You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
Tax Season.
APRIL 15TH.
It’s like Christmas day set on fire.
APRIL 15TH.
It’s a necessary evil that is so unnecessary.
It’s cooking oil spilled on the couch. It’s dog vomit on your new dress. It’s spider webs caught in your eye lids.
APRIL 15TH.
Didn’t we throw tea into a harbor 200 years ago in protest of something having to do with taxation without representation?
Who the hell is representing me?
Uncle Sam? Son of Sam? Dr. Seuss’ Sam I am?
If I could find the guy who is the face of the IRS, I would tell him, YOU ARE A SCHMUCK.
APRIL 15TH.
It’s the equivalent of having a colonoscopy with a butter knife. It’s a bee sting on your private parts. It’s a contact lens made out of dirt.
APRIL 15TH.
The Tax Man cometh in just 6 days.
The tax man is the grim reaper.
Instead of a sickle, he carries an abacus of briars and poison ivy.
Less than a week now?
Have you filed?
Do you feel the greasy, slimy sweat rolling down the back of your neck?
Are you afraid that you made too much and won’t get a refund?
Are you afraid that you didn’t save all your receipts and you will be audited?
Are you afraid? Are you very afraid?
Like the harbinger of doom, the grim-faced, no-nonsense IRS is looming over your shoulder.
It is inevitable like death and well, taxes.
Did you Turbo Tax? Did you H&R Block?
Did you Sneed?
Sneed?
That’s my guy. He’s like Clark Kent with a pencil.
My tax guy is muy Guapo as they like to say South of the Border.
He’s mild-mannered and calm.
He’s 1040 EZ cool.
Sneed is mathematically unflappable.
IRS terrorists could be giving him a financial wedgie and he calmly side steps the chaos and files an extension.
“That’ll cool their jets,” he says, pushing back his thick locks, that are one part Elvis, one part Don Johnson.
As clients go, I’m a dyspeptic cyclone.
I am a shoe box of lost receipts and miscalculated projections.
“I owe them what?” I scream into the phone.
“Don’t worry,” Sneed tells me. “I think we are going to be ok.”
His tax demeanor is calming like a cup of tea on the porch with grandma.
Turbo Tax?
I’ll take Sneed.
He never met a tax form he didn’t like. He’s got a black belt in Adjusted Gross Income.
“So did you give a charitable donation to Good Will?”
His questions are probing, searching, imploring me to find more tax deductions that I wouldn’t have thought of.
Who would have thought a broken rocking chair and a box of soiled clothes could be tax deductible.
I’ll never forget the day Sneed called me and said, “hey are you sitting down?”
I thought he was joking.
“No. I mean it. Are you sitting down?”
That was a tough day. That was a day that took a year off my life.
But like a tax credit Seal, Sneed went behind enemy lines and brought me back to the light.
Calm like Clark Kent. Until you mess with his client.
Then watch out. His pencil is sharp.
My boy Sneed rips off his Ascot and glasses and changes inside a phone booth.
Suddenly before me is a mighty tax preparer wearing a big S on his chest.
Maybe I should send my boy Sneed to India.
That’s where a group of villagers unhappy with their tax preparer dumped snakes on them.
As I recall, It’s here in the land of the sacred cow, that 2 farmers walked into the local tax man’s office and dumped a bag of 40 slithering serpents on their desk.
The clerks and tax officials went scurrying.
“How do you like that return?” pocket protector?
The farmers laughed a mighty, Indian toothless grin and walked out with a sense of satisfaction.
What a bold act.
The question is why? What led to the bag o snakes?
According to published reports; the farmers were fed up with what they say are bribery demands from local tax officials.
All the farmers wanted were their tax records. but tax officials withheld the files for weeks while allegedly demanding bribes.
“Give us our tax records”
“Give us something in return.”
BRIBE THIS!
The farmers, one of whom is a snake charmer, did it because he wanted to make a statement.
Game. Set. Statement made.
Game on Tax Dude.
Wouldn’t it be great to just do what you want when you want because you were pissed.
Credit Card rejected? Dump a bucket of spit on the waiter.
Guy cuts you off in traffic? Throw a molotov cocktail at his car.
Pizza guy brings a pie with the wrong toppings? Blow red peppers up his nose.
Tax Man audits you? Send him a box of pit vipers!
I’m not saying I approve of anarchy, or throwing buckets of chum on Miss America pageant contestants, I’m just saying, sometimes it’s nice to kick ass and get some retribution.
And if the tax man is trying to solicit a bribe, and you have a bag of snakes, Hey what you gonna do.
Sometimes you have to say WTF and just cleanse the emotional palate.
If it takes a python to cleanse it, then so be it.
I can’t see my boy Sneed ever throwing Pythons at the IRS.
He’s James Bond cool. He’s a newly discovered exemption in a pile of mustard slathered receipts.
Pythons!
Sneed don’t need no stinking Pythons
“Hey look momma. There’s a tax man coming out of that phone booth with a big S on his chest.”
The mother’s smile is filled with a calm that puts the little boy at ease.
“I know baby. He’s watching over us.”
Taxation without representation.
April 15th.
Life’s Crazy™