Tax on, tax off

I don’t understand the point of doing taxes.

The government seems perfectly capable of taking money from me all year long without my help. Why do I have to do their job every April? I’m sure the IRS loves this time of year. They’re probably sipping mai tais on some beach laughing at all of us. “Good luck figuring out your itemizations suckers!” IRS, I hope you get sunburn so bad you can’t wear a shirt.

I can’t even do my taxes myself. I have to pay a pale stranger in a baggy suit to pour over my intimate financial details under fluorescent lighting. He asks me all kinds of questions that I don’t know the answer to. Do I have any deductions? Charitable contributions? Did I buy any livestock? If I knew the answers to these questions I’d do my taxes myself. That’s what I’m paying you for. Now get back in your box and leave me alone. If I wanted to be an accountant I wouldn’t have failed basic math in high school.

Why the hell is this so damn hard? The tax documents are a few rows but it’s impossible to calculate anything. I have to add the sum of row 9 with the number from 12 only if I put zero in row 7. What in the flying fuck does that mean? I don’t wanna do that. You do it IRS if you care so much. Just take the money you need and stop bothering me.

This feels like punishment when I didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve had accountants who have scolded me for claiming the wrong deductions. News flash, I don’t know what the fuck that means. I don’t need the lecture from you. I know what CPA really stands for: Certified Public Asshole.

The fact is I have to do my taxes, even more so than everybody else. My last name is Capone and my great uncle Al ruined it for the whole family.

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