Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The Joy of Dumping

The Subversive Consumer * * has moved past his anger, you will be relieved to know. Like all intelligent creatures, he adapts. And having once been filled with rage over having to pay twice for socialist social services, then having to endure the half efforts of the half witted socialists delivering them, now he smiles; not the shit eating smile of the citizens of a socialist state enduring double charging for half delivered services, but the smile of a man celebrating the transformation of expense into revenue. The Subversive Consumer dumps his garbage (which is free); and now, his neighbors pay him to carry off their trash. I am leaving out some details, but I will explain ...

The tire crisis. I was with the Subversive Consumer that stormy day when he changed the tires on his truck. He was angry that day. He grew angrier with each tire, as new replaced old. The old tires would take up precious room in his Prussian themed garage; and to deposit them at one of the state designated tire recycling centers would involve delay and expense. When the four old tires were off, and the four new tires on, he stood underneath the flag of the III Bataillone Linien-Infanterie * and shook his fist at the pagan gods of Old Prussia demanding strength and justice.

Fenris Badwulf, I care. I climbed into the passenger seat and told the Subversive Consumer that I would take him to a place where there were no line ups, no paperwork, no delays, and no fees. His old tires would be gone, and the perfection of his Prussian themed garage would be restored. But the Subversive Consumer is a Prussian-Canadian, which means he celebrates being stubborn. Even the stubborn Saxons, Bavarians, Hessians, and Hanoverians, all agree that Prussians are more stubborn than they * . So, in angry silence, the Subversive Consumer drove with white knuckled intensity, to the state designated tire recycling center. He had the recycling fee ready, some dirty twenty dollar bills in an envelope.

The sign says open; the socialist says closed. We waited behind three other cars. The sign said Tire Recycling. The Subversive Consumer had a brochure he had printed off the internet showing times and locations of the state approved tire recycling centers. This was the address, and this was the time; he held the money filled envelope in his left hand. He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the dash of his truck. Time is money, he muttered. There were domestic tasks to be done back at his house. The garage needed attention. I watched youtube videos on my android phone * * * . When we got to the front of the line, the socialist social services sector worker told us that this was not a tire recycling center, that they did not take tires, and that the fine for dumping was $50,000. If we wanted to recycle our tires we should check the internet. The obese socialist closed the sliding window and turned his attention to his steak and cheese sandwich which dripped sauce on the vacation brochure for a sex tourist hotel in Thailand.

The Subversive Consumer was thinking about just throwing the tires off his truck; but that would get him a fifty thousand dollar fine, he muttered. He slowly tore into neat squares of paper the print out from the state website listing the times and locations of tire recycling centers like the strength returns of the Third Romanian Army * . I told him they would charge him two hundred thousand; fifty for each tire. I suggested that the obese socialist was on some sort of commission: driving the tax payers he worked for to acts of rage just bumped up the fine revenue of the state: if he got ten percent, then that ten percent of two hundred thousand was twenty thousand; enough to pay for the virgins, latex catsuits, dope, liquor, air fare, hotel, and fatty fried meats, that any bolshevik lusts for during the long hours between work breaks. Dragging the bolshevik out of his booth and necklacing * him would not work: he was too fat for the tire to fit around his shoulders. So, defeated, the Subversive Consumer and I drove away. He would try my solution, the state having failed to deliver the services it had promised, even in the face of the money in the envelope.

Not far from there, and not far from you either, is a strip of road, not too well travelled. The vegetation in the ditch is long and needs cut. The socialist social services sector, paid to trim weeds and keep the road ditch in repair, has overlooked this ditch, even as their gimlet eyes stare down on the tourist information for Cuban resorts, Thai brothel hotels, and Mexican opium dens with views of the ocean. We stopped. I got out to have a smoke. The Subversive Consumer got out too. This is not a tire recycling center, he said. I walked into the weeds maybe six feet before I found the first over grown tire. Beyond it was another. The jaw of the Subversive Consumer dropped. I was standing on a dumped tire: why had the state not (a) cleaned up this outrage, this rape of Mother Earth; (b) why had the state not fined the evil citizen tax payer the fifty thousand fine; (c) why had the statist, bolshevik media not exposed this scandal involving the state, the incompetent state employees, and the whole hypocrisy of the environmentalist movement? There was a bunny rabbit watching us from a distance. It had made a home under an abandoned microwave. Then the eyes of the Subversive Consumer opened wide, and his hand wandered towards where he wallet was hidden and protected in his pants like an underground factory producing revenge weapons. That is aluminum, he said, picking up some grass overgrown bit of metal. We found aluminum in that ditch, and some copper.

The Subversive Consumer kept his tire recycling money, and he recycled his tires just like the other seven people who dumped those seven tires. He harvested some aluminum and copper on that rainy day, not too long ago. When we returned to his garage where we sat at the work bench under the flag of the III Bataillone Linien-Infanterie I challenged him to do the math. I watched him count out the recycling money, note it in his journal, make his debit and credit entries, then put it in his wallet. But the Subversive Consumer was not fully convinced. Surely the obese sixty dollar an hour, hundred thousand dollar a year pensioned, bankable sick days, union protected, socialist voter, state employee had been wrong that the open Tire Recycling center was closed. Next time, and forever, he would do the Prussian Canadian thing and take his state designated garbage to the state designated place and pay the state established fee. Then there was a knock on his garage door.

Not the Gestapo. No, it was the Subversive Consumers neighbor. He had noticed that the Subversive Consumer had put new tires on his truck. He had noticed that he had driven off with the old tires, and returned with them gone. He told us his tale of woe, how he had, two times now, attempted to take his old tires to the state designated tire recycling center, money in hand, and had failed. Could his neighbor help him out? Obviously the Subversive Consumer was wise in the ways of the state. Could he take his tires to the wherever they are supposed to go and make them go away? He pressed the tire recycling fee into the hands of the Subversive Consumer, along with a few bucks for his trouble. The look in the Subversive Consumers face was like the explorer Cortes, being presented with a wagon of gold. Bright and shiny, full of prospects for the future. The path to Tenochtitlan was clear now.

Do the math, I told the Subversive Consumer. He held in his hand the tire recycling fee for eight tires. That is cash money, I said. Factor in the taxes you would have to pay, your time, depreciation of assets, running expenses ... it worked out to more than he made in an eight hour day as a wage slave, and he would be paying no taxes to support the half efforts of the double dipping socialist social services sector. Why pay for a service that is not delivered? The Subversive Consumer looked down at the pile of dirty money, then up at the portrait of Frederick the Great which hung over the side door of his garage. A hint of a smile crossed his face, which is saying a lot for a Prussian Canadian.

Aftermath. The Subversive Consumer has made a side business of waste management, kinda like the red skins sell smokes, or welfare people own houses under other names, or food bankers run restaurants. He does his neighbors favors: he carts their state des garbage away, he takes the state designated fee, and he makes their problems go away. He dresses in second hand clothes from Value Village, his truck is so beat up that a gangbanger would not steal it, and he does his community proud by salvaging aluminum and copper from roadsides and other places where people dump that sort of stuff. The state continues to not provide the services they charge taxes for, and now the Subversive Consumer does not pay taxes to pay for those undelivered services. As for the environment, in a certain place I know, a road with ditches overgrown with weeds, there is a population boom amongst the bunny rabbits because they have so many more places to live now, than before.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.
xpd Mitchieville

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