DURST: Tax Season

You know who I feel sorry for? My accountant. It is rumored he's spending an inordinate amount of time in his basement whimpering and keening lately. Understandable, as tax season descends upon us like the shadow of a cow dropped from a hot air balloon onto a redwood picnic table. Because right around the end of February is when I start my annual doomed squirrel hunt for receipts in the depths of pockets, crevices, various couch cushions and empty pizza boxes. And I'm not talking about your run of the mill receipts either. No sir,these are nameless ones without the merest hint of date or place. You know, phantom receipts. And even the fact that I can fill two brown grocery bags so full of these things they appear to bulge and strain with internal papyral tumors still doesn't help me escape paying what I consider to be an exorbitant amount of money in taxes. As a matter of fact, I've narrowed down my share. You know the red landing lights they have on the top of aircraft wings. I figure that's me. Every year I end up paying approximately the amount of money it takes to keep the red landing light on the top of the left wing of a B-2 Bomber, lit. I'm so proud. You should be too.