Tax This!

There’s a certain kind of genius that flowers in the dank backrooms of government offices – where men in ill-fitting suits invent ways of reaching into someone else’s pocket and calling it patriotism. It’s not the kind of genius that cures disease or writes symphonies and it wears many disguises - defense budgets, infrastructure plans, “economic realignment” - but always with the same grubby little motive: take first, explain later. Entire empires have been stitched together on the quiet assumption that the average citizen won’t notice an extra coin missing, provided the anthem’s loud enough.

Civilizations rise, empires fall, but the taxman remains - morphing, adapting, ev vigilant. When wars need funding or palaces need gilding, it is not the poet or the priest who is summoned, but the tax collector. The methods change - goats one century, gasoline the next - but the spirit remains curiously intact. The rationale is always noble. The results, usually, less so. One needn’t look far to see it still flourishing. Somewhere right now, a man with a red tie and a tenuous grip on international economics is slapping tariffs on allies and adversaries alike, like a toddler flinging spaghetti at the wall to see what sticks.

Which makes this the perfect moment to reflect not just on current follies, but on the rich, absurd tapestry of taxation through the ages. Before there were steel tariffs and tweets, there were window taxes, beard levies, and fees for having the wrong kind of soap. These weren’t just policy - they were performance art in bureaucratic drag. So let us tip our (taxed) hats to the centuries of creative plunder that brought us here and take a stroll through the hall of fiscal infamy. What follows in this week’s “Tax This” epistle is less a list than a hall of fame for the world’s most gloriously ridiculous attempts to turn daily life into a billable offense.

Cooking Oil (c. 3,000 – 300 BC, Ancient Egypt)In Ancient Egypt, the gods may have ruled the heavens, but the pharaohs ran your kitchen, because long before Big Oil, there was Pharaoh Oil. Cooking oil - an everyday staple used for food, light, and ritual - was subject to one of the earliest and most aggressively enforced taxes in recorded history. And in true bureaucratic fashion, it wasn’t enough to demand a “pay at the market stall” arrangement. The state insisted on control, regulation, and surveillance. Oil became not just a commodity, but an instrument of compliance.

With no official currency in circulation, the tax wasn’t paid in coins, but in kind: grain, livestock, or portions of your harvest. And because tax avoidance is as old as taxation itself, the authorities employed the world’s first food police. Inspectors didn’t just go door to door counting jugs. They entered homes uninvited, checking that citizens weren’t reusing yesterday’s goose fat or sneaking in some cut-rate, knockoff sesame blend from the village downriver. Recycling, in this context, wasn’t environmentally conscious - it was criminal. You could grow your own grain, slaughter your own ox, even build your own tomb, but heaven forbid you fry an onion in yesterday’s grease.

It was a textbook example of statecraft as intrusion: control the basics, and you control the people. By monopolizing oil production and outlawing reuse, the pharaoh’s government ensured a continuous cycle of dependence and extraction. It wasn’t about revenue - it was about reminding every household who the real god of the hearth was. The message about this “fat tax” wasn’t subtle: You cook, we collect.

All The Single People – 9 AD to... Now, ApparentlyFew things have terrified governments quite like a man eating dinner alone. In 9 AD, Roman Emperor Augustus decided that the real threat to the Republic wasn’t political corruption or military overreach - it was unmarried men with too much free time. To correct this moral emergency, he introduced penalties on the single, the celibate, and the childless, framing it as a noble effort to encourage procreation and uphold traditional Roman virtue. Because nothing says “romantic incentive” like a tax bill.

This wasn’t a one-time bout of imperial micromanagement. The Ottoman Empire revived the idea in the 15th century, England taxed bachelors and childless widowers in 1695, and Stalin - never one to miss an opportunity for coercive intimacy - imposed a 6% childlessness tax in 1941 that lasted until the early '90s. The message was consistent: produce offspring or pay up. Love, as it turns out, may be free, but its absence is billable.

And don’t think this kind of policy was buried with the Iron Curtain. The US state of Missouri still taxes unmarried men between 21 and 50 a token $1 a year - a symbolic gesture, perhaps, but also a quiet reminder that even solitude comes with a surcharge.

