Simpli-tax, the series
Simpli-Tax part 1.
The rookie CPA was tense Ne’er spoke to crowd so huge Of fellow standers on the fence “Don’t want to seem the stooge.” The Bean-filled Vegas hall got hush As Smelford took the stage A stumble from his anxious rush That wrinkled his front page. Good morning, fellow Green-shade toads Let’s talk ’bout: News in Tax This squawk of simplifying codes Needs our collective whacks. Our paws and grampaws worked so hard To gin this convolution Spent years and years on mounds of lard To ensure mass confusion. Let’s not let their fine work be squashed To some dumb 1-page form Our fine profession won’t be washed- Out with this half quaked storm. “Rah, rah, rah” Bean-arazzi shouts “We’ll help you fight this fight. We’ll kill this weed before it sprouts Into some tax-less blight.” Part 2. My father told me, years ago How simple taxes were Forms could be filled by Average Joe Without eyes going blur. No blur? No fog? No walk in mist? No smell of stale cigar? No raging screams of uber-pissed? It all seems too bizarre. Deductions: would just add them up Just add them! ‘Magine this?!? No worksheets someone spat ‘em up How rudimentary, this. No hundred-page instruction books To fill one measley line No hidden tricks for profs and cooks Or hooks for shnooks who dine? Those old rules weren’t ambiguous T’was just too black and white So easy…was ridiculous Could whip out in one night (what fright!) Oh my, it almost took us down Destroying our profession But luckily, dads went to town When Congress was in session. And turned that black and white to gray Yay! Loopholes few would know Penned verbage full of may not/may And yes…they made it slow. So slow, old Joe now took a week To get dern taxes done By Day 3, Joe would mega-freak His bowels would start to run. Came running to we CPA’s Just after change of trou We’d vault him from his tax-freak daze And halt his birth of cow (oh, wow!) Part 3. Incumbent on us…at this point To not let fore-dads down Not let their Master-work disjoint To sheets which wipe fresh brown. In fact, must add complexity To baffle Compu-Tax Need ramp-up tax perplexity Disguise our hidden cracks. That only we, the tax gurus Can pilot through the channel Without fear that IRS screws Will call for some empanel. May ask the Congress to approve Make tax forms just in Latin Dump English, time to make the move Provide less taxin’ chattin’. Keep amateurs out of our Biz That give those ornery discounts That call themselves the New Tax Wiz Then drizzle out their miscounts. New Licensing is what we want With standards set by us Transcribed into the smallest font By some old fart named Gus. With tests and hoops and loop-de-loops That help us to decide Who gets to join our esteemed groups And whose hide’s getting fried. Yeah, licensing would add that wall Might cause a wee-bit splatter But, hey, some win, some take the fall Cuz we need to get fatter. Part 4. They felt rush of adrenaline From deep beneath their mounds Some tummies were not settlin’ Strange symphony of sounds. But now prepared to make a march Parade of wing-tip gloss Packed suits and ties, shirts laced in starch Stashed extra rolls of floss. With briefcase full of extra pads And Cross pens freshly filled And U’s to shield their lasses, lads In case some stuff gets spilled. They headed for the Power Hub With Smelford at the wheel With hopes to get into the tub To play: Let’s Make a Deal. Played crazy bean games, state-to-state Like count the 2-toned cars Add numbers from their license plates Divide by sleazy bars. Count passers-by whose pants are flared Times children filling gullets Then add the Herrs with no hair, squared Subtract the count of mullets. The winner is the one who gets A number close to Pi. It’s “Bean Fun” to alleve the frets Don’t bother asking why. Part 5. Smelf parked the bus at Spud’s motel Good spot for buds on budget The inn-keep did not look to well His butt…could barely budge it. A quick night stay at half-way point In Who Knows, Pennsylvania In some inept decrepid joint That’s certain not to drain ya’ They packed a bus load in one room Packed in eight roll-aways The room smelled of a toxic fume A fog of bean soup haze. They’d stopped and dined at Burger Fred’s Had ordered Double Cheese But later, when they’d fumed the beds Brought roaches to their