Having Fun Working on My T@#%s

My little corner of the world.

I was going to complain about all the paperwork that is presently spread out in my living room, where I spent all weekend working on my t@*%s. But what with those National Security Guys eavesdropping on all of us because it is illegal to profile, I'm afraid any complaints I have might be copied to the I#$ and the next thing I know my blabbing would have triggered an a#@&t. This is assuming, of course, that those guys at the C!@ and the N$( and the I#$ are organized and efficient.

Which, since nothing Bernie Madoff did for half a century triggered anything, may be a leap of logic that assumes a level skill unknown at the agencies to which I referred above. But who wants to be the one to test that hypothesis?

Paper is everywhere, and really I have my mother to blame for this. This is exactly the way she "organized" paperwork. Why didn't I get that math gene from my Dad????

I have no moral, ethical, or personal issues with paying my fair share of t@*%s. I know I'm lucky to live in the best country in the world--mind you, not always the best run--but still wonderful and free. We have good roads and schools; the water and power are plentiful and safe; our military seems to have a general idea what it is up to; and the bridges work pretty well; so I have nothing to complain about.

Except for the fact that the t@# c&%e is indecipherable and necessitates the hiring of a C&* each year to translate it for me, and except for the fact that no matter how organized I think I am I always have to spend a weekend (or more) each year sorting through all this wretched paper in order to get ready to meet with the C&*, I would be happy as can be.

I often wonder why I don't work on this a little bit each month, and then I wouldn't have to go through all this. That would make sense. Which may be why I can't seem to do it.

That's the way my father worked: he logged things every day, every week, every month. He LOVED working on his t@#%s, and so did his sister, my Aunt Helen. In fact, she was so good at it that into her eighties she donated her time to one of those Senior Centers where she helped old doofuses like me fill out their t@# f*&%s.

This year is even more complex than usual because my father had the nerve to up and die in 2010, which no one should ever do because there is really no provision for it in the t@# c&%e and thus it causes no end of complications which the person involved, who is the cause of everything, cannot help you with because he is finally beyond the reach of the I#$. Lucky man.

Paper, paper, everywhere and none of it interesting.

I used to believe in (so-called) t@# reform. But having covered the Kemp-Roth (so-called) "Flat T@#" bill long ago in Congress, and seeing what came of that--literally nothing--I am no longer foolish enough to be sanguine on the prospects for any positive change in this area.

So, unless I find a nice C&* to marry who will promise to love, honor, and do my t@#%s for me, you'll know where to find me. And Dad--you lucky devil--it must really be heaven.

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