Tax Tips for Billionaires

Well, folks, it's here, the day the average guy hates most of all, Tax Day. Oh yes, how well I remember it: The terrible dread, so you put it off till tomorrow, then the next day, and finally have to waste April 15 getting it done.

But now I'm a billionaire, so those days are gone. At least the dreading part. They still expect you to fill out a little form. As I understand it, they didn't always. But a few of you average guys found out about it and wrote to your congressman complaining. Since it was an election year, he was all over the issue, and even bragged about it in his TV ads. "He forced billionaires to pay taxes, just like you." The good news is, since billionaires are too big to fail, they make it very simple. And, frankly, if you end up paying anything, you did it wrong.

My problem this year is I've only been a billionaire a little over a week, after the billionaire gave me $2.1 billion, so I wasn't sure what to do. It was only a couple days ago that I learned the only reason he gave me the money was to avoid his own taxes. Which is OK with me! But he's been very helpful and connected me with a tax guy whose job it is -- we pay him under the table, that's how smart he is about taxes -- to help new billionaires do it right.

Some of the details are very hush-hush, because, frankly, the IRS is always lurking, sometimes as subtly as brown blight on shrubbery. According to the billionaire, they've always got him in their sights. So he dropped me off by a grove of trees, sent me across a field, then past a motel swimming pool that's been filled in (the concrete perimeter remains), and to a particular room. There, the guy came in with a low-tech pointer and a big pad of paper. And gave us the good stuff.

He goes, "If you haven't got at least one offshore account, get on it today. Go to Home Depot, buy a big plastic tote and some duct tape, load it with cash, and find a place offshore to bury it." I took mine to the river, a good place, where I know there's plenty of sandbars. Some of these sandbars have been there for years, not counting the late spring rains that tend to wash them away till June. Right now it's mid-April; everything will be secure till the middle of May. If we're fortunate enough to get global warming, I might not have to dig them up till August.

Everyone's heard of Swiss accounts. You bury a few totes with some Swiss cheese, and the IRS naturally assumes you meant Switzerland. It's sneakier. You make the claim, then eat the cheese, saving all the way. Then there's the setting-up of trusts for make-believe relatives. Like my cousin, Athlete Foote, and my godchild, Ware Wood Shovelby; and a guy from Africa I adopted, Udum Dolt. We met at a Nigerian Independence Day celebration and he looked like he needed a father figure. It's a good story, because at the very mention of Nigeria everyone assumes anything's possible.

Of course there's also any business losses you may have had. My main business is this blog. It's tough to serve the needs of 50,000 needy readers everyday. For example, I hire a dozen guys to handle the emails I get. Everyday there's idiots with dumb questions, like, "Is Strongheart dog food still available?" We Google it and answer him "Yes" or "No," whatever the answer is. Wasting time like that's a business loss. Hiring the guys is a business loss. And if they steal from me -- and I somehow lost a couple Beatles posters just this week -- that comes out of my taxes.

The other category of business losses is failed investments. You should always invest in businesses that are fundamentally unsound and die quickly. Like tea shops, independent mattress stores, furniture stores, and, above all, carpet stores. What these fly-by-night bastards steal is one of the good financial losses, for tax purposes. (At long last I know why carpet stores are always closing.)

The other killer tax shelter is, of course, charities. It takes about 10 minutes to start and register a charity. I've had this idea for some time. Remember, my parents both died of cancer. And the official Cancer Society, with their years and years of collecting for it, still haven't come up with a cure. This leaves me, according to the scheme, with no choice but to create "My Own Cancer Society." And since I own it, any contributions I make technically stay with me. And because no one actually expects you to come up with a cure, no one's the wiser, and cancer victims aren't any worse off.

This year might be a bad year for me, tax-wise. I might still need to pay on my $450 a month disability check, received before I became a billionaire. But by next year I will have rolled that into a charity for the cure of game toes, which is my disability. Because if I come up with a cure I believe I'll be able to live without the government's monthly pittance.

