We’re coming upon a day of the year that I just am not real fond of.
April 15th.
Uncle Sam’s payday.
If there are two things to which I am morally opposed, it’s paying taxes and dropping dead. Thankfully, most of us only have to pass on to the hereafter once.
Taxes unfortunately, are a yearly, if not a daily event.
Alabamians are saddled with an unfair tax system that the cowards in Montgomery have been afraid to do anything about. But that’s okay, ’cause they got lots of friends doing the same thing in Washington.
I’ve been living in New York City about a year now, and boy, I wish that hadn’t worked up here. This is how my taxes go:
On Monday I work for the United States Congress.
On Tuesday I work for the United States Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security Department.
On Wednesday I work for Governor Mario Cuomo.
On Thursday I work for Mayor Rudy Giuliani.
Friday is all mine, unless of course I want to buy anything with the money I make–in which case I give 11% to the city.
And this isn’t even counting all those hidden taxes we pay here in New York City. There are taxes for the Metropolitan Transport Authority. You’d think that those taxes would be in the $1.50 subway token, but no, when I pay my telephone bill, I am charged an MTA tax–regardless of whether I take the subway or not. I guess that’s what makes them an authority and not just an association. Authorities really know how to get the money out of folks like me.
Lord knows I ought to take mass transit. If I get in a cab, before I’ve gone five inches, I’ve paid two dollars in fees and regulatory muck imposed by the city. And should I decide to go to any one of New York City’s three airports to get the heck out of here, I will pay at least five bucks in tolls. Gubments put up tollbooths in order to pay for new interstates and such. Funny thing is, how many of you have ever seen a tollbooth taken down? I believe that I’ve personally paid enough tolls to cover the cost of building the Lincoln Tunnel.
All told, the airport is about as far from my apartment as Red Level is from Andalusia’s square. The main difference between the two trips is that cost $48.00 more. Guess which one.
But this is supposed to be a humor column and I’m not here to complain about our gubment. Okay, well maybe just a little.
My grandaddy always told me to watch out for, “Those three letter agencies–they’re the ones that’ll get you into trouble every time.”
CIA. FBI. FTC. IRS.
Today I had to call the Internal Revenue Service. Ugh. Now there’s an oxymoron.
If they could get the revenue internally, why do I have to fork over the cash? And how’s that a service?
The IRS should have a more appropriate name like “BSB,” which might stand for “Blood-Sucking-Beuracrats.”
Yes, I know this is unfair. They are just doing their job, I know. But ever since that tax collector got invited down out of his tree to have dinner with Jesus, they have all gotten a little upity.
The IRS is now on-line. That’s right, you can access the gubment with your computer. I thought that was pretty neat, and a lot better than calling the 1-800-829-1040 number.
The IRS’s web-site is attractive and interesting. After all, these are the people holding the moe
Here’s a little phrase I learned at the Alabama Shakespeare Festival Theatre. It is a direct quote from the musical Big River, and it always helps me feel better when I’ve finished my 1040 return:
“Why you no good, God-dang sorry sons of a dead pan-shoe-fittin’ firestarter! I oughta take yer no good guverment carcases and nail ’em to yer guverment walls! All of you! You #%*@$!s.”
There now, don’t you feel better?
—Morgan Murphy
