually work?" asks Old Fashioned.

"Let us say that Ms. Jones pays a declared tax on three cheezers per day," I explain.  "One day, while out in public, Ms. Jones is secretly followed by a tax inspector equipped with The Flatulator.  If it transpires that Ms. Jones breaks wind more than three times—and this takes no account of her private flatus—she is in violation of the tax code.  Ms. Jones is confronted on the spot and issued a citation for back tax, excuse the pun, and a penalty.  The beauty here is that taxpayers will be more concerned with public confrontation than the financial penalty, so they'll pay up from the get-go."

"But what if Ms. Jones,” poses Martini, “had the bad luck to eat broccoli and beans for lunch on the very day she was assessed with this Flatulator?" 

"As you say," I shrug.  "Bad luck."

"Perhaps we need a legal opinion," says Old Fashioned.  "What if your Ms. Jones decides to sue the tax authorities for invasion of privacy?"

"Nothing is private so far as taxation is concerned," I say. "If Ms. Jones has been dishonest about her tax obligations, she should count her blessings that she is not criminally prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."

"I like it," says Martini.  "As I said before, it will improve the environment because people will become motivated to cut back on foods that create flatulence.” 

"Exactly,” I say. “People will pass wind less often, especially in public, if only because the Put-Put Police might be on their tail, no pun intended."

"You realize," says Old Fashioned with a gleam in his eye.  "This may give wind to a whole new tax."

"I see where you're headed with this," says Martini.

"A pooping tax?" I say.

At this point a man in a white coat approaches our table. “I’ve been searching for you three,” he says. “You forgot to take your meds.”

Indeed.

Because the amount we are taxed is insane.