Tax Abatements Stink; I Pee In Sinks

 

So. I was down to City Hall last night with plans to protest a development deal that was structured with tax abatements. The tax abatements are lures to attract greedy bottom feeder corporations to our area for their business expansions. Stink baits are what these abatements are, pure and simple—stink baits.

The businesses promise big numbers of high-paying jobs and deliver many fewer jobs and at far lower wage scales To date, the few of the companies who have delivered on their promises are overwhelmed by the great majority who do not.

I don’t like it when our fuckball Republican governor uses tax abatements and I really don’t like it when our liberal City Council uses them. Local businesses who have provided jobs, community support and paid their fucking taxes for decades can’t qualify for these handouts. We locals are simply not pretty enough to gain those favors. Politicians, as my granddaddy used to say, want strange pussy. Like Brandon’s posting today over to My Own Private Idaho, politicians are not happy with the one at home, they need new stuff.

OK, except for that idiot fuckball Arnold Swarz-in-koff-en-burgher. He got his strange at home, and that entire dealie is plenty strange in my opinion.

Like I say, it stinks.

I was sitting in the Council meeting audience with a butt show planned. Streaker Jones, as always, was there to provide crowd control for when I flashed my gorgeous ass. I had Ingrid pluck and dye my butt hair into a neon green “No Relocation Without Taxation!”

I thought this a clever word smithing. But my slogan contained too many words to allow my usual picture. I like my moon shows to have one cheek bearing the slogan and the other a caricature befitting an enhancement of said slogan.

Having said that, I thought the slogan had plenty of punch as a stand-alone.

Anyway, when the mayor spotted me in the audience he motioned Roshandra Washington-Johnson, Council Bailiff and my ex number five, to bring him the rebuttal speaker list for last night’s meeting. After glancing at the list and then staring at me with steely eyes, he announced that discussion of the development issue was tabled for thirty days.

I was pissed, but Streaker Jones and I left without incident, and prepared to leave the building. I needed to pee so I told Streaker Jones, I said, “Why don’t you go grab the goat while I go pee,” and I tossed him the keys to my vintage Pontiac GTO.

We old farts call classic GTO’s “goats”. And here, again, I’m perplexed with that fucking punctuation dealie about where to place the period with quotation marks that aren’t used with an actual quote. That crap makes me nuts.

Usually, I pee in the sink to save water, but I don’t usually pee in public restroom sinks. I have encountered several unreasonable men in public restrooms—ignorant fuckers unable to work their way through the brilliant logic of sink peeing. But like I said, I was already pissed at wasting my time with the cancellation and when I pushed my way through the door to the mens’ room, I headed straight to the long stainless steel counter of sinks.

There were six sinks set into the counter with customers washing their hands in numbers one, and three. I walked to the last in line, unzipped, and peed in the number six bowl. The guy closest to me at number three, a shorter man in his mid-thirties wearing a suit, said, “That’s disgusting, what in the world do you think you’re doing?”

I answered him with, “Pissing in the sink and saving a full gallon of water.”

He mumbled something silly and called me inappropriate and then said, “I’m reporting this to the authorities.”

Under different circumstances a threat of reporting my activities to authority figures gives me reason to pause. Not here. Not at City Council chambers where the authority figure’s figure is etched into my brain with the clarity that can only be had with hands-on experience.

I finished, tucked my pecker away, washed my hands and rinsed the sink with the same water, and then zipped my shorts. I always zip post implementing the wash/rinse cycle for maximum cleanliness. T-Q over to Thank-Q For Common Sense posted a thingie about assholes who don’t wash their hands after using the bathroom yesterday.

Doesn’t that shit drive you crazy? Assholes handle their peckers and wipe their dirty asses and then walk right past the sink. Dirty-assed fuckers.

I dried my hands and checked myself out in the big mirror behind the sinks. I ran a hand through my hair and pushed an errant eyebrow into place with a wet finger. Show Time!

When I walked out the door I was met with a shouted, “That’s him right there. The big guy in shorts.”

The little suited man was pointing at me and speaking to Roshandra. Roshandra is a magnificent woman who almost stands to my 6’4” in spiked heels, and she looks ten feet tall in uniform with a gun at her hip.

“Thank you, sir. You can move along now, sir. I’ll take this from here.” When the man hesitated to leave, Roshandra took me by the arm and said, “You, Mr. Johnson, are coming with me.”

She started walking me out the building and said over her shoulder to the little guy, “You go on back to the meeting, sir. I can handle this man.”

That was definitely a “no shit” statement. Love life with my ex was as good as it gets. Roshandra is the only one of my ex-wives with whom I’ve had sex after we divorced. I can’t talk about that—book plot line stuff. I’ll just say that Roshandra always gives me a buzz.

She walked me outside and released my arm. “For the love a Pete, baby. Why are you peeing in Roshandra’s sink? You lost your mind?”

“Nope,” my response. “It’s part of my new plan to save billions of gallons of water. We’re developing a product—the One-Cup Wonder Flush.”

I stared into her big brown eyes and an idea popped into my head. “Hey,” I told her. “I need a test subject for the womens’ version of the product. How about we get together and you pee in some sinks for me. Nothing sexy, just science.”

The look on her face was all the “No” I needed. She shook her head and said, “Mooner, baby, I love you, but you are total bat shit crazy.”

Streaker Jones and I headed home to do some night fishing and Carta Blanca beer drinking. When we were perched on the edge of the dock, baited hooks in the water, I thought maybe Streaker Jones could help me my developmental problem.

“Here’s my problem with the womens’ version…” I didn’t finish my thought before Streaker Jones interrupted.

“Dammit, Mooner. Zip it.”

I did. Manana, y’all.

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6 Responses to “Tax Abatements Stink; I Pee In Sinks”

  1. Squatlo says:

    You’re the funniest mother fucker blogging, Mooner. Laughing out loud.

    Fuck Rick Perry. (or as Stephen Colbert spells it, “Rick Parry”)

  2. Squat. No, you’re the funniest. Pluck Flick Purrie!

  3. chrisinphx says:

    peeing in the sink is genious! At my house we dont flush unless its been peed in at least 4 times. Plus Im short and would probably need to get a step stool so Id be above counter height

  4. Chris.

    No problemo, Senor. Coming soon to a store near you is The One-Cup Wonder Flush! This light, portable man’s unit contains everything a sophisticated water-saving man needs to pee in sinks. We haven’t settled on a retail price yet, but I’ll have them for sale here soon, and at a discount.

  5. Well, I think ya got me beat.
    I have pissed right in the middle of the Visitors Information parking lot before, I used to piss off my back porch right downtown and have pissed on my share of police car tires but my hat is off to you Mooner.
    That is a classic.

  6. admin says:

    Busted Nucks. I’ve never thought of peeing as social commentary. I’ve done it for sport, but not to make a point. I need to think on this a bit.

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