Refund, Please

Saturday,
Like nose hairs and like gas after eating a meal made with Manwich, taxes are a way of American life. Each year, Dawn and I do our civic duty by going to see our tax guy, Bob, from H & R Block, and we have a ball -- as long as we get a refund.
I don't get the whole tax process. Long forms, 1099s, W-2s -- they all remind me of the fact that I spent my four years of high school in a freshman math class. When it comes to math, taxes and anything else connected with adulthood, I find it best just to sit there looking pretty and being irrelevant.
But Dawn is grounded in the ways of adulthood. She's great at keeping our books -- as long as there is a profit. So, she's been handling all our financial affairs (I'll handle the other ones, thanks) ever since I gave up all credit cards. This was mainly because I view credit cards as free money to be spent on things I really don't need. Banks should have never given them to me, so it's their fault. They should never trust anyone who buys useless nuggets as pick-me-ups for sullen moods.
Which reminds me: That's how I got the "Greatest Legends of Pro Wrestling" DVD set. Learning that I have a lot in common with the Iron Sheik was heartwarming, but it unfortunately was not a tax write-off. Wait! It would be if I wrote about it like I just did (research for freelance work). Childlike hell, I'm a genius.
I hate this whole pay-your-taxes thing. But, like getting nitrous
oxide at the dentist, I make the best out of a bad situation by not taking it too seriously.
Dawn and I laugh and joke about how our hard-earned tax dollars went to purchase that dammed wheelchair Dick Cheney rode around in during Obama's inauguration. We're not bitter about that or anything. But we still can't believe that in the final moments of the Bush presidency some lame duck press secretary wanted us to think the vice president -- someone who has had 114 heart attacks -- hurt his back moving boxes out of his government-supplied home. I personally think he hurt his back whipping some undereducated guy from a temp agency (only because he couldn't shoot him).
Anyway, some people buy a computer program and do their taxes themselves. For me, that would be like doing my own brake job. Brakes, invasive medical procedures and taxes are best left for the professionals who know how to get the best results. I may live in the fantasy-filled country called Imagination, but I know the IRS is not something you want to play with. IRS people are what Johnny Paycheck described as "vampires in gray flannel suits." Not messing with the IRS is like not messing with the Mafia -- one of the many things they have in common.
Buying a computer program so I can do my own taxes? Not me. I'd rather get the home colonoscopy kit.
Here's another thing. By having others do our taxes, we have always gotten a refund. Big or small, it doesn't matter. All that matters is we don't have to pay any extra. Mainly because, as we all know, the IRS compounds interest hourly (something else it has in common with the Mafia).
In an effort to help you out the next time you have to do that yearly dance called the IRS Shuffle, here are a few tax tips I have learned over the years:
* Have your partner assume all the responsibility. Sitting there pretending you know what's going on is a lot easier than pretending you're really smart.
* After your tax preparer tells you something you don't understand, don't ask him to explain. Just ask, "Is that good or bad?" You'll be out of there in less than two hours.
* Bring a good attitude and a big slice of carrot cake. Who can tell you you're not getting a refund after all that?
* Don't lie about having more kids than you really do. They put you in jail for that. If they'll put Martha Stewart in jail, they will nail people like you and me to a cross of our own making.
* Remember, doing your taxes is like having the above-mentioned colonoscopy. The prep is a lot worse than the event itself. Of course, they give you drugs for the colonoscopy, but H & R Block can't do everything.
Tax time: just what we need in the middle of winter. Thank God I'm pretty and not smart. Being smart is too much damn work. Just ask my wife!
Johnnie Carrier is a North Adams freelance writer who needs to find a tax loophole that will justify a trip to Florida.