I used to tell one or two of my exes that if she could make ‘me’ understand whatever she was ‘simply’ trying to tell me, then even our five-year-old would be able to understand her. At least there would be a possibility. So keep explaining it to me, I’d tell her, until you understand it yourself.
In other words: Keep it simple, you female-canine. Bark less. Wag more.
Which is no doubt why a life-is-what-it-is divorce attorney once told me that when people decide to untie the Gordian knot of marriage it isn’t a sign that they don’t understand one another, but a sign that they finally do.
And that’s probably why each of my exes and I came to such wonderful understandings… Like that one of us should become the first ‘artificial’ heart donor. And the other one should go someplace they have never been before:
How about the kitchen?
And this brings me to our latest Congressional cliff-hanging bureaucratic debacle – income tax, real estate taxes and all the rest of dem damn taxes. Artificial hearts at work in places they’ve obviously never been before.
I don’t understand….
I know it is better to understand a little than to misunderstand a lot. But hell, these days I don’t understand most everything. Like that tall woman with the low voice on New Year’s Eve. She kept drunkenly insisting I take a sneaky peak at her transgendered operation. Man, I didn’t know if I was looking at the scene of an accident or a crime!
I did wonder if ‘she’ could declare that a ‘loss’ on her 1040.
Anyway…as Einstein even admitted: The hardest thing to understand in the world is the income tax. Not to mention all the other noxious taxes.
Did somebody just burp backwards?
So, don’t you feel better now? More at ease? That once again Congress has saved us from its self inflicted impediments? And made a mockery of us – even to the Italians.
One more fiscal-tax-budget-healthcare-election-emergency-entitlement- cliff crises after another has again been averted, as they’ve all finally been averted, the last four years. We all knew the outcome even before the Greek tragedy unfurled stage left.
What’s exasperating is that after all these legislative brain surgeries we’ve still not gotten any further down the path of enlightenment than the first step: Disillusionment.
Hang me! Make me choke, turn colors and drop deader than an autumn leaf! I’m running out of Bourbon! And it’s not because they’re resuscitating us, once again, with higher taxes – even for the rich. It’s that they’re spending the public trust — our money — on their private privy’s and public outhouses of duh world, as well as their backyard bridges-to-nowhere.
And nobody’s got a plan, or even a sketchy design on a napkin. There’s not even a salvage proposal. Only emergency rescue.
Maybe with 20 women now in the U.S. Senate matters will begin to appear better – or at least be better dressed, with accessories.
But if it still looks like a duck, walks like a duck, acts like a duck and talks like a duck then it ain’t patè they’re stuffing up your gluteus maximus. We’re still getting something that sounds just like duck.
No one is attacking the issues. We’re just free falling from one crisis to the next. But you can’t keep juggling like that. Even if you’ve got silicone in your breast. Eventually stuff is going to start falling down. Tumbling. And all the King’s men aren’t going to be able to put the broken condom back together again.
We’ve still got all these issues – like debt ceiling and natural disasters –as well as well more than a $16 trillion debt.
But folks, let me be the 16th millionth voice of the New Year to tell you: Nothing is going to change until we first learn that the first thing we need to change is our own minds. Life is a joke, and we’re it. We are not citizens we are subjects. We don’t elect representatives. We elect self-aggrandizing, self-rewarding and self indulgent nazis and fascists who first and foremost serve to sniff butts of the other dawgs in Congress.
We are sold candidates that we should be able to do something about. But we are too distracted, worrying about things we can’t do a bloody thing about. Like the weather! And whether some Janet Jackson is going to give us a peak at her teat at the Super Bowl? And whether our snotty British royals are going to give birth to another royal pain in the arse.
So let me say this: I can’t understand why us creatures of habit and ennui are so frightened by NEW ideas. It’s the OLD ways and the OLD ideas that frighten last week’s Italian feast outta moi greater intestines.
And taxes and the way we are taxed are very old ideas.
Here’s just one that painfully snags like the short hairs on my pants zipper
In Philadelphia, like much of America, they jam the enema up our whazzoo before we get onto the dance floor.