Poor Spirits Aggrieved by Shady Podiatrists

Some time back, after hearing of so many terrible goings-on, I decided at long last to put my foot down and seek information on the shady trade known as podiatry and the heels that do it. I've taken certain steps in that direction and I'm prepared to give at least a preliminary report.

So far it's just me doing the work. But I'm hoping that by getting the word out I can put together a team. I'm thinking of calling it TAPS, like on the ghost hunting show, but this time with TAPS standing for Those Asshole PodatristS.

In the past I've written about one other very shady industry, the whole fly-by-night carpet biz. They sell you carpet, you walk on it, it comes apart at the seams, and then they're gone. Now I'm revealing the truth of podiatry. In short, podiatrists are the fly-by-night carpet biz of the whole stinking medical world.

I've discovered one very interesting detail of these guys. Podiatrists always marry their receptionist, with the receptionist being the only employee, since she can't be forced to testify against him. That would be a concern if anyone could ever catch these guys. But they tend to set up shop, then disappear in the night. Probably the ideal situation for them, from their point of view, would be to set up in the back of a carpet store! They could all vacate together...

My work so far has been to visit empty office space where podiatrists once were and have now left. I've gone to a few of these places. I've used my natural sensitivity and intuition to communicate with the spirits of departed patients. It's not the case, however, that every one of these patients actually died. But in the agony of their treatment, they all left something of their spirit energy within those unfortunate walls.

Now, being only one man, and without the government's surveillance expertise, I don't know any of the actual patients by name. So as a workaround I play the odds. "Is the aggrieved spirit of Ted here? Calling Ted." Nothing but silence. I went through a list of common names. "Al? Mary? Clyde?" But there was nothing. Silence. Finally I hit on one: "Phoebe?" At that, I suddenly heard rustling, right where the chair had been! Then the telltale fragrance of foot odor hit my nose, and I knew ... Phoebe's in the house!

"Phoebe, I know you suffered heinously here. Flick your big toenail if it was an ingrown toenail ... treated without anesthesia." I was spooked, really taken aback, when she not only flicked it but let out a bloodcurdling yell. "So the pain hasn't lessened at all? Flick it again if that's a yes." I heard the same flick, and an even more bloodcurdling yell. "OK," I said, trying to nail down certain conclusions, "Flick it once more if your podiatrist was a son of a bitch, then flick it a second time if you wish you would've simply suffered with it the rest of your life than to seek out his worthless treatment." I waited as she no doubt pondered whether she could endure the pain. Then, flick, [SCREAM], followed by flick, [SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER].

I poked around the office a bit more. Under some rubble I found a poster of a foot, a cutaway view, with the skin, muscle, and bones on display. You'd think this would've been nothing more than artwork from a supply house. But I'm thinking it might've been a view of an actual patient's foot, possibly operated on in this very office. I called out to Phoebe, who verified for me that it was indeed her foot, this time with three nail flicks and three more bloodcurdling screams, growing in intensity as her pain increased exponentially.

Finally, just to satisfy my curiosity as to how the podiatrist and his wife are able to disappear during raids, I tapped around for a hideout. It didn't take long to find a cut out section of the floor, covered with a removable door. Obviously there had been a switch and wires on the wife's desk to unlock it. Pulling away the boards, I found a room big enough for various provisions and space enough to sleep if need be. Very clever!

But that wasn't all! I let out a scream of my own and nearly threw up when I saw a shelf with actual foot parts, severed toes, bone, curdled muscle, the whole bit! As I screamed, Phoebe's spirit was again with me, herself screaming. As I poked at some of the bits of a bloody toe on the shelf, her screams became deafening. This time I knew! She didn't need to flick her toenail for me to know ... some of this mess was hers!

Rugs Is No Life For A Woman

As the new guy in charge of the Organization's "massage parlors," "modeling agencies," and "escort services" (prostitution), one of my ongoing interests will be procuring new girls. Just stepping in, I'm thankful to learn of one time-tested method we're using all the time.

