Once again it’s tax season in the United States. I won’t bore you—again—with the details of our bizarre, nightmarish tax situation, but to suffice it to say that, at the time of writing, yours portly and his dear Dr. Wife are about $5500 poorer and Uncle Sam is probably paying for a federal inmates gender reassignment surgery. Next year will be much easier, but it’s always a pain.
I think what I resent most is that the federal government is now party to every economic exchange I make outside of purchasing a brownie from a sidewalk bake sale. Any money I earn gets reported. Indeed, I probably report more than I really need to, because I do take seriously Jesus’ instruction to “render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s.” I just wish Caesar was spending my money in the national interest, not in the niche interests of some special interest group or immigrant group that got here fifteen seconds ago.
But it is—for another year, at least—done. Now I’m free to enjoy Spring Break and to wait, watchful and eel-like, for next year.
With that, here is 10 April 2025’s “TBT^65,536: End the Income Tax“:

