Tea Party Bedfellows
Talk around the Wheelhouse, the Marina’s Lounge, was nothing but the IRS for awhile this month, holding up the Tea Party 501-c-4’s non profit, non political applications. “The damn Government,” Cap’t. Bill recited in a litany of obscenities, “they’ve gone too far this time. Tea Party’s got rights too, you know.”
“Gee, Bill,” Two Toke smirked behind a 12 oz micro brew bottle, “I can’t imagine why they’d think maybe it was a political action group. Or why you Tea Party boyz want to hide the donors if you’re just making educational ads.”
“We got rights too, Mr. I Want to Sell Dope to Kids.” Two Toke runs the South End Greenworks Medical Marijuana Dsipensary down at the old Tyee Store. Perfectly legal, Tom argues, even if the law is pretty fuzzy.
“Gimme a break, Bill,” Harold, the night bartender says, not one usually for advocacy positions of any sort other than drink recommendations. “They don’t want to pay taxes any more than you do. But what’ve we got a damn IRS for anyway. They don’t pay, you pick it up. Me too.” “I don’t mind paying taxes,” Two Toke chimes in with salt for a wound. “Just doing my civic duty, boyz.”
Cap’t. Bill is practically gnawing the top off his Bud bottle he’s so mad. “What are you talking about??? NOBODY likes to pay taxes! The illegal aliens don’t pay taxes.! The welfare queens don’t pay taxes! You drug addicts don’t work so you don’t pay either!!” he scowls at Two Toke menacingly. T.T. grins over his micro.
“That’s right,” Bill slams his Bud down sending an indignant foamy froth over the top. “I pay more because all you freeloaders get off Scot free.”
Harold, wiping a glass with a bar towel, starts to speak up, but Tom says cheerily, “A Bud for the Cap’t., Harold. On me. But don’t tell him who donated it. He wouldn’t want anyone to know who his friends are.” Harold pops a Budweiser, slides it to Bill. Bill tips it toward Two Toke and takes a swig. “Thanks, Tom,” he says and winks. “I promise not to tell.”
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