Coincidentally, it ties in with the fly-by-night carpet store business I was just recently part of. So I have experience in that too! They've found that one very effective way to lure, entice, or convince a woman into prostitution is to appeal to her domestic side. Then we make a quick shift in that presentation that calls into question the emptiness and vanity of that life. Here's the way it goes, as I understand it:

For the ruse, we have a storefront, which appears to be an actual store, where is set up all kinds of household wares. It's quite a display, everything the lady of the house might want, a real paradise to behold. There's couches, TV trays, lamps, curtains, and so forth. Somehow we get the candidate into the store, and maybe she's given some spending money -- I'm not sure how that works.

Then -- and here's where the switch comes in -- there's the greatest inducement toward domesticity followed by a quick shift away from it. She's looking at flooring, linoleum, hardwood, and more importantly, carpeting and rugs. Let's just jump to the carpet and rugs. She's immediately seduced by the gorgeous patterns -- symmetrical lines, ornate blossoms of flowers, etc. -- and it is indeed amazing the many patterns carpet makers have come up with. Just like they were on LSD... So she's driven toward domesticity.

Now, in this whole ruse, think of the vast experience the underworld has in the carpet trade. It's one of our biggest moneymakers, selling sub-par, shoddy carpet in fly-by-night stores. Carpet is that one consumer product that might be good and it might be bad. Just looking at it doesn't tell you much. It's not like a tire that you can kick and immediately know if it will keep your family safe. The only way to judge carpet is to run your hand across it and see if the tufts come off with the touch. And that's not as easy as it sounds. A good carpet dealer, that is, a good underworld carpet dealer, distracts the buyer with lifetime warranties and the benefits of various cleaning products, so much so that they never actually touch the carpet. 

Be that as it may, then, let's say we've got the woman, now a domestic princess, in our fake store. There's a few hardened, deceitful prostitutes walking around in normal clothing, pretend shopping, to lure her into a sense of security. Then we start putting the psychological screws to her. It turns out this or that item doesn't bring satisfaction. It costs money, big money to keep up the house. There's always something else you need, something else that costs big money. Finally, you throw up your hands and say, What's the use?

We've passed through the kitchen area, the appliance area, the bathroom area, etc., and we come to the carpet and rug department. Oh, this is sly! We show the incredible variety of rugs and carpets, how perfect they are. All that just before we bring out a piece of shoddy carpet. "Just run your hand over this masterpiece!" And as she does so, it comes apart in her hand! The "salesman" goes ballistic. "This is my job, to offer only the finest carpet, and someone has fallen down on the job!" The woman is disappointed, and the salesman's disappointment increases both her disappointment and anxiety exponentially.

He's sobbing, she consoles him, they embrace, they make mad love on a roll of fraying, falling apart, flaking away carpet. She suddenly sees the ultimate vanity of trying to be a domestic goddess, that the whole thing is a sham you can never trust. But the sex act, which she just experienced, that's something that endures! He leads her on. This perfection, this beautiful joining together of man and woman -- with all his fetishes -- can be hers. He knows a guy, a friend of a friend, who can set her up, etc., to experience it ... forever!

The other women shoppers -- the disguised prostitutes in on the ruse -- come over and appear to be falling in line with her decision. "You have shown us the way!" is their attitude. They all fall into a giant orgy, and next thing you know, she's set up with a room at the hotel, and an endless parade of visitors. She's well away from the disappointing world of housekeeping, the men of town are out of the house and away from their nagging wives, and we, the Organization, have a brand new source of income.

Everyone wins!

My Criminal Carpet Store Is Closing

I see now why criminal fly-by-night carpet stores never last! Thankfully, we're selling out today and moving on. And not a moment too soon!

