— by Hephaestus
I woke up exhausted on the morning of April 16th from the exhausted sleep I’d fallen into on the night of April 15th, after a full day of wailing, flailing, and gnashing of teeth, only to find a distressing article in the Associated Press by a Mister Terrence P. Jeffrey. The headline of the piece ruined breakfast: “86M Full-Time Private-Sector Workers Sustain 148M Benefit Takers”.
Though it merely confirmed my long-held suspicions, to see the actual numbers made me eat my breakfast cereal dry because it looks as though I should get used to not being able to afford milk in the near future. If the check I’d written to the Infernal Revenue Service the day before is any gauge, I should expect to be having a Corn Flake for breakfast, rather than the plural.
Mr. Jeffrey notes that “buried deep on the website of the U.S. Census Bureau is a number every American citizen, and especially those entrusted with public office, should know. It is 86,429,000“. Apparently, that is the number of Americans left working in the private sector. In short, supporting the rest of the country and paying for this whole shindig.
A further look at the Census numbers by Mr. Jeffrey(that’s Government numbers) reveals that in the last quarter of 2011, approximately 82,457,000 people lived in households where one or more people were on Medicaid. 49,073,000 lived in households where someone got food stamps. Additionally, 23,228,000 lived in households where one or more got WIC while 20,223,000 lived in households where one or more got SSI. Furthermore, 13,433,000 lived in public or government-subsidized housing.
Mr. Jeffrey, being a genuine AP journalist and not one to perpetrate a subterfuge by finagling the numbers, takes into account that there is overlap in these households. Many of these households include people who receive more than one source of alms from more than one Department of Alms-Giving or Agency of Gratuitous Gratuity. In the interests of clarity, he also included a composite statistic: “There were 108,592,000 people in the fourth quarter of 2011 who lived in a household that included people on ‘one or more means-tested program.'”
When he did the arithmetic in the article, he revealed that those 108,592,000 outnumbered the 86,429,000 full-time private-sector workers who inhabited the United States in 2012 by almost 1.3 to 1.
For a while, I had intentionally avoided the stomach distress and general feeling of victimization that I knew occurred during the annual robbery after I actually created wealth. I had avoided that for years by becoming a benefit taker (government employee) so that no matter how much I had to pay to the spendthrift and ever-broke Uncle Sam, at least it was just other peoples’ tax money that I was returning. Hence, I was simply getting a smaller salary for government work.
However, now as a part-time capitalist, I once again feel the extraordinary burning sensation on my hindquarters to be sending my money, from my own private property/efforts, to support that shiftless Uncle Sam’s lavish lifestyle. Adding insult to injury, Uncle Sam now not only depends on my support, but has the sheer gall to boss me around, dictating ever more micro-managing details about how I should live my life. The pushy old coot even spies on me in my private communication and correspondence, to make sure I’m living as he dictates. I suspect that he even spies on his benefactors to make sure that we never say anything bad about him, and he sends his nieces and nephews to oppress us in the form of IRS audits, spot compliance inspections, environmental impact studies or some such, if anybody is too openly critical.
Now, I’m not such a miser that I begrudge paying Sam for the things that he does do in the neighborhood that I get a benefit from. He may not be the most efficient or energetic worker, but he does putter about and get some useful things done.
I figure that I do get some benefit from that tank or that plane or that ship or that soldier. They protect me and my property. I get a benefit from that court or that road or that National Park, as they make my property more valuable. I can go see that museum or monument.
These days, I suppose I may receive some benefit from having that (virtual) guard sitting in my house, watching everything I do twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year, but I don’t particularly want that “benefit”. The intrusion is off-putting and is not outweighed by the benefit. I may receive some benefit from having my mail read on the off chance that some terrorist is using it to plot an attack. However, I would rather have my privacy than suffer the low probability of risk. I don’t want that insurance and I don’t want to buy it. I have nothing to hide, but I simply prefer to defecate, copulate, and respirate in private.
