Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Your mailbox is usually a gateway to the mundane, a portal lined with coupons, bills, and solicitations bound for the trash, but every once in a while a surprise lies in wait. Tax time is traditionally reserved for the spring, except spring apparently comes again this year, with hefty property and vehicular tax notices to herald this strange phenomenon.

Taxes always seemed like a badge of honor to me, almost like an expensive rite of passage you must continually affirm, year after year. There comes a point when you’ve got to divert money away from frivolous avenues to more serious channels. But that doesn’t mean they can’t suck, considering the grim lineup: sales tax. Income tax. House tax. Car tax.

I mean, what the eff? No matter what you purchase, it always seems like you’re forced to take what you bought and buy it more, such is the edict of the Dong of Uncle Sam, ever poised to pierce the tranquil routine you so enjoy. Them’s the dues, though, and I suppose it’s not so bad when compared to living in, like, China, where a chance brush with a poisonous toy will kill you in mere seconds. I’m just kidding, of course. It takes closer to a week, or so I gather from my leaden Barbie doll.