I've had so many irate customers in the store today, I've had to be in disguise to save myself. What I did, and I hate to stereotype the poor rubes, but it's not like they're going to notice, is dress in bib overalls to fit in, pull a big floppy red felt hat with ear warmers over my head, and walk around with a weed in my mouth. When I'm near someone complaining, I'm just as irate as them, calling for the manager's head. Then when I'm with a fresh new customer, I drop the weed and hick accent and make a quick sale.

Fortunately, the organization, being familiar with the pattern of this particular shady branch of merchandising, sent me a few helpers to carry in returned carpet and carry out new carpet, in most cases being the exact same stuff! There's been a line of people at the refund counter all day, but they've been put off by claims of the cashiers going on break, computers being down, and the bank screwing up our cash flow. After a while, we'll tell them to come back tomorrow, for their convenience, with the promise of refunds being ready to go. But of course there will be no refunds, and by then the store will be vacant.

As for all the new carpet being sold, since we're so swamped, I told the helpers to not even bother putting "Three Week Protector" on it, which is meant to gum up the tufts at the root so it won't fall off for a while. At this point, what do we care? If it falls off in the customers' pickups and trucks, and if they're able to register a complaint -- since we're so damned busy -- they'll have to prove it wasn't an act of God. And if they happen to have a lifetime guarantee, meaning they can bring the carpet back for a full refund if even one strand is out of place, I believe there's something in the small print about acts of God being excluded.

The two memorable couples we had in here yesterday have been back, angry and crying, the whole tiresome bit. The old couple who wanted a throw rug but was sold enough carpet for two whole houses were crying about what they called "a swindle." I don't know about you, but to me that's a hurtful word, calling into question my character. I don't like it. But I thought, They're old and don't know any better, so I took them back to my office and told them about my own dear grandparents and their hopes for me. By the time the three of us dried our eyes, I had sold them enough carpet for an additional house. And to sweeten the deal, as a tribute to my grandparents, I graciously gave them two lifetime guarantees for the price of one.

Then there was the younger couple, newlyweds, who had foolishly spent all their monetary wedding gifts and their tax refund on a mountain of carpet, based on the sales pitch that prices in the future will always go up. They were very irate, especially the groom, trying to prove his manhood. But I softened him up, telling him it was a lucky break that he came back when he did. I said, "You couldn't have timed it better if you tried!" and clapped him on the back as congratulations. He calmed down. I explained how it seemed clear to me he was a real wheeler-dealer, knowing we had a big 50% sale going on today. His wisdom, I said, was to back me in a corner, knowing I'd "cave" and give him an extra 10% off. Fortunately, they still had nearly $200 to their name. So, with 50% off plus an extra 10%, that meant they'd be able to get ... [figuring here] ... "You know what? $200 will completely cover it, and I'll even throw in a dozen free lifetime guarantees! Son, you drive a hard bargain!"

It's been a good run for me, managing a carpet store. We had a great run. And it's a little sad to see it end, but we had three wonderful days. And you can't ask for much more than that. Now, if I can only make it through the rest of the day -- all the way through vacating the building and running -- it ought to be interesting what comes next, what the organization has for me. Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll be great. Ah, yes! The criminal life, that's for me!

Criminal Carpet Store: Everything Must Go!

The carpet store just opened yesterday, and already today we're declaring, "Everything Must Go!" The lifespan of the criminally-operated fly-by-night carpet store being a week at the max, everything has to be very compressed.

We had a great day of sales yesterday, on our first day, and now that we trying to thin out the excess merchandise, of course the values are great. My personal recommendation to each of you is, If you need carpet, you better get down here, because it's going fast!

Customers were waiting at the door when we opened. I quickly scanned the crowd for anyone from yesterday who might be back for a refund or with a complaint, and seeing none, I stayed in sight. I welcomed them in, feeling very robust, but now that the day is wearing away, I'm getting a little fatigued. Still, as long as they're spending money, I'll be here to take it. Proudly! Knowing they're getting value for their money, something pretty resembling actual carpet.

