Every time some wan, weedy, coddled urbanite decides I'm to conform to his vision of Cacotopia, I want to drink eight Manhattans, light up a Cuban, and drive way, way too fast on the winding roads of Litchfield County with all of the windows down and the headlights off. Preferably with Led Zeppelin blaring from the speakers.
All this wonderful new revenue should be offered with gratitude to the State, because the State has graciously accepted the responsibility of paying for the results of eating and drinking and smoking. Thus the State should have a say in what you do, because the State cares. That company that makes ten cents a pack from cigarettes: Merchants of Death. The State that makes $4.76 in taxes per pack: a loving mother....
Never mind the line about guns. Again, tell me something new. It’s the penultimate demand that’s the most revealing. “I want to ban human drivers ASAP.” This does not stand for “A Silly Asinine Proposal.” It’s a sign of the new enlightened man, who has identified — correctly — the interior of the automobile as the last place where one can go about one’s business and do what one wishes. Right now there is a man in a large car who is smoking a cigarette and drinking a Coke, and possibly listening to a talk-radio show that’s ginning up the Benghazi Hoax for the 600th day. We can tax the jeebus out of the items he ingests, but he’ll still have that big car, which (1) will make the oceans rise like the gorge of a New York Times reporter sent to cover NASCAR for the Style section, and (2) allows the driver to live anywhere he wants and go where he pleases.
It baffles the mind that these things are still allowed.