Occupy the South End!!
Down at the O-Zi-Ya Body Shop, the Debating Society was going at it hot and heavy concerning the underground economy. Deadhead Davy was leaned over the fender of Ralph Stankowski’s prized ’67 Cobra, gooping bondo with a putty knife into a nasty dent from a run-in with what Ralph told his mizzus was a deer. Us boyz knew better … and she did too, but for the sake of South End civility, plus the insurance claim, we all put our orders in for roadkill venison.
Ralph was jawing on Davy about deadbeat illegals, under-the-table con artists and losers on food stamps. “Leeches on society,” he proclaimed. All Davy had said was he wished he didn’t have to pay the same sales tax as the rich folks, meaning,
Ralph figured, Ralph. “You people,” Ralph practically yelled, even though we were all within ten feet of each other, “you think we OWE you a living. You smoked too much of that LDS, Davy. The 60’s are over and you missed the next few decades. Time to catch up.”
It’s a tough crowd at the Body Shop. Too much paint sniffing, too many insurance scams. That paint job for Ralph would cost half again what you’d pay. Sort of the opposite of healthcare without insurance.
“I pay taxes, Ralph,” Deadhead was protesting. “I just want em to be fair.” “Fair??” our deerslayer was asking. “Nobody should pay much taxes, you ask me. Wasted on bullshit. Wasted by the damn government. My money should be my money. I earned it. Good luck to the leeches.”
“Like Boeing?” I asked, pulling open Snap-On drawers just to admire the array of wrenches, sockets, drivers and all the rest in immaculate order, accessible at a glance. “Don’t start THAT, Skeeter, all that class warfare crap,” Jimmy said from over by the grease pit. “And quit fiddling with the tool chest. Big John’ll have a fit if you get something out of place.”
“Davy pays more taxes than Boeing, Ralph. Hell, I pay more than Boeing and General Electric put together and I don’t pay doodley-squat. What do YOU call it? Job creator subsidies? I call it Corporate Foodstamps.”
Ralph spluttered like a clogged windshield washer. “I sold insurance for 35 years, paid way more taxes than you two clowns, don’t tell ME you pay your fair share.”
“I sure wouldn’t try to tell you much of anything, Ralph! I’m saying we pay More than our fair share. Cause we let you Fat Cats off the hook. Money to buy vintage cars and wreck em. Motorhomes. Vacation houses. Half the country works for minimum wage. How fair you think that is??”
And so it went. Just another day down at the Body Shop where the dents get pulled and the scratches buffed out, where order is restored and everything is kept in its proper place, where the universe spins nicely on its greased bearings while the rich get richer and the poor get bitchier. Poor Davy. With friends like me, who needs Ralph?
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