Coonridge Digest: Yes, spring has returned

Greetin’s from the Ridge.

I’m not so jaded as to subscribe to the theory that the government can ruin everything, but they’ve sure done a number on Springtime. This most glorious of seasons that’s decorated with buddin’ trees, the squawk of early mornin’ robins, and the smell of fragrant earth has been ruined by the loomin’ prospect of April 15th, tax day.

Like a bureaucratic proctologist, it sneaks up on your blind side and makes it hard to sit down and enjoy this most blessed season.

Most of the world’s religions require no more than a 10 % tithe, but Uncle Sam’s needs continue to be greater than God’s and we’re jerked into the world of 30, 40 and 50% robbery. A recent conversation, absolutely true: I had spoken to a nice little group of church ladies and they wrote me a small check, which I dutifully turned over to my own church’s programs. My tax advisor told me, "You’ll have to pay tax on that, Freida."

"That’s ridiculous. I gave the money away." "It’s income."

"It’s not income! ‘In-Come means somethin’ came in. It all went out!" "That doesn’t matter. They gave you the money, you gave the money away, and now you pay the taxes…but don’t worry, that’ll qualify you for a 42-cent deduction."

"So where did I foul up?"

"You made money. Stop making money and you’ll be alright." President Bush says that all Americans should be outraged at state-sponsored terrorism. I am, George! It’s called the I.R.S. And believe it or not, I don’t begrudge the money as much as I do the pure hassle. I hate waste in any form and the present system of taxation has not only created an expensive bureaucracy to collect and investigate your taxes, but an equally hungry army of tax consultants has grown up to wrestle with the I.R.S.

"Hello? Is this Sam Slickman’s tax service?" "This is Sam himself."

"This is the I.R.S. How’s the season in your neck of the woods?" "Better. But I gotta tell you, every time you federal boys try to simplify taxes, it hurts my business. I actually had a couple of fools try to do their own taxes last year. One of ‘em actually succeeded and the other is expected to be released after proper medication." "Yea. Sorry about that. We pretend to simplify it every ten years so it looks like we’re tryin’."

"I understand. Look, keep up the good work. Your tax laws keep my kids eatin’. Happy Taxin’!"

They say that one out of every two hundred tax returns gets audited.

This is almost exactly the number of citizens who have a heart attack every year. You tell me there’s no connection.

I have come up with a new strategy for this year’s return and I highly recommend it for your consideration. According to the I.R.S’s own accounts, the average American taxpayer will over-pay the government $611 this year. I plan to figure up my taxes then subtract that amount.

I figure this will save everyone money. The I.R.S. won’t have to spend their expensive time figurin’ up how much I’ve overpaid since I’ve already done it for them, they’ll save the cost of writin’ to tell me about it, and they’ll save an interest that might accrue while they figure all this out. (I intend to charge them interest.) Eureka! The joy of my Springtime had returned! Giddy with the prospect of how this revelation would change my attitude toward both Dogwood blossoms and Washington bureaucrats, I called my friend Estelle McBride and told her.

"Freida, that’s crazy."

"You mean, my dear Estelle, that you don’t plan to do the same?" "Are you nuts? Of course not!"

So I did both Estelle and the I.R.S. a favor by dutifully deductin’ her $611 from my bottom line. By noon I’d made over fifteen calls with absolutely no takers. Yesterday afternoon I made the final calculations and the government now owes me $9650!

I literally ran out onto the front stoop to take a deep breath of the spring air. Not even Mort Gibson’s passin’ cattle truck could distract my nose from the distinct smell of daffodils. I swept the porch with thoughts of delicate marigolds and fat tax returns dancin’ in my head.

Herb walked out to get the paper wearin’ his "I’d rather be Fishin’" boxer shorts and reekin’ of Prince Albert pipe tobacco and I hugged him.

Spring has returned to Coonridge.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.