Thursday, March 8, 2018

That Day in April Looms

The United States Treasury Department's Infernal Revenue Service has some of my money and I'd like to get it from them. I wish there was some way to do that without having to sit down and put numbers in boxes for the whole goddamn morning. 
Don't get me wrong. I like numbers. I've got 'em layin' around all over the place. They're piled up on my desk, stashed away on my hard drive, stored in my flip phone (people make fun of me for my flip phone and I hate that) and there isn't a single place in my whole house where you can't see one or many of them from wherever you're sitting. I even keep some of 'em in my head. 
Boxes are okay, too. I've got stacks of 'em. Shoe boxes, shotgun shell boxes, guitar boxes, lunch boxes, magazine file boxes, tackle boxes, cigar boxes, and a box of Play-Doh® are in plain view from where I am sitting at this moment. Sometimes I accumulate so many I spend an hour bustin' 'em up for the recycling guy.
Here's the thing: I hate doing my income tax return. It doesn't matter if I'm getting a refund or if I have to pay some in. I just don't like it. I'm one of those odd ducks who doesn't mind paying taxes. I like paying taxes. Hell, I think most of us should pay more taxes. 
We have been conditioned to fear and loathe the IRS. I got audited once and it was like having a panic attack that wouldn't quit. It turned out the IRS agent we sat down with was an intelligent, pleasant chap who did his job very well and it lasted about thirty minutes and my tax return was just fine. It was easier than getting your teeth cleaned.
Here's the rest of the thing: They were just checkin'. And that's what bugs me. I don't like to be checked. I don't cheat. I don't want to take my shoes off and be wanded to get on an airplane. I don't have a gun or a bomb or liquids in my carry-on. 
The IRS already has all the information they're asking us to give them. They know how much money we earned. They know all the digits of our SSNs. They know if we are blind or over 65. They know our address. They know our dates of birth.
Cripes, you guys. Just send me my money.