8 point shed found while hiking
If there are any redeeming qualities to unemployment, one might be the option for delaying the completion of your taxes until the final moments of April 15. Unlike many of my fellow thirty-somethings, who have chosen to continue the overpopulation of our orb with the assistance of our federal government’s tax policy, I don’t have a chicken strip disposal unit to exchange for the thousand dollar IRS coupon. I’m left with the usual bag of unwanted t-shirts donated to the Goodwill and some shrinking interest on a box of windows I get mail sent to. I thought I had ol’ Sam beat this year. I hauled off two carloads of donated goods and my crafty little Tax Act website was sure to itemize each discarded doily and candelabra into a sizable heap of deductibles. But, Sam is a crafty sumbitch and his ace in the hole turned out to be a nice chunk of tax free unemployment. Ass, gas, or grass, nobody rides for free, right? Yup, tax free until April 15 hombre, now pay up. But, I’m still unemployed! Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time. Pay up!
April 14 seemed like as good a day as any to do taxes. I went ahead and punched in the numbers and wracked my brain for any further deductions. Coming up short of the IRS’s expectations, I saved my return and put off the final filing for tax day. Spring has been kind this week, providing a near perfect weekend of backpacking in the Ozarks. Only near perfect because of the inconsiderate apes who camped on top of me one evening. Thousands of acres of public land and you and your nine partners throw down camp next to me! Jesus Christ, I’d hate for you to hike a quarter mile down the trail out of sight. Where was I? Oh, tax day. After giving the legs a little recovery time from hiking, a nice eight mile stroll was on the ticket this lovely morning. Birds were chirping away, the sun hadn’t even cracked the eastern sky, and a nice breeze kept the sweat off my brow. All was well, until the sidewalk saw me coming and extended its thorny hand. Seconds later I’m sliding into homeplate with the palm of my hand acting as the brakes on this polyester clad locomotive. I didn’t even let out the usual round of four letter niceties. I just rolled back over and clutched my hand waiting for the drips of blood to begin seeping to the surface. “Do we need to turn around and go home?” my wife asked. Satisfied with the matronly attention, I scoffed at the notion of ending a nice run so early. I gathered myself and pushed on. My hand hurt so bad, until a block or two later, I didn’t notice the pain in my hip. Evidently it had provided the initial point of contact and my hand did the rest. Fortunately, the polyester running shorts kept the skin intact upon my hip.
With blood sufficiently shed, I was free to hand the reins of my checking account over to the Internal Revenue Service’s dark horsemen. Regrouped and bandaged up, I proceeded to clean my yard of the mess winter had left. Some time in the sun proved to be a nice salve for the pain of the day and although tax day had done its best to ruin my spirit, I could only smile as I sat down to dinner, that included a nicely prepared salad and italian sub crafted in my kitchen, all washed down by a Dale’s Pale Ale. I’d love to go on a rant about the ills of the federal government and the constituents that make its gross mismanagement of money possible, but will instead point out that time spent with family and friends enjoying a homemade meal beats the hell out of a tea party. With tax day in the rearview mirror, I hope everybody’s outlook is a bit brighter now. If not, get up off the sidewalk, brush yourself off, and continue your run. Get outside.
