Micromanaging, or: We know what’s best for you, stupid

American Way of Tax

By Russell Baker, International Herald Tribune, April 13, 1977

The tax man was very cross about Figg. Figg’s way of life did not conform to the way of life several governments wanted Figg to pursue. Nothing inflamed the tax man more than insolent and capricious disdain for governmental desires. He summoned Figg to the temple of taxation.

“What’s the idea of living in a rental apartment over a delicatessen in the city, Figg?” he inquired. Figg explained that he liked urban life. In that case, said the tax man, he was raising Figg’s city sales and income taxes. “If you want them cut, you’ll have to move out to the suburbs,” he said.

To satisfy his local government, Figg gave up the city and rented a suburban house. The tax man summoned him back to the temple.

“Figg,” he said, “you have made me sore wroth with your way of life. Therefore, I am going to soak you for more federal income taxes.” And he squeezed Figg until beads of blood popped out along the seams of Figg’s wallet.

“Mercy, good tax man,” Figg gasped. “Tell me how to live so that I may please my government, and I shall obey.”

The tax man told Figg to quit renting and buy a house. The government wanted everyone to accept large mortgage loans from bankers. If Figg complied, it would cut his taxes.

Figg bought a house, which he did not want, in a suburb where he did not want to live, and he invited his friends and relatives to attend a party celebrating his surrender to a way of life that pleased his government.

The tax man was so furious that he showed up and the party with bloodshot eyes. “I have had enough of this, Figg,” he declared. “Your government doesn’t want you entertaining friends and relatives. This will cost you plenty.”

Figg immediately threw out all his friends and relatives, then asked the tax man what sort of people his government wished him to entertain. “Business associates,” said the tax man. “Entertain plenty of business associates, and I shall cut your taxes.”

To make the tax man and his government happy, Figg began entertaining people he didn’t like in the house he didn’t want in the suburb where he didn’t want to live.

Then was the tax man enraged indeed. “Figg,” he thundered, “I will not cut your taxes for entertaining straw bosses, truck drives, and pothole fillers.”

“Why not?” said Figg. “These are the people I associate with in my business.”

“Which is what?” asked the tax man.

“Earning my pay by the sweat of my brow,” said Figg.

“Your government is not going to bribe you for performing salaried labor,” said the tax man. “Don’t you know, you imbecile, that tax rates on salaried income are higher than on any other kind?”

And he taxes the sweat of Figg’s brow at a rate that drew exquisite shrieks of agony from Figg and little cries of joy from Washington, which already had more sweated brows than it needed to sustain the federally approved way of life.

“Get into business, or minerals, or international oil,” warned the tax man, “or I shall make your taxes the taxes of 10.”

Figg went into business, which he hated, and entertained people he didn’t like in the house he didn’t want in the suburb where he did not want to live.

At length the tax man summoned Figg for an angry lecture. He demanded to know why Figg had not bought a new plastic factory to replace his old metal and wooden plant. “I hate plastic,” said Figg. “Your government is sick and tired of metal, wood, and everything else that smacks of the real stuff, Figg,” roared the tax man, seizing Figg’s purse. “Your depreciation is all used up.”

There was nothing for Figg to do but to go to plastic, and the tax man reqarded him with a brand new depreciation schedule plus an investment credit deduction from the bottom line.

(And I’m sorry for any copyright infringements, but I couldn’t find this on the internet. 😉 )