Liberals' Gift Is Letting Us Keep The Ghosts Of Tax Cuts Past
So it's done. Today President Obama was set to sign "the deal" by which he and his liberal co-conspirators in the federal legislature agreed to keep tax rates steady for two more years - in exchange for whopping unpaid-for spending on extended unemployment benefits.
I credit the president for taking the heat from his radical left-wing base. After all, he did promise many times to end the hated "Bush Tax Cuts." But the deal passed both houses of Congress, largely because they were able to attach more massive spending (and more sky-high federal debt) to what really amounts to an extension of the status quo on income tax rates. It's not like he's cutting anyone's taxes. So while the liberals howl about "tax cuts for the rich," they're probably secretly rejoicing over this deal. They get one more opportunity to fan the flames of class warfare. They get to keep the country marching toward economic disaster and collectivist government.
Don't expect this deal to fix the economy. Unemployment will stay high as investors continue to be cautious. Your wealth is not safe. If you haven't already done so, move now to protect your future (and that of your family). Start a business. Get a real financial education. Get in shape and stay away from socialized medicine as long as you can.
Not much of a "deal," if you ask me.
I can imagine how my kids would've felt if I'd given them such a "deal" at Christmas.
"Kids," I'd say, gathering the little cherubs around the comfy chair in my study, "it's like this. You all have too many toys. There are some kids - not in this neighborhood, and maybe not in our town, but somewhere - who don't have any toys at all. And now you have these long lists of toys you want for Christmas. When will this evil greed end?"
As tears well up in the eyes of the girls, my younger son (always the smart-mouth) would pipe up. "Didn't you ask us to write our lists?"
"Yes, I did. That's true. But now I see that something has to be done," I'd calmly reply. "So here's The Deal: this Christmas, Santa will be taking toys away from you instead of bringing you new ones."
"What?" they'd cry... "He what? Really? What the deuce?" ... and so forth.
"That's correct. So you'll need to set all your toys out under the tree by bedtime Christmas Eve. By morning they'll be gone. And then we'll drink egg nog. Merry Christmas!"
"Grumble!" my kids would say. The younger son would say something like "not much of a deal, if you ask me."
"Now, that's not all," I would add. "Since the problem is so big, and since you've been greedy little toy-hoarders your entire lives, you will be saddled with a family Toy Debt that will last until your grandkids die of old age. Every year at Christmas, I expect you to put even more toys under the tree to be taken away."
"Wait!" my smart-mouthed son would say. "How can we put more toys under the tree each year when you're taking ALL our toys THIS year?'
"Yeah!" cry the other kids. "Whaddya say about that, Dad?"
"I'm not taking any of your toys," I'd say, smooth as though I'm reading a teleprompter. "It's Santa. He's a metaphor for the liberal tax-and-spend Utopia of toy redistribution. Blame him."
"Look, Dad," my son would say, "this deal is too one-sided."
"Too bad," I'd reply. "We won. Elections have consequences."
"Yeah, but we're more aware now. You have to give us something or we'll revolt."
Hmm, I'd think. How can I appear to give them something?
"Tell you what," I'd say, the smooth portrait of generosity, "I'll let you keep your level of toy contributions the same as this year... for two more years. After that, I promise to yank that Toy Tax right up on you greedy little toycoons."
"And I'll even let you keep whatever toy you got for Christmas nine years ago."
After a moment of silence, the oldest would probably speak her mind. "What? Nine years ago I was a baby. My toy was just a little rattle!"
"Enjoy that! You may keep your rattle. Merry Christmas!"
"But I'm only eight," her brother would say.
"Bummer," I'd reply.
After a bit more discussion, my little smartie-pants would probably say something like, "Oh, well, maybe we can take turns with the rattle. This is the best deal we can get out of Dad - and Santa - at this time." And then I'd pat them on their heads and dismiss them to go and grumble in their rooms.
And I'd probably win the Nobel Prize for Parenting.