The so-called fiscal cliff looms at the end of the year like…well, like a hundred foot high precipice. Said cliff is the dumb ass term coined by dumb ass news people to describe the dangerous alliance of revoked tax cuts, healthcare cost increases, and spending reductions in important assistance programs that’ll go into effect at the end of this year if the government doesn’t do anything about it. Congress, in this situation, is Kevin Bacon running headlong toward the edge as a subterranean graboid bares down on him. Will he throw the dynamite and get out of the way in time so he can bang the geologist and get himself in National Geographic?
Perhaps there’s a question even more pertinent than the fate of the heroic Val: why the fuck does Congress wait for the absolute last fucking minute to deal with everything? Suspense works great for cheesy science fiction movies, but it’s fucking annoying when it comes to fiscal policy.
This fiscal cliff thing reminds me of bowling. For the sake of this analogy, candlepin, duckpin, tenpin, and even tiny plastic kiddie pin will work just fine as long as there’s alcohol involved. Just as tax cuts can stimulate business, it’s scientifically proven that drinking makes people bowl better–but there’s a sudden point where additional alcohol suddenly leads to strings filled with gutter balls, stumbling releases, and complaints from neighboring lanes. Both fiscal cliffs and alco-bowling cliffs can be seen coming from a long fucking way away; neither is a surprise, unless you’re a fucking idiot.
Is it too much to ask that the people who dictate fiscal policy at least pretend that they aren’t fucking idiots? Maybe they’ll understand if we take them all bowling. The first few gin and tonics are on me.