So things have been going great. Except for one little thing. When I got here this morning, there was a minor fiasco. Some of the boys from the gang had brought in some new rolls last night which I didn't know about. I sat down to take a break and put my feet up on one of the rolls. I was shocked when the tufts started coming off on my feet. Obviously, they hadn't been gummed down properly with "Three Week Protector," so I had to fly around spurting it on haphazardly. There was no time. The only thing I've worried about today is if there's carpet coming off on people's hands while they're carrying it out. But there haven't been any complaints. I'll just have to be extra careful when opening tomorrow.

Like I said, sales have been great. The psychology of "Everything Must Go!" really plays with the folks. Who knew? They're more interested in scoring carpet before other customers get it than they are the price. Giving me the opportunity mid-morning to raise the price 10%, and no one complained. And since they're really stocking up, I've sold lifetime guarantees and all the various cleaning kits and supplies with every order. Every order except one. A teacher stopped in for a remnant for some school project, a little square, and she wouldn't buy the lifetime guarantee.

My two most memorable sales went to the very old and the very young. An old couple essentially needed a throw rug for their hall, something they said would be about 2½ foot by 8 foot. But I saw an opening for a bigger sale if I could keep some fast talking going, get them confused, and quickly close the deal. So they went out with enough carpet for one or more houses. My biggest fear was their skeptical son, who had to bring his truck to pick it up. But one of the guys told him I was on break.

The other sale was to a young couple, flush with cash from two sources, marriage gifts and their tax refund. My sales pitch was to buy all the carpet you think you might need in your life, because the prices are only guaranteed to go up. So they really loaded up, the young man's father having to rent a U-Haul truck to take it all away. (He was also skeptical.) As to the lifetime guarantee, they needed several, because I came up with a new policy on the spot that a lifetime guarantee only applies to a single type of carpet, and they bought several different ones. Plus, there was two of them, a husband and a wife, so that's two guarantees needed right there. Hey, no one held a gun to their head, although of course that could've been arranged...

We're raking in the money. Faster than printing it. And my aim is to do everything I can to rake in more. Because if I excel at this job, who knows what heights I might rise to in the organization! This time next week I could be one of the big bosses, if not before!

I'm Manager Of A Criminal Carpet Store

Imagine this, it's hard to believe but true! Just three short years ago, I was railing against the fly-by-night carpet stores. And now I'm the senior manager of one! How great is that?

And I owe my terrific progress -- a promotion on the first day! -- to choosing a life of crime. Who said crime doesn't pay! Johnny, the boss of our little subset of the organization got a call from Mr. Big, who said he was watching my progress -- me! -- and apparently liked what he saw! Mr. Big just put in another fly-by-night carpet store and he thought I could handle it!

Today's my first day. And if everything goes true to pattern, I'll have a pretty good job for a week, since these stores always close down about that fast. But that's OK with me. If I do good, Mr. Big will probably put me in charge of something else. I just have to show I'm real good at cheating customers, paying no attention to their complaints, and keeping out of sight if they persist.

OK, I'm going to level with you. I don't think the guys know about this blog. The carpet sucks, sucks bad. Just as an example, the tuft will barely stay on a month. But we have this spray solution, called "Three Week Protector," that gums up the tuft at the roots to hold it secure temporarily. By the time it adheres to people's feet, or sticks to their dog's tongue, or just blows off from the breeze through an open door, the store will have long since closed and moved on.

The whole thing is win-win-win for the organization, since we not only sell the carpet, we make it and the Three Week Protector. I'm honestly not sure how you make carpet, but my past experience with carpet, with it lasting for years and being durable in the face of vacuum cleaners, tells me this ain't it. And yet, and this is a indisputable point, even if you don't make it right, it still looks terrific. The patterns are great, just like what the Persians do. I love the designs. I just can't breathe too heavily anywhere near it till the Protector is on.