In the eyes of the state, there’s something inherently suspicious about a man without dependents. After all, if he’s not reproducing, he might be thinking. And we can’t have that.

Urine – 1st Century RomeLeave it to the Romans to turn bodily waste into state revenue. During the reign of Emperor Vespasian, from 69-79 AD, a tax was imposed not on luxury goods, imported silks, or decadent feasts but on urine. Specifically, on the collection of it. Public urinals were tapped not for sanitation, but for profit. The waste was gathered and sold to fullers, who used the ammonia-rich fluid in laundering, tanning, and, somewhat horrifyingly, in brushing teeth.

When questioned about the indignity of profiting from public pee, Vespasian reportedly held a coin to his nose and asked whether it smelled. It did not. Hence the immortal phrase “pecunia non olet” - “money doesn’t stink.”

It's the kind of thing one says just before taxing fingernail clippings or shadow length.

What mattered wasn't the source, but the yield. And in that sense, Vespasian was a visionary. He understood what many rulers would later perfect: if something exists, it can be monetized. If it can be monetized, it can be taxed. Even if it’s piss in a jar.

Shadow Tax – Venice, ItalyIn Venice - a city built on water, art, romance, and debt - even shadows have a price. Merchants who dare to hang awnings over their storefronts are charged a fee if those awnings cast a shadow onto public land. It didn’t matter that the shadow was immaterial, fleeting, or entirely indifferent to the Republic’s ledgers. What mattered was that it touched government property, and therefore must be taxed.

It was a masterstroke of bureaucratic imagination: taxing the absence of light. One could argue it was poetic, in a way - Venice, the shimmering jewel of the Adriatic, charging for shade as if it had bottled the sun and licensed the dark. Romantic by reputation, the city was ruthlessly pragmatic in practice. Where most saw a piazza bathed in soft canopy light, the Venetian state saw a missed fiscal opportunity.

There’s something almost admirable in the pettiness. Not content to tax land, goods, or bodies, Venice went after the ephemeral. You could say it was ahead of its time - monetizing intangibles long before Silicon Valley would do the same with attention spans and privacy. In Venice, even your shadow had to pull its weight.

Ain’t No Sunshine: The Window Tax (England, 1696–1851)In 1696, the English government devised a way to make fresh air a luxury and natural light a taxable indulgence. The premise was simple: the more windows your house had, the more money you probably had. Therefore, those extra panes of glass? They were evidence of excess. Wealth, apparently, had become visible from the street - and Parliament saw no reason not to charge admission.

Rather than adjust their housing or admit to their means, many families took the practical route: they simply bricked up their windows. Entire rows of homes were blindfolded in stone, trading light and ventilation for lower taxes. In the process, the English managed to reinvent architecture as an act of quiet defiance. It was a progressive tax, sure - but one with consequences that ranged from gloomy interiors to higher mortality rates. A dark home, it turns out, breeds more than just resentment.

The tax stood for over 150 years, a monument to the idea that if you can see it, you can tax it. When it was finally repealed in 1851, it wasn’t due to a sudden outburst of rationality, but public health concerns - because nothing says "enlightened governance" quite like admitting daylight is, in fact, good for people. By then, of course, the damage had been done. Generations had lived in the architectural equivalent of a squint, all to shave a few shillings off their annual bill.

The Beard Tax – Russia (1698), England (before that)For reasons known only to the deeply insecure and the fashion-forward, beards have long been a political issue. In 1698, Tsar Peter the Great of Russia - midway through his campaign to drag his country kicking and screaming into Western modernity - decided that facial hair was simply too medieval for his taste. In a sweeping act of imperial grooming policy, he introduced the beard tax: a levy on any man who wished to keep his whiskers.

Those who paid were issued a token, often inscribed with the reassuring phrase “the beard is a superfluous burden.” 

This token had to be carried at all times, presumably to protect its bearer from sudden, unsanctioned barbering since those who didn’t pay were subject to public shaving. It wasn’t just a tax - it was a state-enforced aesthetic. Appear modern or lose your face.