I figure that I receive absolutely no benefit at all from having the government take my money and use it to subsidize the lifestyles of some other person’s family in exchange for nothing. That’s just moving that other family into my house and making me feed them at gunpoint. I’m not keen on guests, and, when I suffer them, I’d prefer they be guests of my own choosing. I’m all for charity, but it’s not charity if it’s not voluntary.
I grow particularly irate when Mr. Warren Buffet or the Facebook Punk or Mssrs. Google or any one of the many celebu-tards see fit to opine that the government needs more money to do all its myriad of “good works”. There is nothing stopping them from donating as much of their own money to Uncle Sam’s Treasury as they see fit. However, when they want to get generous with other folks’ money and insist everybody pay more taxes, that’s just the limousine liberal version of the crowd on the sidewalk in Compton shouting encouragement to the mugger like “kick his ass! That’s it! Take his wallet! Take his shoes!”. This chorus of the morally bankrupt in support of the shiftless spendthrift is at best unhelpful.
So, since every person realizes that, in a dangerous, chaotic world, governance is a necessary evil. Since we can’t yet get dogs or dolphins to run the government or create or implement its policies, we’ll be left having humans do that for the foreseeable future. And, since all but the irretrievably asinine know that humans are both fallible and prone to crookedness, we can expect our collective resources to be frequently poorly managed, squandered, mis-used, and stolen. So what’s a man to do to attempt some fair funding of this dubious but necessary endeavor we lovingly call “government”?
There have been numerous suggestions for tax reform proposed, each of which is distinguishable primarily by noting how it will financially assist its loudest proponents. What we really need is something so simple and transparent that it will make everyone equally miserable.
I propose what I’ll call “the flat-ass tax”.
National government revenue should come from just one, plain, flat-ass percentage of your income every year. No exemptions, no exceptions, no deductions, and no different rates. No married filing jointly, singly or conjointly, as there is no reason to shuffle the painful paperwork onto the better mathematician of the married couple. Each one’s individual suffering creates a shared experience over which they can commiserate. The closeness this will engender can serve as the government’s hand in encouraging procreation in place of the child tax deduction we’ll be doing away with.
One, flat-ass, tax. Period. You buy a candy bar for a buck and sell it for a buck fifty, you owe that percentage on the profit, be it 1%, 15% or 50% or whatever congress and the president publicly voted on the previous year. You work and earn two bucks, same damn thing, same percentage on your profit. Sell stock for a higher price than you paid for it? Same percentage. Sell a house for more than you paid for it? Same percentage. You own property and charge rent, same percentage tax on the income you got from it. Did it cost you more to own the property than you made off it? Well, then maybe you ought to get out of that business.
One flat-ass, tax. Is it a perfect system? Absolutely not, but it is easy to figure out and the electorate knows that everybody has to shoulder the burden. Before the naysayers get themselves worked up into caterwauling about enforceability or all the bureaucrats or accountants who might lose their jobs, it would do no such thing. It’s not that different than the system we have now, where we mostly have to self report our income, our deductions, and figure our payment. The truncheon-wielding tax collectors can keep their shiny badges and the accountants will still be needed for their calculators and filing skills. The only difference is that we would all know in our hearts when we were cheating and by how much. Somebody might even feel a little guilty.
One other change that is absolutely necessary, I expect will be met with virulent decry by the politicians. This shift may be even more important and urgent than the flat-ass tax itself. We need to move the due date of taxes from April 15th to October 15th so paying it will be fresh in everybody’s mind when the election time comes several week later. Still smarting from that check you had to write three weeks ago? Vote accordingly.
Now if I can just get Herman Cain to campaign for it, we’re in business.
I’m not the first to put my mind to this conundrum because the problem is not new so I’ve included the observations of another wit to provide some historical perspective.
