Happy Happy Joy Joy

Many, many copies were made,
spread out on the table, they were laid.

Pencils were sharpened to a fine point,
I read all about threats to send me to the joint.

A few prayers were uttered,
more than a few curses were muttered.

I pulled yet more forms from the dreaded bin,
with a 'here goes nuthin', I dove right in.

Earnings, credits, and interest, Oh My!
One day this'll be easy, when pigs fly.

In my mind, I saw my savings go bye bye,
I dunno how I didn't jam that pencil in my eye.

Only towards the very end, did I venture to think,
that maybe this year, I wouldn't take it up the stink.

Standing straight up, I let out a holler,
Looks like I'm getting 'bout 500 dollar!

I rule.

Seems like taxes were a heck of a lot easier back in the day. Of course, when your assets consists of a rather impressive combat boot collection, somewhere in the neighborhood of $100 in the bank... on a good day, and... and... and... not much else, the Infernal Ravaging 'Service' (Kidding, Kidding! Love the shoes, guys, great polishing job! Nice Suits!) isn't really interested in ya. These years, I imagine they're a bit more keen on my situation.

Last year about this time, I eventually gave up. For some reason, after many, many frustrating hours spent looking up charts, filing out forms, and planning an extended trip to Canada, I came to the conclusion that I was in over my head. All the various accounts, forms, interest, charts and income numbers were all kicking my ass repeatedly, and to the tune of wildly different numbers, each time. I wasn't exactly sure where I was messing up, neither.

I swallowed my pride and went to one of those tax-preparation services.

One of those annoyingly cheery ladies was there, hands neatly folded & waiting at her desk, apparently living for nothing more than tax preparation. I shuffled over to her and explained to her that I was totally lost, and the voices in my head weren't helping me out much. That kinda froze her smile, at least for a few seconds. I wasn't sure if I owed big, or was getting a fat check. Eventually, she toned down the cheer enough to bring her back into the realm of normal human beings, and I even managed to relax a bit. Banter, even.

All of her comments while running the numbers sounded promising. Whilst clacking away at the keyboard, she even managed to point out a few errors that I had made without making me sound like too much of a mathematical/tax goober. I idly thought about using my return to buy one of those 'Tax Tips for Complete & Utter Morons' books, in preparation for coming years - nah, I'd rather buy DVDs of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, than think about tax time any more than absolutely necessary.

Looking up at the gradual deceleration of keyboard clacking, I (by now) eagerly awaited the verdict.

"$2,700" She cheerily exclaimed.

I offered my input on the apparent return with "Hell Yeah! I'm going to Disneyland! I rule!"

"Oh my", she tittered (still with the God-awful smiley voice), "I'm terribly sorry, $2,700 is what you owe, sir."


Crap.


But hey, that's all in the past, this year I got money coming back at me. It's not a whole heck of alot, but I'll definitely take it. Too bad it's already spoken for, cause Daddy needs some new toys like you wouldn't believe!