Portland, OR – A new proposal, H.R. 3311, calls for a $150 million dollar test project designed to help the government monitor a mileage-based gas tax that would monitor all U.S. travelers. The bill was introduced by Rep. Earl Blumenauer, D-Ore.

Earl, are you Blumenauer crazy?

Now, as I have said before, there are LOTS of things I can crank on, but being a car gorilla at heart, this hits below the belt (now if only gorillas wore belts…). Here are the ramifications of such a heiney-headed move (HHM).

First off, the tax itself. In a country as large as America, much pleasure and business is conducted between Cracker Barrel restaurants. If you start taxing miles, we are all going back to the fucking 18th century, where we never need travel more than 20 miles from our home in our lifetime.  Hey, this is just the thing Obamarino needs to fund his foray into fascism. Oh, but wait, if you have to pay taxes on travel, you won’t travel. If you won’t travel, you won’t generate any taxes. But you WILL decimate the countries economy. Insert “Duh” here.

Hey Earl, come over here and turn around so I can hit you in the back of your fucking head. Did you go to a party college (you know, where Mikko went) or was it B.O.C.E.S.?

 To quote the late great Billy Mays, “But wait, there’s more”.

In the new American single-fucker, er, I mean, single-payer health system, this can bring on a whole new meaning to Big Bro. I can see it now: we will probably get tasered for just stopping at a Jack in the Box to pee. Black helicopters will circle the “blue plate” districts in our towns, looking with “FatVision goggles” for the telltale jiggle and rippling lipids of a fat man—a fat man sprinting across three lanes of traffic to make it unseen to the Country Buffet from his car parked over at the mall. Men in Ninja gear will rappel out and “down” the running fatman like a Rhino chased by Ocabogian poachers. McDonald’s will be putting all of their new restaurants inside LA Fitness’s. People will be parking in “Fat Lots” where like-minded businesses that cater to the more corpulent desires can shuttle you to your favorite Gordita stand, which will be hidden behind the façade of a hardware store or Laundromat, ala the fake Rock Ridge in Blazing Saddles.

Of course, you will need to say the password to get in.  My suggestion would be Lipitor, for at least the first week.  Once inside, you will whisper your desires to a dark glassed swarthy gentleman who will lead you to a booth in the corner, where you will partake of your triple thick vanilla malt by sucking it into a large syringe and injecting it directly into your aorta. Then you will lean back, close your eyes, and drift off into a cholesterolic coma.  I know, it sounds like I have tried this before, but we won’t go there.

There is also the burgeoning aftermarket of tiny two cylinder engines that install on top of your 6 liter V8 to fool the GPS and the Carbon Police into thinking you are getting the mandated 104 MPG.  I can’t wait.

There, I’ve done it. I have actually frightened myself. I must now get my big beige ass into my Hemi Ram and go for two Six Dollar Burgers at Carl’s Jr, and do some donuts in the parking lot.

You’ll never take me alive, Bastards!!

I ♥ Liquid Dinosaurs

The Crank