The new health reform bill imposes a $2.7 billion tax on indoor tanning salons.
The Boston Herald
As we poured out of the Old South Meeting House into the cold December night, our hearts were burning with passion, set ablaze by the inspirational words that Samuel Adams, Whig leader and beer nut, had spoken inside.
“This meeting can do nothing further to save the country!” Adams had proclaimed in the face of colonial Governor Hutchinson’s intransigence. “Let’s go pound down a couple cold ones!”
At that pre-arranged signal, we headed towards Griffin’s Wharf–me, Chastiti and Chariti. The three of us were the proprietors of Ye Olde Sun ‘n Spa, the only patriot-owned tanning salon in Boston. The girls had changed the spelling of their names to better reflect the freedom we all yearned for, and were now parading the streets of Boston with double smiley-face dotted “i’s” in open defiance of strict British orthographic laws.
Yeah, baby!
“It’s a good thing our hearts are burning with passion, as the narrator said up above,” Chariti said.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because otherwise my nipples would be standing at attention in the cold December night.”
“Is John Hancock coming?” Chastiti asked.
“No–he’s teaching an Extreme Penmanship class tonight,” I said.
“Bummer,” Chariti said.
We moved in silence towards the three ships that bore the awful freight–untaxed tanning beds exported to the colonies by the East India Company. Our very livelihoods were at stake. Chastiti and Chariti had been working at the Bay Colony Tourism Bureau, where they were responsible for “re-branding” Massachusetts to improve its negative image among British conventioneers. Chastiti had come up with the winning theme of the ad campaign–”History So Thick You Can Hit it With a Stick!”–but Chariti’s proposed state slogan–”Massachusetts: You’ll Come for the Weather, You’ll Stay for the Taxes!”–had drawn the ire of colonial officials, who suspected that it was a veiled jab at our British masters.
“No ith not!” Chariti had cried out as the redcoats dragged her from her cubicle, barely giving her time to collect her picture of her pet ox. ”I do not haf mah tongue in mah cheek!” she screamed, but it was all to no avail. Chastiti had resigned in protest, and we had plotted over mugs of grog to start a business–what could be more American than that?
But now the Brits threatened to undermine our little enterprise by taxing our tanning beds! We weren’t going to take it lying down–that was for our customers!
“Everybody ready?” I asked.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Chariti asked right back.
“What?”
“We’re supposed to disguise ourselves as redskins,” Chariti said. If it hadn’t been the middle of the 18th century, she would have added “Duh!”
“Why would we do that, when we can have a beautiful spray-on tan?” Chastiti asked.
”So . . . a great-looking summer tan, with none of the unhealthy side effects?” I asked.
“That’s right!” Chastiti said. She pulled an atomizer out of her purse and squirted us both in the face. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “You look like you just got back from Boca!”
Ready for rebellion!
I returned the favor and we boarded the ship along with the other Bronze Goddesses and Adonis’s. The British offered no resistance–”I’m just here to oppress you miserable curs,” the captain said–and we made swift work of the offending tanning beds.
“Here goes the Sunquest Bronze Bomber!” Chastiti squealed.
“And here goes the Tropical Rayz 1800!” Chariti yelped as the two brown ‘n serve ovens hit the water.
I put my arms around my two fellow revolutionaries, and we watched as the splash rings spread outward in the moonlight. “Future generations of Americans will thank us,” I said with a lump in my throat.
“Because we spared them from possible skin cancer?” Chariti asked.
“No, because we’ll offer special Spring Break and Pre-Prom Tanning Packages!”
