Arghhh! It just happened again. No, I’m not referring to the billions of dollars hard-working taxpayers have to send to Uncle Sam by this April 18. I’ve become almost numb to the pain of that annual reckoning.
But what still gets my goat is when someone—especially a near and dear family member—celebrates receiving a tax refund. They act as though it’s manna from heaven. They rejoice in their totally unexpected bounty from a beneficent government.
When I try to explain that the IRS really isn’t doing them a favor—that, in fact, the opposite is true; that by overpaying their taxes during the past year, they have in effect been giving a profligate and wasteful government an interest-free loan—they look at me as though I’ve suddenly sprouted two heads.
So okay. No lengthy lectures from me this year about how a progressive income tax was an essential part of the Communist Manifesto. No rant about the conspiratorial origins of the Federal Reserve. No diatribe on the diabolical cunning of a withholding tax, so the shark-like bite of Uncle Sam is rendered less painful than a mosquito bite.
No, all I’ll do is repeat my opening sentiment: Arghh! And then offer this anonymous reminder of why we can be glad that soon, Tax Day will once again be behind us.
Tax his land, tax his bed,
Tax the table at which he’s fed.
Tax his tractor, tax his mule,
Teach him taxes are the rule.
Tax his cow, tax his goat,
Tax his pants, tax his coat.
Tax his ties, tax his shirt,
Tax his work, tax his dirt.
Tax his tobacco, tax his drink.
Tax him if he tries to think.
Tax his cigars, tax his beers,
If he cries, then tax his tears.
Tax his car, tax his gas,
Find other ways to tax his a**.
Tax all he has, then let him know
That you won’t be done ’till he has no dough.
When he screams and hollers,
Tax him some more.
Tax him ’till he’s good and sore.
Then tax his coffin, tax his grave.
Tax the sod in which he’s laid.
Put these words upon his tomb,
"Taxes drove me to my doom."
When he’s gone, do not relax.
It’s time to apply the inheritance tax.