F*@k the man!!!

Just got back from the Title & Registration Office, also known as the 3rd level of hell. I was a bit tentative upon entering the place, not because of the fiery read décor or the fat bellied little imps poking patrons with sticks, but more for the fact of the little noticed sign hanging by the door that read: “We f*@k you because we can.”

So there I was, happy as a clam (please note that clam rhymes with sham), ready to grab my license plate and head out the door. I had done everything right. I had saved, and saved, and saved, resolutely sacrificing to buy my used FZ1. The paper work was there, proof of insurance, title, and delightfully honest sales receipt filled out by yours truly. I had jumped through the hoops, a blissfully ignorant lap dog, ready to grab my plates and head out on my first ride.

Bam…crunch….slap to the face. The attendant, wearing a strangely bemused grin, slides my plates across the table. Ready to head out the door, a voice, from the red she-devil pulls me back with a, “That will be 565 dollars sir”.

“Wait. What?” My heart sinks in horror.

“You see” she continues, “the money that you earned at your low wage job….well that is taxed. Suck from the government nipple and you pay. Then, we let you take that money, dream, and dream, and scheme, and buy high priced items that ultimately convince you that you are happy. We take that money that was just taxed, and then we tax you again. We call it the ‘F*@k you’ tax. Live in a high income town, and we assume that you are rich, so we tax you more. Then, we let you earn more money until you die….so that we can tax you again.”

Me, well, I stood breathless. I was about to cry. I had hopes of escaping my low income mind numbing job for a brief series of moments (in Europe they call them “vacations”), but now, having been taxed for paying my taxes, I was pretty much screwed.

Red tinged and hasty footed, I walked out the door. They let me leave the not so pearly gates of hell with a smile, knowing full well, that I wasn’t going anywhere. That my freedom was tied to their taxes, and that my soul, monetary or otherwise, would return.

Grrrrrrrr…….

Pretty but expensive.