My name is Vivian. I am a widow living in Kearney Township. I am writing to thank Jarris Rubingh and the other commissioners who are advocating for lower taxes. Great job, to you all, and keep up the great work!
I would like to share with you how these vicious and draconian taxes adversely affect my poor old life.
I can not believe that the government forces me to recycle. I don’t want to recycle. I don’t want to reduce, or reuse. But, I am forced to by the anti-liberty recycling program of Antrim County.
If there were no such program in this county, and I did not recycle, then I would rightly throw everything in the trash. This is my right as an American. We have been filling up trash cans and landfills for a hundred years. Now, this leftist County government requires me to recycle. How dare they!
How, you might ask, does the county REQUIRE me to recycle? They made it so economical! Before recycling, I was paying $30 per month to rent a trash bin from a company. I would throw everything in there, because I wanted to get my money’s worth. But, when the recycling program came, I figured that I had to use it since I was paying for it anyway. Then, I wasn’t filling up my bin any more and decided to pay by the bag which costs me only $4 a month. I pay about $10 per year in millage taxes to the recycling program.
Thus, I am saving so much money by recycling that I AM FORCED to use it! What an insidious government program!
The other day, I was knitting a sweater for my little Chihuahua, Princess. I got up to go to the kitchen to pour myself a nice glass of Fresca soda. Princess is a dear, but she can become a bit aggressive when she has not been fed. The other day, feeding my dear Princess slipped my mind for a good portion of the day. I guess she was sick of waiting. She started barking and growling and biting my cane. She eventually pulled my cane away, and down I fell to the floor.
I must have hit a pan from the stove on my way down. When I finally came to, my face was covered in blood, and there was a cast iron skillet next to my head.
I have never bothered to buy a fancy new-fangled cell phone. I have had an avocado-colored rotary dial phone attached to my wall since 1985. It works fine and it has a long enough phone cord that I can sit and talk to my friends and grandkids from the kitchen table.
I was able to get up and use my avocado phone. I called 911. I was so whoozy that I did not remember my address. But, the 911 person automatically knew my address and my name (which I also could not recall).
When the gorgeous muscled firefighters arrived. I asked them the obvious question: “What’s my name?”
The firefighter responded, “Can you please put your dog away?”
I then asked the second obvious question: “How much is this costing me?”
You know what the handsome firefighter said? He said, “Nothing”.
I may be old, and I may have had a cast iron skillet knock me out cold, but I know a raw deal when I see it. There is no way that 911 can know where I am for free. There is no way that they could send a fire truck full of sexy firefighters to my house for free.
I know what is really going on here: property taxes. That is how all this gets paid for. If Jarris Rubingh has taught me anything, it is that property taxes are bad.
The 911 millage costs me about the same as two bags of groceries every year. Too much, I say. Take it away! Do you know how much yarn I can buy with that money? Do you know how many sweaters I could knit for Princess?
COMMISSION ON AGING
I like to go down and have lunch at the Commission on Aging. I have so many friends there. The volunteers and staff are very nice. It is a wonderful time. Since my accident, I have needed meals delivered to me. Nice volunteers in a special truck come by, deliver meals and even put some extra food in my ice box. They never charged me for this, and that made me suspicious.
I do not like to be tricked. So, imagine my surprise when I learned that the Commission on Aging is also funded by PROPERTY TAXES! I vowed never to eat anything else from the Commission on Aging.
I told this to my son. He said that was a bad idea, and that I should get enough to eat. He also explained that it really wasn’t costing me that much at all in taxes.
I said “Son, I don’t like to be tricked, though. “
He said, “Ms. Vivian, I’m not your son. I’m with the fire department. You had another accident.”
Princess and I are tired of all these taxes. Get rid of them. All that money that is going to these “free” services belongs somewhere else. That money should go to its rightful place: Jarris Rubingh’s dad’s pocket.