If you buy a piece of rundown property, say for $10,000, the bureaucracy, which is so worried about procedure rather than outcome, is already circling the bases. In other words their thermometer is totally rectal. They’ve got you like Bubba, your cell mate in the Big House.
So you fix up the dump with your own hands. Turn it into the Taj Mahal. Build the gardens of Nebuchadnezzar. Invite in some arm candy Jezebels for show and tell. And the next thing you know the taxman’s at the door demanding $600,000 in property reassessments.
And my lips readily shape the words — unlike one of my exes who couldn’t readily get her lips to shape like cheerios.
‘You want me to do: What?!’
Which is what I’d be humping into the tax assessor’s asinine porker with an extra jolt of Viagra.
Hey, buddy, I took the risk. I bought this sewer pit. I sweated. I bled. I cried. I wrestled the inert bureaucracy and braved the asphalt-jungle’s poisoned pens. I did all the work. But now you want moi to pay you a bunch of more money on a place that was bleeding on your books?
What are you?
On the grave of at least two ex-wives I swanny: You slap me with a tax reassessment and I’ll slap you in places even a dominatrix swears are illegal.
Wait till I finally sell the ranch, you dim-witted shallow end of the gene pool. Then we’ll know its true market value. And you and the next guy can climb into each other’s unwashed BVDs!
It’s simple. It’s clean. It’s straight-forward. And most of all: It’s understandable. It doesn’t require an Enron accountant or a pack of venal-vapid-vile lawyers to keep you legal. In the end the city is better off because the risk-reward gambler is more willing to keep getting his wick wet. Otherwise, if you want to kill enterprise, get the city, state or feds involved.
Look, if duh ignoramus hoi-polloi of this poorly educated nation ever took their eyes off football long enough to understand our tax, monetary or banking systems, we would have them storming the Private Golf Clubs before the dawning cock crows.
But that ain’t ever gonna happen. Even if we did manage to bridge the vast chasm between knowing a lot about something but understanding little.
For me, our tax systems are like the Bible: It’s not the parts I can’t understand that bother me; it’s the parts I do understand. The reason they don’t make this stuff plain and simple is because there’s too much vested interest. The cabal is getting rich. And the craps tables are rigged.
We simply should have a flat income tax with no deductions. But of course the cabal has us convinced that would be a funeral dirge for the first and second home industry, as well as all the cottage accounting and legal industry. Just never forget: They aren’t there to keep our fat butts outta duh IRS circumciser. They are there to keep their fat butts fat!
There are better ways to do things but indeed we pay a price for everything. It took a world war to get us to switch, first our Navy and then our homes, to oil from coal. It would take another sort of war to seize back our power. Our country. Our land. Our government. Our money!
I guess I have to admit that a major reason most of us haven’t been listening to many new ideas is because there really aren’t any. There are only so many ways you can keep saying what has already been said. But worse than that: We hear only what we understand. However, it takes work to understand invention and the unusual novelty. And as we well know: Not many folks round here really want to work.
Philadelphia’s funny but ineffective mayor previously served 15 unremarkable years on the City Council that he is supposed to be overseeing now. In recent discussions on his soon to be instituted new real estate tax code he said – particularly about once pioneer neighborhoods with what he now terms as having artificially low taxes: ‘All we want you to do is pay your fair share.’
Hmm… How should I put this?
There is no fair share, your honor. We stole the land from the Indians who were squatters and then stole their reservations when we discovered gold and oil; We say we have a free and fair enterprise system of survival-of-the-fittest then we bail out our banks and automakers, but not us losing our homes. We say anyone can make a fair run for office, then we gerrymander districts….We say we are righteous …and then we torture or send in the drones that mostly kill women and children.
We say a lot of things. It’s what we don’t say that demonstrates how the few get most of the ‘fair shares.’
Am I making myself simply understood?
Hmm…. Perhaps I liked things better when I didn’t understand them. Indeed, ignorance is bliss. But it is ignorance that keeps us from understanding one another.
And we can never forgive what we don’t understand.
But then, what do I know…
I know that all my relationships were successful – in that they ended.
At least, that’s my understanding.
And dats yDrewIS on DIS penal colony…