Ben Franklin once famously said that only two things are certain in human
existence: death and taxes. Certainly, the man who had helped in the American Revolution, touched off
by a 3% tax on tea, would be utterly flabbergasted by the modern US of A, as many citizens end up forking over significant portions of their in come to both state and federal governments, along with myriad other goods and service taxes. Fortunately for him, Franklin died in 1790 and
remains dead. He probably wouldn’t be that surprised at the things Americans are taxed on, as the past had its own share of ludicrous taxes. He would probably be surprised that
we are willing to pay them, after all the fuss created by not wanting to
pay a fat, insensitive government for the privilege of carrying on about
our daily lives. Seeing as the sting of Tax Time is fresh in our memories, let us review some of the oddest taxes from history...
Despite the Plague™ sweeping our already
slightly haggard-looking planet,
people keep on doing the things
they do. They may have to do them
at a grudgingly maintained distance
while donning customized masks,
but they muddle through. They still
bitch about grocery shopping, make
grand future plans for travel that
they definitely won’t do (plague or
not), let themselves go for any excuse
and even sometimes move out
from their ex’s apartment, having to
go it alone. Sometimes, they’re forced
to look for apartments that are available
on a part-time, 7-11 employee’s
salary, and our job is to make something
that skirts building code violations
through bribery and intimidation
sound like a great deal. Let’s take
a look at some shining examples from
previous listings as examples, to help
you become the best property management
company professional or
real estate agent you can be...
Strip club DJs come in all shapes, sizes, races
and ages—but, there is one thing that we all
share in common: an MP3 folder full of the
same dozen songs that have been deemed
safe to play for pretty much any dancer or
crowd. However, we rarely stop to reflect
on the messages we are sending by playing
these supposedly one-size-fits-all strip club
jams. And, no, I m not talking about obviously
messed-up choices like "She Talks To Angels
or "P.I.M.P. Rather, I m going to be unpacking the problematic elements of songs that
have been systematically given privilege, due
to historical inequality. Okay, now that I m
speaking the Portland language, here is my
list of songs that need to be removed from
every strip club DJ s playlist...
I worked as a "lingerie model."Throughout the Portland area,
there are several shops in which guys (and gals and anyone
who wants to stop by) are given a private striptease show,
similar to a private dance, but more...well, private. There is a
"glass tobacco pipe" euphemism that refers to our shops as
"lingerie modeling,"in case a committed husband is out shop
ping for lingerie to give to his loving wife, but needs a second
opinion and/or model to make sure it fits. And, of course, a
hundred-plus-per-hour service offered at three in the morning is just the place to have a model demonstrate how well
your wife’s new gift will fit...right?...
The End Of The Line wasn’t much different from the beginning. I stepped off the
train, onto another platform of dripping
shadows, but this time, there were no
lights or stairs. The doors of the train slid
shut and it stayed put, blocking the tunnel in the direction ahead, and back the
way I came wasn’t going to solve any cases. So, I did a few rounds of the platform
and then stopped in the middle, looking
at my shoes and pondering what that
weirdo on the train was planning for
dinner on a night like this. The drip start
ed to sound like the walls were salivating and grinding their jaws around me.
I tried to think of it as rain, and as I did
so, I noticed something funny. It wasn’t
dripping on me. In fact, there were no
puddles around to speak of and the air
seemed dry. I walked around again, listening at the dripping and trying to discern a source. It moved around on me,
one moment across the tracks and the
next just over my shoulder. I decided that the dripping was fucking with me...
Friends! It’s been so long!!! I don’t even know what year it is and I’m all out of blow. Luckily, it appears the clubs are opening up. So, once again, our humble little rag answers to the call to be stuffed back in shelves for you lovely patrons to jerk off to and find out about what I hope will be a slew of exciting events that may or may not be happening around town, depending on them case numbers. Fingers crossed—after you wash your hands, of course...
It’s Monday, which means "medible
Monday" specials at the dispensaries.
So, being the cheap bastard that I am,
I went by my local weed store for some
gummies. On a whim, I asked the lady
behind the counter if she had anything
other than the usual suspects (Wyld,
Windberry, Whateverstartswithw), be
cause I wanted to spice up my pallet.
She recommended a product and told
me that her shop hasn’t "had any trouble with it, when it comes to legality."
I had no idea what she meant by this
(and, this is why I’m keeping the location anonymous), but if anything is legally questionable and flavored with
sour apple, I’m going to try it...