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By MARK TWAIN
The first notice that was taken of me when I “settled down,” recently, was by a gentleman who said he was an assessor, and connected with the U. S. Internal Revenue Department. I said I had never heard of his branch of business before, but I was very glad to see him, all the same – would he sit down? He sat down, I did not know anything particular to say, and yet I felt that people who have arrived at the dignity of keeping house must be conversational, must be easy and sociable in company. So in default of anything else to say, I asked him if he was opening his shop in our neighborhood.
He said he was. (I did not wish to appear ignorant, but I had hoped he would mention what he had for sale.)
I ventured to ask him “how was trade?” and he said “So-so.”
I then said we would drop in, and if we liked his house as well as any other, we would give him our custom.
He said he thought we would like his establishment well enough to confine ourselves to it – said he never saw anybody who would go of and hunt up another man in his line after trading with him once.
That sounded pretty complacent, but barring that natural expression of villainy which we all have, the man looked honest enough.
I do not know how it came about, exactly, but gradually we appeared to melt down and run together, conversationally speaking, and then everything went along as comfortably as clockwork.
We talked, and talked, and talked – at least I did. And we laughed, and laughed, and laughed – at least he did. But all the time I had my presence of mind about me – I had my native shrewdness turned on, “full head,” as the engineers say. I was determined to find out all about his business, in spite of his obscure answers – and I was determined I would have it out of him without his suspecting what I was at. I meant to trap him with a deep, deep ruse. I would tell him all about my own business, and he would naturally so warm to me during this seduction burst of confidence, that he would forget himself and tell me all about his affairs before he suspected what I was about. I thought to myself, My son, you little know what an old fox you are dealing with. I said:
“Now you would never guess what I made lecturing, this winter and last spring?”
“No – don’t believe I could, to save me. Let me see – let me see. About two thousand dollars maybe? But no – no, sir, I know you couldn’t have made that much. Say seventeen hundred maybe?”
“Ha-ha! I knew you couldn’t. My lecturing receipts for last spring and this winter were fourteen thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars – what do you think of that!”
“Why, it is amazing – perfectly amazing. I will make a note of it. And you say even this wasn’t all?”
“All? Why, bless you, there was my income from the Buffalo Express for four months – about – about well, what should you say to about eight thousand dollars, for instance?”
“Say! Why, I should say I should like to see myself rolling in just such another ocean of affluence. Eight thousand! I’ll make a note of it. Why, man! – and on top of all this I am to understand that you had still more income?”
“Ha-ha-ha! Why, you’re only in the suburbs of it, so to speak. There’s my book, ‘The Innocents Abroad’ – price $3.50 to $5.00, according to he binding. Listen to me. Look me in the eye. During the last four months and a half, saying nothing of sales before that, – but just simply during the four months and a half ending March 15, 1870, we’ve sold ninety-five thousand copies of that book! Nine-five thousand! Think of it. Average four dollars a copy, say. It’s nearly four hundred thousand dollars, my son, I get half!”
“The suffering Moses! I’ll set that down. Fourteen-seventy-five – eight – two hundred. Total, say – well, upon my word, the grand total is about two hundred and thirteen or fourteen thousand dollars. Is that possible?”
“Possible! If there’s any mistake it’s the other way. Two hundred and fourteen thousand, cash, is my income for this year if I know how to cipher.”
Then the gentleman got up to go. It came over me most uncomfortably that maybe I had made my revelations for nothing, besides being flattered into stretching them considerably by the stranger’s astonished exclamations. But no; at the last moment the gentleman handed me a large envelope and said it contained his advertisement; and that I would find out all about his business in it; and that he would be happy to have my custom – would in fact be proud to have the custom of a man of such prodigious income; and that he used to think there were several wealthy men in Buffalo but when they came to trade with him he discovered that they barely had enough to live on; and that in truth it had been such a weary, weary age since he had seen a rich man face to face, and talked with him, and touched him with his hands, that he could hardly refrain from embracing me – in fact, would esteem it a great favor if I would let him embrace me.
This so pleased me that I did not try to resist, but allowed this simplehearted stranger to throw his arms about me and weep a few tranquilizing tears down the back of my neck. Then he went his way.
