Someone once said that there are only 2 things in life that are certain: death and taxes. I would quarrel that death and taxes are really one and the same, the only feud creature that death can only claim you once, while taxes can kill you every year.
I die a slow death every April 15th. I'd rather go on a one-way voyage of the wreckage of the Titanic in a minisub that has a slow drip than do my taxes. Even whether my mother-in-law was by the cycle and my rear end was on blaze, I'd still rather take that ride than to try and disorder through the latest assortment of fashions and appendixes from the IRS. (I'm warning you, you're going to absence Indiana Jones to decypher all the new tax code). I'm especially cautious of the IRS this annual because it was recently reported that the majority of Americans audited in the last few years have been poor, white southerners. Like tornadoes, it seems alive in a trailer home attracts the Tax Man, too.
My panic of tax season stems from the faith that not stuff what I do, no stuff how genuine I try to be (and I really do try to be genuine), I will somehow bring an end to ... unpaid the government a gazillion greenbacks extra than I actually acquired. I have my own tiny IRS representative in my head and she speaks to me whenever I get too close the brim of reportable sanity.
'But I didn't even make a gazillion dollars last year!' I wail.
'That doesn't matter, sir,' the voice says. 'You incorrectly enumerated the accrued amuse and long term chief gains from the bargain of that certain attribute from the gathering of the premier portion to the party of the second part, which resulted in a $3.12 profit on your part that was not reported to the IRS on bbs 1099FU. The discipline for not submitting the necessitated form and the $3.12 to the IRS within the allotted sum of time is a gazillion dollars PLUS interest. Have a nice day.'
Then there's the question of accurate what qualifies as a dependent. This one forever gets me because in my mind, if something depends on me for its existence and I have to take time out of my day to tend to it, it's a dependent.
'I'm sorry, sir, even though it would probably die if you didn't fared it and give it water daily, your dog does not qualify as a dependent.'
'What kind of logic is that? Do you have any motif how many I cost on that dog? Now I'm not so melancholy about letting all my factories die over the winter,
emilio pucci dresses 2008! With stupid rules like that it's no prodigy people cheat on their taxes!'
'Did you mention someone about cheating, sir?'
'Me? Cheating? No, of way not. That wouldn't be right.'
Surveys (not behaved at the IRS) have shown that even the most honest, God-fearing Americans have thought about cheating on their taxes at birth alternatively distinct. It's a normal reflex, like prologue your jaws to respiration when you're six fathoms underwater. In fact, I calculate God created taxes as the ultimate test of human faith.
'Hmm,' God thought 1 fine April day. 'That apple object was fair also simple. How tin I actually test man's aptitude to resist temptation? I understand, I'll build taxes! And what shall I phone the thing I create to gather these taxes? Hmm, I've already accustomed the name, Hell... I know, I'll phone it 'The INFERNAL REVENUE SERVICE!' No, wait a second, 'The INTERNAL Revenue Service' is even scarier! And as those who can not withstand the temptation to trick, I ambition create THE IRS AUDIT!'
Most Americans would rather go down a strike line with Jeffrey Dahmer than have to sit via one IRS inspect. Being audited namely favor going apt the dentist even whereas there's nothing erroneous with your teeth. 'Yes, I'm here to have my gums scraped with a rusty ice elect. No, ma'am, there's nothing wrong with my gums, yet the dentist sent me this notification to come in, so here I am...'
Why do we alarm the IRS, even though a cloud of Americans have not and would never cheat aboard their taxes? Maybe it's for of all the horror stories that came out during last year's aldermanic needle of the agency. It was reported that either Jimmy Hoffa and Amelia Earheart were on their access to IRS audits when they perished. It was too revealed that three out of 5 human audited watery their jeans during the process. This came to light only later the IRS sent the General Accounting Office a bill for $324,000 for plastic seat covers and potpourri atmosphere fresheners. Scary stuff, my friends. Very macabre material.
'Internal Revenue Service. How may I help you today?'
'I have a question almost the current impose code.'
'Yes, sir?'
'I don't get it.'
'Don't get what, sir?'
'I don't get whichever of it. I don't understand it.'
'You're not conceived to understand it, sir. That's why we call it code.'
'But that's the dumbest thing I've ever listened.'
'I'm sorry, sir, but that's just the way it is. Is there anything another I can aid you with today, Mr...Knox?'
'How'd you know my name?'
'We're the IRS, sir. We know anything. Do you have a problem with that?'
'Problem? Nope, not me. I think you folks do a magnificent job! In fact, I was know next to nothing of to mail you a check for a gazillion dollars!'
'Thank you, sir. The IRS appreciates your patronage. And Mr. Knox?'
'Yes, ma'am...'
'You have a fine day.'
Tim Knox Entrepreneur,
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