Along with the carpet, sold to unwary twerps, we have a pretty good lifetime guarantee they can buy. It's very very cheap and sells itself. Think about it. If you can get a lifetime guarantee on something for 100 bucks, and you've bought $3,000 worth of carpet, that's a great deal. If you see even a single strand that doesn't look right, whether it's your fault or not, whether the kid spilled grape juice on it or not, you just call and we'll replace the entire carpet in your home free of charge, no questions asked. Shoot! You buy that much carpet and somebody's going to replace it no matter what, for a one time fee of $100, you have to take it! But there's a downside: The guarantee's no good. LOL, this time next week there'll be a pizza joint here!

As far as supplies, this is where you need great sales skills. Because there's an intrinsic contradiction. We want to load up the customer with various chemicals, brushes, and protective throw rugs. But our basic sales pitch goes beyond just keeping it clean. We really sell with the pitch, "Protect your carpet investment." And people nod and fall for it. The contradiction is, since most people go for the lifetime guarantee, what's there to protect about the investment? We're supposed to replace it for free, one strand out of place. The way I'm going to do it is sell the kit with all the maintenance items before I press them on the guarantee. Sell the carpet, get a handshake. Sell the kit, get a handshake. Sell the lifetime guarantee, get a handshake. And the sale is made!

I'm looking forward to the week ahead, or three days or whatever it is. The better I do, the higher I will go in the organization. Plus, I'll have the satisfaction of knowing my customers have put their hard-earned money into a product they'll easily outlive.

My Upcoming Life Of Crime

I wanted to give everyone a heads-up on something, a fairly serious issue involving me so no one gets the wrong impression.

I've always tried to keep my reputation pristine, on the blog and in real life. I've never been known to admit to any wrongdoing. If there's ever anything that ever happens, it's always someone else's fault. But that might change -- mostly concerning my reputation -- if people don't understand beforehand what's going on.

Basically what I'm going to do is turn away from blogging my real life (for a while) to blog a pretend, fantasy, fictionalized life. And it might be a few weeks or even a month, I don't know yet. I've sketched out 16 or 17 scenarios, but it's in the actual writing of the thing that it might stretch out a little longer.

In this fictionalized account of my life, I'm going to turn away from decent society, from my reputation, etc., to a life of crime. And, friends, I might be a real scumbag, if that's not too strong a word for it. Certainly the things I'm planning for myself are pretty scandalous to me and my normal social setting. But of course if you're in some country where corruption, deceit, murder, and underhandedness are a way of life -- and I do seem to have a number of readers from the Ukraine -- then it might seem even mild to you.

Did I say murder? Yes, I guess I did. But remember -- and every good fiction writer likes to state these disclaimers right up front -- it's all pretend. In real life I'm not planning on killing anyone. Only in this fictionalized account of my life as a criminal. The one promise I will make is this, that I will strive to justify each killing, to make it clear to you the reader that my various victims deserve what they get. I'm just looking at my scenario (number 9), as an example, and I see the possibility that I will kill off an entire mob from the fly-by-night carpet store racket, and it looks like I will then take money from their wallets and piss on their dead bodies. The justification will probably be something like this, that they sold me crappy carpet and left town.

A lot of my criminal activity will take place in the Skidrow section of town, the most notorious set of bars, restaurants, bail bondsmen, and shady carpet stores in town here. In real life, I was warned about Skidrow so many times, I've only really ever been there in my imagination! And actually that's the way it's going to stay, since this is fiction. I don't know what the real thing is like; it's probably not as bad as I imagine it; I haven't heard of too many murders down there lately; I just know ... the body count will be going up.

Do I actually want to be a criminal? No, not really. I'd rather die of old age in my own bed without an enemy in the world. Not in prison with a tin can for my cup and a bunch of toilets without walls. (I toured a prison once and it scared me straight, even though I had no temptation to deviate.) My real inspiration for this fantasy series is that I'm reading the Edmund White biography of Jean Genet, who thought it was cooler to be a criminal than a normal guy.

So look for that ... right here on my blog. It won't be long before I have "NOTHING TO LIVE FOR," which is the overall name of the project.

Until then, be nice, respect others, do not steal, do not kill, etc., and you'll have a better life!