Peter wasn’t the first to weaponize grooming. Henry VIII had dabbled in a similar tax during his reign in England, though it’s unclear whether it was about revenue or simply one more thing to control. Either way, the result was the same: facial hair became a status symbol, less about personal style and more about the ability to afford it. In this world, the beard was no longer a sign of wisdom, virility, or rebellion. It was a receipt.

Wallpaper Tax – Britain, 1712–1836In 1712, the British government, forever sniffing around for new things to ruin, decided that the real threat to the Empire wasn’t France, famine, or revolution - it was decorative taste. Specifically, printed wallpaper. Not walls, mind you, nor the houses themselves, but the printed patterns that adorned them. It was a war on decoration, launched from the counting houses of Westminster under the usual pretense: fair contribution from the frivolous classes.

But never underestimate the ingenuity of the overtaxed. Rather than pay the levy, people began buying plain wallpaper and hand-painting their own designs. Florals, pastoral scenes, vague interpretations of aristocratic splendor - all done in the dim light of domestic rebellion.

These were not masterpieces, but they were tax-free, and that was more than enough. (Somewhere, we can imagine Banksy nodding in quiet approval) A DIY art movement was born, not from idealism, but the sheer unwillingness to give the Crown one more penny.

The tax lingered for over a century, outlived by generations of lumpy brushwork and aggressively personalized parlors. It was eventually repealed, though not before proving a simple point: try to legislate taste, and people will answer with defiance - and sometimes a paintbrush.

Soap Tax – Great Britain, Until 1835We’re really not trying to pick on Great Britain, but they seemed to have a knack for overly inventive taxes. For over a century, the British government took a firm stance on public hygiene: keep it expensive. Soap, that simple cornerstone of civilization, was taxed so heavily that its production became a Crown-controlled affair. Only licensed manufacturers were permitted to make it, and those licenses weren’t handed out freely. In effect, cleanliness was privatized - scrubbing behind one’s ears became an act of economic distinction.

The reasoning, of course, was textbook: soap was useful, soap was essential, therefore soap must be taxed. The more indispensable the product, the more leverage it offered. The state wasn’t just regulating industry - it was deciding who got to be clean. Poorer households, faced with exorbitant prices, made do with less. Smell became a class marker and cleanliness, a form of aristocratic branding. It’s no wonder Victorian England was so invested in perfume.

The tax was finally abolished in 1835, not out of mercy, but practicality - industrialization had arrived, and even the Crown couldn’t justify keeping its population both filthy and productive. Still, for generations, the soap tax stood as a shining example of bureaucratic gall: a policy that managed to be unclean in both body and spirit.

Church Tax – Germany (1803–Present)In Germany, religion comes with a receipt. The Kirchensteuer, or church tax, is a formal levy applied to members of certain religious communities - primarily Roman Catholic and Protestant churches. If you’re registered as a member of one of these faiths, the state doesn’t just encourage your spiritual contributions - it collects them on your behalf, straight from your paycheck. The government automatically tacks on an additional 8–9% of your income tax - not your total income, but the income tax you already owe. This is then quietly funneled to your declared church, which uses it to fund clergy salaries, maintain buildings, run schools and charities, and presumably pay their accountants.

The state handles the logistics - collection, enforcement, distribution - while the churches just sit back and await the divine direct deposit. This additional 8-9% church tax is enough to make even the devout ponder the financial weight of salvation and, unsurprisingly, has led to a steady stream of Germans formally renouncing their church membership in order to escape the tithe.

Want out? You can officially leave the church, but to do so, you must file a declaration with the local authorities - and yes, pay a fee for the privilege of spiritual independence. It’s a curious theological economy: taxed if you stay, taxed if you go. A kind of divine subscription service with early cancellation penalties.

So, in short: you’re billed for belief, invoiced for doubt, and blessed only after processing.

