“In the Spring a US citizen’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of . . . taxes.” (Alfred Lord Taxemsome)
The now infamous Mueller Report confirmed that the Russians tinkered with our elections. Unbeknownst to most, the report also revealed that the Infernal Revenue Service is being run by the Russian spy agency, Kaos. Those with doubts should watch a few episodes of Kaos’ highly successful propaganda films known as Get Smart. They chronicle Kaos’ decades of meddling with America’s taxes. Let me tell you how they messed with me.
In the 1990s I did my own taxes. I used the form 1040-BS. It had one line: “How much did you make last year?” That was followed by the instruction: “Send it in”. (I can hear my dear friend, No-Account Addie, rolling her eyes at me. Seriously. She’s a tax expert. When she rolls her eyes it sounds like a one-armed bandit in a casino. When she flutters those baby blues the neon and strobe lights flash like a disco ball at a Bee Gee’s tribute concert.)
By my calculation I owed the US guv’mint $963.36. I sent it in. Several weeks later they refunded the money, saying I didn’t owe it. I wrote them back and returned the check, explaining that I did owe the money. A few weeks later they sent that check back to me, maintaining that I was wrong. So I capitulated.
I bought a brand spankin’ new Sony Trinitron television—state of the art. It cost exactly $963.36. Less than a week later I received another letter from the IRS stating that I was in fact correct, that I did owe the $963.36, and that they wanted it back—pronto!
You know how the automobile manufacturers put the most likely part of the motor to go bad first in the most difficult and costly place to repair and/or replace? The IRS does the same kind of thing. The kovert Kaos operatives mess with our tax returns just enough to p**s us off. In so doing, they plant seeds of discord in our culture that make us ripe for the pickin’.
I floated this idea to my cohorts on The Balcony recently. No-Account Addie’s sweetheart, my good friend Leon—a very inciteful man, recused himself. But on the way out he surreptitiously slipped me a note scrawled on a napkin that read, “Be careful who you say that stuff to, Weeks. The fans are wearing wires—red ones at that.”
My #2 son, Sir Sonny the Lady Killer, one of the Knights of the Long Table, said, “Hey, Daddy-O! That stuff’s real.” He was about to tell me how real it was when Sir Martacus came out wearing a monacle and slapping a riding crop in his left hand. He gave Sir Sonny the evil eye. Z. Z. Bullfrog, a pythy man, jumped in and started spouting off statistics about income taxes and Russian interference like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz once he got a brain: “The standard deduction, when multiplied by 79.8 and divided by 199.07 squared is inversely proportional to the square root of the number of foreign tax agents held in Siberian prisons when Mercury is in retrograde.”
The Sheik chimed in. Our ears were pricked. He whispered. We leaned in. “Did you know that the Russians are in the process of a financial takeover of Texas?” We were on the edge of our seats. “Just think about this: the flag of Texas only has one star. How many stars does the flag of the Old Soviet Union have?” he asked. We all gasped. The Sheik held up one finger—the middle one. He continued. “And they’re gonna change the name of Texas to Taxus. Hide and watch.”
“OMG!” shouted Miz McBleu, the Foul Mouth of the South. But before she could let go a string of expletives that would make a merchant marine blush, two Russian “friends” appeared. Stone-cold silence ensued. Vlad the Inhaler said to his comrade, Boris Tickmeoff, “Boris! They all look like people who haven’t paid their taxes.” Then they broke into song: “Back in the USSR” to be exact.
Will Russia mess with our taxes this year? I don’t know. All I know is that I’m getting a refund, so, thankfully, I won’t be in the red—or will I? Just to be on the safe side, I’m gonna brush up on my Beatles music.
Flew in from Miami Beach BOAC,
Didn’t get to bed last night . . .
And that’s the view from The Balcony.
