I was awake before the alarm went off this morning.
Today is one of the two or three days of the year that I dread the most, the
day I meet with my accountant and give him my 6 inch stack of paper so he can
prepare my tax return.
The very idea that I should have to save these
scraps of paper in my tax shoe box all year, then pay my guy $750 bucks to
construct my 50 page return galls me like nothing else in this world. Less you
think I’m some 1% billionaire, think again. I am only a reasonably successful
small business owner. However, because of the complexities of the tax scheme
under which we labor, I began employing accountants over 25 years ago to fight
my battles for me. When I sign off on the thick volume of forms, schedules, and
summaries that he produces, something inside me becomes enraged. Why should I
be forced to do this? How can filing taxes have become such an arcane exercise
so hopelessly beyond the capabilities of mere mortals?
The worst part is I don’t even know how to help my
kids file their own taxes. When you’ve had it done for you for longer than
either of your children has been alive, you become worthless to them, unable to
answer even the most basic of questions.
So, my meeting will go something like this:
Accountant: Ok, Doug, I see you’ve got all your receipts.
Good. What kind of year did you have in 2012?
Me: Terrible.
Accountant: Sorry to hear that. So, you made less
money?
Me: No, a little more, which means I’ll probably
lose the ability to deduct something and end up having to pay more.
Accountant: Ha! Doug, you are so funny!
Me:…………………crickets
Accountant: Doug, I see here that you only sent the
IRS $2500 in December, not the $4000 that we had agreed on, any particular
reason?
Me: A very good reason…I didn’t have enough money in
my account to cover a $4000 check, so I gave them what I had.
Accountant: I see…. Well, my preliminary
calculations indicate that you will probably owe a bit more this year, but it
might not be too bad.
Me:………………………crickets
Accountant: I’ll have this return back to you in a
couple of weeks.
This nation once had the stones to put a man on the
moon, whip the Germans twice in 30 years, and invent Jazz, but can’t figure out
how to tax its citizens in a way that doesn’t involve a 67,000 page tax code.
Hopeless.
So well said! You need to be published.
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