True Tales Of The Irritation Tax

by Brandon D. Christopher

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Who hasn't stuck in to their boss literally and figuratively? I know I have, many, many times, in dark secluded corners of the store while only wearing a cock-ring and resting my balls in some jello. I suggest if you haven't yet bit the hand that feeds you, that you start immediately cause it feels so fucking good. Literally and figuratively.

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“Can I get a large vanilla coffee and a toasted bagel with cream cheese?” a hefty gal barked from the end of the line.

“Toasted, you said? And a coffee? Is…are you next?” I asked in a meaty flow of topics, reassuring the woman of her stature in this situation.

“Large, I said, and yes, toasted!” Her degradation was as clear and sweet as Vermont honey.

This is the type of incident which sparked the concept of the Irritation Tax. The backbone of the Irritation Tax principle belongs to a higher form of justification—a practice we know as karma. A theory sculpted and honed—like a fine martial art—but now twisted into a form of retribution for almost any form of employment dissatisfaction. Has a boss or customer upset you in any way? Then it is far from improper to dip thy hand into the cash register and retrieve anywhere from $3 to $15, depending upon the weight of the offense. And these guidelines can be increased and/or repeated if agitation continues to occur.

Now, keep in mind that this sort of pastime is illegal and grounds for termination—one should exercise extreme caution. The thrill of the steal can become addictive over time—almost seductive, like an accent you can’t shake. And always check twice over the shoulder, because the voyeur frying chicken patties in the corner will sell you down the fuck-you river faster than a red burn bruise follows a loose cloud of scolding hot steam.

So I rang that vanilla-coffee gal up on the cash register and tossed the bagel and cream cheese into a paper sack on the counter. The paper cup of searing coffee made a gentle arrival midway between us, with only a few small streams of blistering brown fire dripping onto my hand. The hefty gal left a smile on the counter and walked away.

I gazed out over the counter at the swamp of people in line, waiting to catch a line of vision. I never liked to announce the question of, “Who’s next?” wearing that vivacious grin like an anxious cat trying to take a crap and bury it at the same time. That alone was worth $6.

An Asian woman in a sleek black dress walked up and ordered a grande latte, and I gave her that “you betcha” expression, and started my performance at the espresso machine. I finished the beverage in just under four minutes and slid the frothy beast across the counter to her.

“That’s $3.85,” I looked at her and explained. The word discharge came to mind for some odd reason.

She laid exactly three dollars and 85 cents onto the counter, then an extra two quarters for my time. She glanced back up at me expecting some form of courteous smile in return, so I winked at her and slid the two quarters into my apron pocket.

On a day like this I could pull in a clean $30. Then whatever the coffee shop actually pays is just gravy on top of that. How could I have ever lived without you, my dear, sweet Irritation Tax.

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A native of Los Angeles, Brandon D. Christopher has survived 41 jobs, 7 cars, 4 days in jail, and completed a 3-hour Learning Annex seminar to become a private investigator. His debut novel, Dirty Little Altar Boy, will be available at finer bookstores and online at Amazon and Barnes and Noble shortly. And no, he did not give Paris Hilton herpes.