There I was, running my humble lemonade stand—just me, a plastic jug of slightly cloudy lemon water and the moral high ground. My pricing? A fair, patriotic $1 per cup. My branding? “Locally Squeezed. Nationally Proud.” Business was booming.
And then came Kevin.
Kevin, my cousin from Out-of-Town, who showed up with compostable straws, ethically sourced lemons, and branding that included a QR code for a land acknowledgment and a 10% discount for frontline workers. His jingle was written by a local artist collective. His cups had affirmations. His price? A suspiciously selfless 50 cents.
It wasn’t just lemonade. It was a lifestyle.
A betrayal, frankly. Not just to me, but to the sacred principles of backyard capitalism.
Thankfully, my mom (aka the government) stepped in. She saw what was happening. She felt my pain. She imposed a 50-cent Backyard Fairness Fee on every cup Kevin sold. Suddenly, his prices matched mine. Balance was restored. I resumed charging premium rates for what could generously be described as slightly citrus-flavored sink water.
And best of all? Mom told the neighbors this move would actually lower their lemonade costs. Because nothing says savings like paying more for less.
This, dear reader, is how tariffs work in the magical land of economic make-believe. They’re sold as shields for the “little guy,” while quietly hiking prices on everything from juice to Jeeps. You pay more, but someone insists you’re winning. It’s less economic strategy and more deeply patriotic hallucination.
Now, I’ll admit, it feels good at first. Righteous, even. Who doesn’t want to stick it to Kevin and his socially conscious lemonade empire? But after the dust settles, you're left with lukewarm juice, thinner wallets, and the creeping suspicion that maybe the war wasn’t about fairness after all. Maybe I knew Kevin’s lemonade was better. But punishing him made mine taste sweeter.
Because in the end, it wasn’t about the lemonade. It was about being told mine wasn’t good enough—that I wasn’t good enough. That maybe I needed to compost more, or rethink my pricing structure. I just wanted to sell some damn juice.
And if Kevin dares retaliate by slapping a tariff on my cookies next time I visit his yard? Then we’ve got ourselves a trade war—or what I like to call, Thanksgiving.
Sure, economists warn it “distorts markets” and “hurts consumers.” But who has time for math when you’re defending your turf with red tape and righteous vibes? If I can’t outshine Kevin with quality, I’ll drown him in paperwork.
So next time someone insists tariffs will lower prices, just picture me and Kevin. Picture the neighbors sweating in the sun, squinting at their options: murky lemonade for $1, or the illusion of justice—for $1.25. Maybe more if Kevin throws in a straw made from seaweed and emotional labor.
Slap a tax on it. Then call it a discount.
Someone probably should’ve told the emperor that April Fools’ Day was yesterday.
Disclaimer:
Any resemblance to real economic policies, political strategies, or imported goods—sparkly or otherwise—is very much not coincidental. Kevin knows what he did.
And so do we.
We’re all sipping the same hallucination.
And yes, this is for the Undertones.
Apologies to my actual cousin Kevin, who does not, to my knowledge, serve ethically sourced lemonade in compostable cups. He’s innocent. This time.