As soon as he was gone, I opened his advertisement. I studied it attentively for four minutes. I then called up the cook and said:
“Hold me while I faint. Let Maria turn the batter-cakes.”
By and by, when I came to, I sent down to the rum mill on the corner and hired an artist by the week to sit up nights and curse that stranger, and give me a life occasionally in the day time when I came to a hard place.
Ah, what a miscreant he was! His “advertisement” was nothing in the world but a wicked tax-return – a string of impertinent questions abut my private affairs occupying the best part of four foolscap pages of fine print – questions, I may remark, gotten up with such marvellous ingenuity that the oldest man in the world couldn’t understand what the most of them were driving at – questions, too, that were calculated to make a man report about four times his actual income to keep from swearing to a lie. I looked for a loophole, but there did not appear to be any. Inquiry No. 1 covered my case, as generously and as amply as an umbrella could cover an ant hill:
“What were your profits, in 1869, from any trade, business, or vocation, wherever carried on?”
And that inquiry was backed up by thirteen others of an equally searching nature, the most modest of which required information as to whether I had committed any burglary, or highway robbery, or by any arson or other secret source of emolument, had acquired property which was not enumerated in my statement of income as set opposite to inquiry No. 1.
It was plain that that stranger had enabled me to make an ass of myself. It was very, very plain, and I went out and hired another artist. By working on my vanity the stranger had seduced me into declaring an income of $214,000. B y law, $1,000 of this was exempt from income tax – the only relief I could see, and it was only a drop in the ocean. At the legal five per cent, I must pay over to the Government the appalling sum of ten thousand six-hundred and fifty dollars, income tax.
(I may remark, in this place, that I did not do it.)
I am acquainted with a very opulent man, whose house is a palace, whose table is regal, whose outlays are enormous, yet a man who has no income, as I have often noticed, by the revenue returns; and to him I went for advice in my distress. He took my dreadful exhibition of receipts, he put on his glasses, he took his pen, and presto! – I was a pauper! It was the neatest thing that ever was. He did it simply by deftly manipulating the bill of “DEDUCTIONS.” He set down my “State, national, and municipal taxes” at so much; my “losses by shipwreck, fire, etc.” at so much; my “loss on sales of real estate” – on “live stock sold” – payments for rent of homestead” – on “repairs, improvements, interest” – on “previously taxed salary as an officer of the United States Army, Navy, Revenue Service, and other things. He got astonishing “deductions” out of each and every one of these matters – each and every one of them. And when he was done he handed me the paper, and I saw at a glance that during the year 1869 my income, in the way of profit, had been one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars and forty cents.
“Now,” said he, “the thousand dollars is exempt by law. What you want to do is to go and swear this document in and pay tax on the two hundred and fifty dollars.”
(While he was making this speech his little boy Willie lifted a two-dollar greenback out of his vest pocket and vanished with it, and I would bet anything that if my stranger were to call on that little boy tomorrow he would make a false return of his income.)
“Do you,” said I, “do you always work up the ‘deductions’ after this fashion in your own case, sir?”
“Well, I should say so! If it weren’t for those eleven saving clauses under the head of ‘Deductions,’ I should be beggared every year to support this hateful and wicked, this extortionate and tyrannical Government.”
This gentleman stands away up among the very best of the solid men of Buffalo – the men of moral weight, of commercial integrity, of unimpeachable social spotlessness – and so I bowed to his example. I went down to the revenue office, and under the accusing eyes of my old visitor I stood up and swore to lie after lie, fraud after fraud, villainy after villainy, till my immortal soul was coated inches and inches thick with perjury, and my self-respect was gone forever and ever.
But what of it? It is nothing more than thousands of the highest, and richest, and proudest, and most respected, honored an courted men in America do every year. And so I don’t care. I am not ashamed. I shall simply, for the present, talk little and wear fire-proof gloves, lest I fall into certain habits irrevocably.
