Acting Comptroller Kelly Hancock—filling in for whoever usually handles our impending doom—wants you to know that from April 25 to 27, the State of Texas is briefly suspending its habit of nickel-and-diming you so you can actually afford to survive the next weather-related catastrophe. It’s the “Emergency Preparation Supplies Sales Tax Holiday,” a 72-hour window where the government finally admits that living in this state is basically a high-stakes game of Survivor where the only prize is getting to see your driveway through the dust again.
The list of tax-exempt items is truly a work of art in bureaucratic logic. You can save a few bucks on batteries, flashlights, and—get this—hurricane shutters. Because if there’s one thing we’re famous for here in Lubbock, it’s our devastating storm surges and the urgent need to protect our coastal bungalows from the rising tide of the local playa lakes. You can also snag a portable generator tax-free, provided it stays under $3,000. But don’t get too cute with online shopping; if the shipping fee pushes your total to $3,000.01, the state will gleefully snatch that tax money back. Nothing says “we care about your safety” like a $50 delivery fee becoming a taxable offense.
In a move that could only make sense to someone sitting in a climate-controlled office in Austin, actual useful tools like chainsaws and plywood are strictly excluded from the holiday. Apparently, the Texas Legislature believes that if a Lubbock “breeze” tosses a neighbor’s trampoline through your roof, you should just “thoughts and prayers” your way out of the debris. You also can’t buy a tent or a camping stove tax-free, because if your house is leveled, the state prefers you face the elements without the luxury of “recreational” equipment.
The Comptroller estimates Texans will save a collective $2.4 million, which sounds like a lot until you realize it’s being spread across 30 million people who are all currently watching the sky turn that familiar, terrifying shade of “apocalypse orange.” It’s a nice gesture, I guess, but buying a discounted flashlight feels a bit like bringing a toothpick to a gunfight when the West Texas wind decides it wants your shingles to live in Oklahoma.
Isn’t it comforting to know the state values your survival just enough to waive the price of a McDouble on a pack of Duracells?
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