Wednesday, December 30, 2015
We're almost at the end of the year. And for the most part my blog has been inactive for a number of months. Which, according to sources, puts me in a rather precarious tax situation that, frankly, I would rather avoid.
My tax guy, Jeremy, the same guy who gives me most of my life counsel, including quite a bit of bad stuff, but mixed with much good, looked into blog law going back roughly to the 1600s. To be more accurate, blog law at that time was mixed in with newspaper law -- I'm trying not to be too arcane. Columnists at that time, then through the centuries since, were the same as bloggers, and newspapers came into full compliance with tax restrictions by writing "An Official Tax Write-off Post." That's what this is.
Jeremy counseled me to be more diligent in 2016 with my posts. If you post the bare minimum, the exact figure of which he doesn't know, presumably something between 1 and 31, you can get away with more. The officials will overlook a lot if they see some actual effort's being made. That effort, and keeping your nose clean in general, turns them away, smooths official ruffled feathers, and your tax bill is usually nullified. Think of it as Passover, he said. Objectively there's nothing sacred about animal blood, but if that's what they ask for, that's what you give.
Times being what they are, of course, and blogs having nothing to do with religion, once the force behind the most typical tax poobahs discerns an effort, that's when they lower their metaphorical guns of attention. I'm not saying anything that most people driven by instinct don't know. You might sweat out getting any particular task done if you aren't compelled, but once that compulsion is there, it's an imperative. Look at me right now! I'm fluent! And, honestly, I haven't been able even to whisper for the last month. I'm desperate to set the record straight.
I may as well say it, I've been down. I even qualified for a home health nurse to visit my house a couple times a week. I ate most of the sandwiches they gave me if I took it slow, but would only blow bubbles in the soup. Again, on the advice of Jeremy, to keep them coming. To put it bluntly, I've been virtually comatose, a few times to the point of twitching and babbling and messing. Not pretty. Cindy my Nurse tried to keep Jeremy out, but he came in through the bathroom window when she was out for a smoke. And told me, It's the end of the year! The taxman draweth nigh! I roused, "How nigh?" He blurted out, "Like a wolf at the door!"
That was this morning. Since then I've been fighting with my occupational therapist, "I've got to get to the damned computer!" She protested, leading me to cry and kick and bluster, and mess myself again. Here it is now, early to mid afternoon, and I'm stuck! If the taxman was drawing nigh this morning, like a wolf at the door, what's he doing now? He might be out of control, looking for someone to destroy. And if I lose everything, I'll never make it. I need this house. It's winter. I can't be out in the cold, I'll die.
So there you have it. I don't want to be here, that's for sure. I don't want to spill my guts like this, for the gawking eyes of an ungrateful public. Hell with it, I say! What business is it of anyone, my travails? It's no one's business...
Thus I hath begun, and thus hath been published, and thus hath ended My Official Tax Write-off Post.
Saturday, December 5, 2015
I'm wistful today. You see, it's the time for the Holiday Extravaganza, a wonderful event that's timed every year to coincide with winter and Christmas. Which was fun to go to until they changed some of their policies.
Someone asked me to go several years ago. And they were right, the various handiwork holiday crafts were nauseating to see, but, as it turned out, were especially a delight to piss on.
This is true. It's one of the few Craft Sale/Holiday Extravaganza-type events I'd ever seen that had a lenient policy on pissing on the merchandise and exhibits. Which was especially welcome to me, because when I see a lot of that stuff, Santa Clauses with the rounded heart bored in his chest area, denoting the heart of Santa offered up to the world, etc., I experience one of two reactions: 1) A spinning feeling that makes me feel faint; and, 2) The need to piss on it, thereby expressing my revulsion.
But enough about me. Except to add, I went to the first Extravaganza I heard about, and was unprepared for what I would see. Which is to say I'd relieved myself sufficiently at home, then when it came time to express my feelings I could only muster a few minor tinkles, something like an eighth of a cup were it measured. Hardly worth my time.
The second Extravaganza was in '012 (Ought 12). Again I didn't make a production of it, just enough of an output to say I had one. Because, frankly, these days no one cares, really. You tell someone what you did and they always answer with something they did. Leaving my story to wither on the vine and get no kudos. I hate that about life these days. It's almost enough to make me strain real hard, like right now, till my face turns red, and, oops, there went about an eighth of a cup...
The third Extravaganza was in Ought 13. This time I didn't care what anyone thought. So I crammed for it. I knew -- by now I knew what they'd have -- I'd see lots of those Santas with the rounded heart, PLUS -- and this was really what got me going -- some touching sculptures of Santa kneeling at Jesus' manger. I had drunk probably three pots of black coffee. The level in me was something like this, starting at my groin and going to my nostrils. I was noticeably yellow with jaundice, the liquid I was packing.
Long story briefly told, I got to the Extravaganza and was amused to see a few of the better pissers taking little demur tinkles on the merchandise. Just enough, really, to season them, but not enough to put you in the books. But it's a big place, with plenty to piss you off. Like the little old ladies -- who were cool hippie chicks in the '60s -- fidgeting with their tablecloths, etc., and rearranging the merchandise for the best psychological presentation. I saw that -- and these are all things that push my buttons -- and went into a whirl.
When you go into a whirl, it's a brain function, I'm guessing. But it starts in the gut. You get a queasy feeling, kind of like what a volcano feels. You know you've got to do something; this thing is inexorable. Similar to having to sneeze when the sun's out. I took in the whole panorama of the place. The little old ladies, the holiday sprays, the "old-fashioned" children's horses, trees trimmed with ornaments, and especially those Santas with hearts bored in them -- tiny hearts, medium ones, and big hearts... Oh god!
What a terrific memory this is for me -- although for the others, I'm sure they regretted the normal liberal pissing policy. I went into a spin -- I was stirred in the depths -- and essentially lost my consciousness, having trained it nearly completely on the task at hand, destroying their Holiday Extravaganza with such a prodigious gushing output. It rivaled a small town's water tower rusting through, if it's not too immodest to say so.
I crossed my eyes and could see the yellow in my own eyes, the level sloshing back and forth as I walked. Walked? I strode, unzipping in a most determined, focused way. It'd ruin my pants if I didn't get it out. This son of a bitch -- if I'm permitted one vulgarity -- couldn't be stifled, couldn't be stymied. It was like a train coming through town; you might make an ordinance against it in the future, but it's vain to try to stop it in the present moment.
I literally saw the heavens opened, but I cried out, "Not now, Lord, I've gotta go!" And ... I did. Everyone dove for cover and I did what had to be done. Spraying, dousing, flooding that arena with so much piss -- they've literally got a marker on the walls 10 inches from the floor denoting the level. I know it was such a mess I got some on me and had to wash my jeans after all.
This was no small deal. The merchandise -- the good, bad, and in-between -- was all ruined. Leading to the rules change in Ought 14 banning pissing on the merchandise all together. Which I heard about from others, since the bastards banned me.
Ah well, and today's the day. I saw it mentioned in the paper just as I was finishing my third cup of coffee, and thought, "If only..." But it could never happen. Not again. Because I'm a good guy and respect the rules. Live and let live. I'll just pee later in a more appropriate place.