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Tuesday, April 15, 2003


Audited Faster Than You Can Say Take Down Your Pants Dept.

Death and taxes, death and taxes. If I hear this one more time today, I am going punch a kitten in the face and scowl at some orphans.

At least with death -- in your more common, Judeo-Christian belief systems -- you're going to get something, harps and clouds and dancing, or perhaps three prongs' worth of hot pitchfork in your eternal hindquarters. That's something. If you avoid organized religion, you can probably even avoid contributing directly into the salvation/damnation fund.

And if you don't subscribe to the above newsletters, then death and taxes are going to get you the exact same amount of nothing. It should be noted that I consider vital social services, many of which I don't personally benefit from, to be nothing.

Which is why I've decided not to pay taxes. Haven't you heard the commercials on the radio, the one where that guy tells you that there's no law that requires that we pay taxes? I didn't look into it any further than flipping the station several times at an interminably slow stoplight, but it sounded like a sound idea to me.

The considerable fortune I've amassed in the last fiscal year has been tax-proofed by a crack team of CPAs, money launderers, and bank officers of unnamed-but-politically-neutral-countries-that-make-really-cool-knives-and-may-be-located-in-Western-Europe.

There are tax shelters within loopholes within workarounds like the most maddeningly tiny Russian nesting dolls.

There are stacks of green stuffed in the fine Posture-Pedic mattresses of certain female acquaintances of mine scattered across the continental United States.

There are offshore accounts in locales so exotic that good taste dictates that I don't mention them.

There is creative red ink in the ledgers of motion picture studios and major-league baseball teams.

There is at least one Lincoln Town Car circling Sioux City, Iowa, with a trunk laden with duffel bags overflowing with gold bullion.

There is a meager, non-interest-bearing savings account in a local credit union.

Of course, until the heat of tax season dies down, I will be famously subsisting on tuna fish sandwiches and vodka. My lifestyle will be self-consciously austere, except for when the occasion demands an extravagant outlay of cash.

How is that thumb in your eye feeling, Mr. Internal Revenue Service?

Death and taxes, death and taxes.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
If You Like Bunsen, Then You'll Love Bunsen