The Bribe Tax – Germany, 1970s–1999For decades, German businesses enjoyed a perk so audacious it almost deserves admiration: the ability to write off bribes. Not metaphorical bribes or shady handshakes in back alleys, but cold, hard cash slipped to foreign officials - fully deductible under German tax law as a “business expense.” It was corruption, but with receipts.

This wasn’t some overlooked loophole buried deep in the fine print - it was openly acknowledged. The tax forms even had a line item for it, euphemistically labeled as "useful expenditures" or "nutzliche Aufwendungen" in German to maintain a veneer of professionalism. The thinking, apparently, was that if you had to grease a few palms to land a deal abroad, the German state might as well chip in. Call it moral outsourcing. However, to claim these deductions, businesses were typically required to disclose the recipient's identity to the tax authorities - a stipulation that rendered the provision less appealing and was seldom utilized.

The practice was only shut down in 1999, after Germany reluctantly joined international anti-bribery conventions and realized that publicly subsidizing corruption might not be a great look on the global stage. Still, for a brief and glorious window of time, the tax code itself whispered, “Go ahead, bribe them - we’ll cover part of it.” Ethics may have caught up, but not before the accountants got there first. (On a side note, last year Russia confirmed that bribes paid while abroad are not deductible.)

Something Smells in Denmark (Coming 2030)It began, as so many things do, with an earnest attempt to save the planet and ended in a global punchline. First proposed in New Zealand in 2003, the so-called “cow fart tax” was widely reported, widely mocked, and quickly dropped - blamed, perhaps, on an overzealous pre-DOGE intern with a calculator and too much faith in livestock accountability. Denmark flirted with it too, then thought better of it. For a while.

But Denmark is back, and this time it’s serious. Starting in 2030, Danish farmers will face a formal tax on methane emissions from cattle. Yes, methane - as in, that charming greenhouse gas expelled as a side effect of bovine digestion.

The plan is to calculate each farm’s emissions using a triad of modern tools: livestock databases, satellite surveillance, and algorithmic modeling. That’s right: algorithms will be estimating how much your cow has farted this fiscal quarter. Welcome to the future. Somewhere in Copenhagen, a civil servant is currently building a spreadsheet called "Annual Emissions Per Dairy Unit" with a straight face.

The goal, of course, is noble - reduce emissions, slow climate change, make agriculture greener. But the optics are irresistible: a nation deploying satellite technology to monitor barnyard gas in order to send a tax invoice to a man named Lars who just wanted to milk his cows in peace.

It’s progress, sure - but it still smells a bit off.

Nirvana is Costly – Missouri, USA

The state of Missouri’s Department of Revenue once considered yoga classes to be a form of amusement (like going to a movie or a carnival). According to the logic of the state’s entertainment tax, any activity involving “amusement, entertainment, or recreation” was taxable at a rate of 8.5%. And so, by bureaucratic enlightenment, yoga studios were told they were not sanctuaries of spiritual growth and physical discipline, but glorified theme parks with incense.

Studio owners were not amused, and lawsuits were filed. Eventually, in 2015, Missouri passed legislation to exempt yoga and other “fitness services” from this carnival-classification. The state quietly retreated, presumably after realizing that taxing meditation might not be the karmic flex they thought it was. Still, for a brief, transcendent period, Missourians were subjected to an alignment of chakras and spreadsheets that no one asked for.

The Banana Bureaucracy – California’s Fruit Vending Machine TaxIn California, not all bananas are created equal. Purchase one from your local grocery store - ripe, freckled, gently bruised - and it’s tax-free. Nature’s bounty, straight from aisle three. But opt for the same banana from a vending machine, and suddenly you’re slapped with a 7.25% sales tax, because at that point, it’s no longer food - it’s convenience. And convenience, in the eyes of California tax law, is a taxable sin.

The logic, if you can call it that, hinges on the transaction's mechanical middleman. Grocery shopping is wholesome. Vending machines, apparently, are part of the processed snack-industrial complex. It doesn’t matter that the fruit is identical. Once it tumbles from a spiraling coil into a metal tray, it’s been tainted by technology and must be taxed accordingly. So, in California, your banana’s tax status depends less on potassium and more on delivery method. Plucked by hand? Innocent. Dropped by robot? Guilty. It’s not taxation - it’s fruit profiling.

