According to the angle of the shade coming off the lemon grove, it’s gotta be tax time, one of the dumbest times of year next to that one hour every September when I work as a human dog collar on an elephant at the zoo. Okay Ian, go ahead…
… Ian’s scream means it’s time for…
GLENNALYSIS – TAX EDITION
Subject – Taxes
Importance – Not as important as bones, more important than the mall
Born – Umm probably around the time we realized that cooked cow tastes better with no hair left on it
Enemy – Dead people
The Nitty Gribby
Anyone who owns money is effected by taxes. That includes rich people whose toilet seat covers are made from the kilts of famous Scots as well as little kids who get a sucker from grandma every time they learn what something really boring is. Heck, I got two packs of gummi worms when I figured out that walls aren’t just lame TVs.
Taxes are dollars you give to the government that they use to build your city’s castles and to fund programs like witch hunts and pit fighting. Everyone pays a different amount based on how much land they own and how much jam they produce in a given year. It’s pretty simple: more land and more jam means more taxes, while less jam and less land mean less taxes, but more wolves sent by the government to scare you into making more jam and discovering new land, which is impossible to do unless you train your wolf to sniff out fresh soil. It’s a bit of a complicated formula but so is milk and yet one taste and you pretty much know.
Taxes happen pretty much everywhere except the beach. The beach doesn’t need anything, not even lifeguards anymore because our computers tell us if there’s trouble way before a trained, blonde and brown shiny can spot it. Taxes even happen in undeveloped villages but on a smaller and far simpler scale. The Chief decides who pays what based on things you and I in the first world don’t put much stock into, like how quickly one can de-spine a lizard and how hallucinogenic one’s lizard spine and poisonous mushroom tea is. If it makes others start theorizing about lasers (commonplace to you and I) then the successful “barista” only has to give away one son.
This is the dumbest part of any Glennalysis, the part I hate the most. Come on man, I said it in the intro. Do you want to know when Christmas is too? Fine. I’ll give you a hint – the one day a year that God spoils his little boy, know what I mean? Since I’m known as the Bad Boy of Internet Ave. I’ll instead use this space for a classic rant:
Winter has been a pile of shit this year, with low temperatures, snow and all sorts of comings and goings in the world of late night. We’re only now getting a short stretch of “good” weather, only “good” means that I don’t have to stuff my pants with cats to avoid frost bite. My lesson for the day is to not get too excited; I’m not pessimist but I do know what’s up when it comes to worrying about things.
Now lets get back to “brad’s tax”!
Because the rich are too busy giving their kids a Bankers Oreo (two toons and a loon) for snack instead of the more easily digestible kind engineered and produced by Nabisco.
Why do we have to “do” our taxes, that seems like a trap. The government puts all these regulations in and is like, pay for this, pay for that, and most of us don’t really know what we’re paying for then once a year they’re like “you must pay more and we’re not going to tell you how much, you gotta figure that out and if you’re wrong you’re in big fuckin trouble”.