Are taxes our only hedge against anarchy, or the cause?

Three-hundred-and-sixty-four days a year, I love this country. I love mom, apple pie, the flag. I get misty singing The National Anthem at baseball games. I’m not one of those “love it or leave it” types, but nobody’s more patriotic than me—364 days a year.

Then there’s the one day I sit down to do my taxes.

I start out OK, but by the time I’m finished, visions of student sit-ins, radical protest marches, and water towers near college campuses have filled my mind. Somewhere around Schedule A, Subsection B, Form F-1, Line 322-C to the power of pi, I start thinking about how I’d look in a camouflage jumpsuit with an anarchy symbol tattooed on my forehead.

I’ve never fired a gun in anger, but that’s only because The Lovely Mrs. Taylor hides them on tax day. Otherwise … well, I’d probably be writing about my time spent with The Lovely Cellmate Bubba.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not advocating the violent overthrow of anything (except maybe the network executives responsible for “American Idol”). I understand the need for taxes and—honestly—I don’t mind paying them.

Every year around this time, armed with the best intentions, I sit down at the dining room table with all my forms and receipts, a calculator, my tax-software-loaded laptop, a pencil, an extra-large cup of Starbuck’s coffee, some paper clips and a Bible opened to the book of Matthew—the passage about rendering unto Caesar.

My intention is to carefully go over all my records, figure out what I legitimately owe Uncle Sam, and pay up. It’s my duty as an American.

If only it was that simple.

I begin by entering all the easy information; my name, Mrs. Taylor’s name, our address, social security numbers, birthdates, shoe sizes, contact lens prescriptions, hopes, dreams and fears. Then I move on to the hard stuff.

First comes the info contained on the forms sent to me by my employer—how many hours I worked, how much I was paid (this one always brings tears to my eyes), and how much the government has already deducted (more tears). This is all straightforward stuff, and even a math atheist like me can figure it out.

Then comes the tricky part—the deductions.

I’m a reasonably honest guy, and I would never intentionally claim a deduction to which I am not entitled. But I’m a writer, man! Not an accountant.

Can I claim mileage and vehicle depreciation for my weekend job (marriage counselor)? Schedule 4, Sub-paragraph 16-A seems to indicate I can. But only if I answered “yes” on Line 43, Part B-6-12. If I answered “no,” then I can claim half the mileage but only 1/14th the depreciation value on each dollar and/or mile over the value indicated on Page 17-G of Form C-9—the one kept in a locked vault in the basement of the Pentagon.

It’s usually around this time that I exhaust all the curse words I know and resort to making up new ones. (Ask me sometime what “flagringstienish fraggenheiser!” means; you’ll be shocked.)

In the end, I wind up claiming less than half the deductions I’m probably entitled to and calling it a day. If Uncle Sam gets more of my money than he really needs … well … I hope he’ll just consider me a patriot and leave me alone until next year!

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or investment advice, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.