The Price of Seasonal Cheer – Iowa’s Pumpkin TaxIn the state of Iowa, the humble pumpkin lives a double life. Buy it to eat - no tax. Buy it to carve - and suddenly you’re triggering a bureaucratic surcharge for the crime of festivity. The state apparently draws a hard line between nutrition and frivolity, and if your gourd is destined to wear a grin, then it qualifies as a decorative item, subject to sales tax. The same object. The same price. Just a different destiny - and a different place on the ledger.

Iowa’s Department of Revenue has issued formal guidance instructing retailers to distinguish between “food use” and “non-food use” pumpkins at the register. This means, somewhere in Iowa, a minimum-wage cashier is legally required to interrogate you about your intentions for your pumpkin. In theory, you could just lie. But what kind of society are we building if we’re forcing citizens to perjure themselves over seasonal produce?

It’s a rare moment when produce is policed for artistic ambition. But, if you're headed to the checkout with a cart full of pumpkins and a glint of mischief in your eye, just know: the state is watching. And it doesn’t care how charming your jack-o’-lantern is. All it sees is taxable intent.

The Lox, the Schmear, & the Long Arm of the Law – New York’s Sliced Bagel TaxIn the state of New York, the bagel isn’t just a breakfast item - it’s a cultural artifact. But even sacred objects aren’t safe from the state’s fiscal creativity. Under New York tax law, a whole, unsliced bagel is tax-exempt, a basic staple, untouched and innocent. But dare to have it sliced, toasted, or – heaven forbid - adorned with cream cheese, and suddenly it’s reclassified as prepared food, subject to full sales tax.

Your breakfast just became a taxable luxury, and that everything bagel now comes with everything plus 8.875%.

This means that a plain, bagged dozen from the shelf is a civic virtue. But order one toasted with lox and a schmear, and you’ve apparently entered the realm of elite indulgence, rubbing shoulders with foie gras and artisanal brunches. It’s not a bagel anymore - it’s an experience. And experiences are taxable.

The absurdity was spotlighted in 2010 when a bagel chain got hit with a hefty fine for not taxing sliced bagels properly. The public’s reaction? Somewhere between baffled outrage and resigned sighing. But the state held firm. In New York, the difference between necessity and extravagance is apparently a serrated knife and five seconds of toasting.

The New York Bagel Tax is real. And it’s not amused by your breakfast order.

These bizarre taxes offer a hilarious and thought-provoking glimpse into how governments have used taxation not just to raise revenue, but also to influence behavior and social norms. A beard shaved here, a window bricked there - all in service of some higher ideal, or at least the illusion of one. The line between policy and parody has always been thinner than we’d like to admit, especially when money is involved.

If you want to understand a civilization, don’t start with its art or its laws. Start with what it taxes. Not what it values - what it’s willing to punish financially. That’s where the real story lives. The cooking oil, the cow farts, the sunlight through your windows. What looks ridiculous in hindsight once passed for common sense, or worse, national interest. The lesson isn’t just that governments get creative. It’s that desperation wears many hats - economic growth, cultural reform, even “fairness” - and it always seems to come with a receipt.

Bad taxes don’t just skim a little off the top - they rot from the inside out. They reward compliance over clarity, distortion over production, and somewhere down the line, you wake up charging your own citizens extra for sliced bagels while blaming outsiders for the mess. The impulse to tax what moves, what breathes, or what simply is, hasn’t vanished - it’s just grown louder, dressed in slogans that now threaten to tank global markets under the guise of patriotic pricing.

So, sure, laugh at the beard tax or the bricked-up windows. But keep an eye on the modern equivalents. Because you’re walking the same path as Roman urinal merchants and window-hoarding Victorians. History may not repeat, but it rhymes like hell - and somewhere, someone’s already figuring out how to charge you more for less, dressed up in a flag and calling it reform. Tip your hat. Pay the bill. But maybe start growing your own pumpkins - just don’t carve them.

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