knees. Quick game before all went to bed: Count brown splotts in the rugs Took more time counting in the Head Where splotts had killed more bugs. Next morning…bus back on the track Next stop would be DC But then they heard the clickitty clack Oh my…what could that be? Part 6. “The right rear bearing,” Elmer said “Yer bearing there is shot. Can go get one from Burger Fred Let’s go see what he’s got. “What? Burger Fred? The gaseous king? Give me a side of pube? Sells car parts, as some sidebar thing? Know where he gets his lube.” “Yeah Fred is one ‘dem Aunt Pee-noors. He’s in all kinda stuff. Picks up our garbage, cleans our sewers I go to him for snuff. I think ole Fred will fix you up Gots bearings on the shelf. He keeps them in a soda cup… I’ve pulled some out myself.” Sure ’nuff, Fred had the bearing there Right next to bags of buns Was dusted with some old cat hair Not spared the squiggly ones. The bearing changed…back on the road And paying freeway tolls To sounds of Clem, the human toad And counting telephone poles. Part 7. “We’re here! We’re here!” the bean-bags cheer “We made it to the Mount It’s like your car is free and clear So joyed, I can’t e’en count.” Smelf quickly seeks the Lobby firm To drive this new crusade A firm called Shadey, Shlock & Squirm Would earn what they’ve been paid. Their office, in some rundown house Down around DuPont Circle A smell of beer, a touch of louse Were greeted by DeFerkle. “We hear you want to fight this bill To simplify the tax We heard you guys got pretty shrill Your grouse-meter pegged max.” “That’s why our busload came to you The Champs of the Perplex… Creators of the Tax Code goo Tax muscles set to flex. “We’re desperate. We need to kill This move to make tax easy Please guide us to help kill this bill If needed, please get sleazy.” “We hear you. But if truth be told… And thank you guys for stopping… On this one, we will have to fold You’ll need to go re-shopping.” Part 8. You what? You guys are baling out? You just aren’t making sense What wimp cards are you mailing out To all your new ex-friends? Our guys here want things simplified When they do their own tax They’re tired of getting limpified When pawing through tax stacks. They got to you! The other side! Gave you a better deal Have you lost all your Tax Chef pride Just when we need a meal? Think back to your long history Of building tax confusion The weaves and bends of mystery And layered tax illusion. We worked together like a team We shared a-many beer Created every tax fright scheme Our dream of tax code fear. Now this? To leave us in the lurch Just when we need you most? Force us to do some dag-blame search Just so you dweebs can coast? We’ve realized the harm we’ve done We’ve got some new religion Now need to get the spins unspun Raise our respect a smidgen. Part 9. I’m sorry. But that’s not our Bag Do I smell rotten core? A bag that almost makes us gag May we show you the door? The 12th rejection just this week… Seems no one wants this fight A bar room fight of pungent wreak To fight for what’s not right. But finally, the 13th try A firm with sub-floor standards Who’ll do whatever cash will buy Oblivious to slanders. So happy just to take the case Their case load had got thin About to be thrown from their space Their bank rolls had lost skin. Come in. Come in. Please have a seat. That Simpli-tax? Plain wrong! Will only serve up to deplete Our fine Accounting throng You really need to plant a seed To throw computers off. A virus…yeah, that’s what we need Give Comput-tax a cough. So CPA’s then inked the deal With Stunkfunk Lobby Inc The deal – it had a queasy feel The ink brand seemed to stink. Part 10. The Stunkfunk team went right to work On several lobby fronts They planned to pull out every quirk In their rich trunk of stunts. Decided first to start-off small Get rumors on the street Misinformation set to crawl To keep the shell game neat. Met with key staffers. Took to lunch: “D’ja see the new report? That Simpli-tax will maxi-crunch Cause revenue distort. Yeah, previous analyses Were static in their calcs Assumptions used were falacies Developed by their ‘pals’. The new Code will cause major shift In what folks say they earn Will watch the skidding, downward drift As business starts to churn. Would no doubt cause a small revolt A cold path sure to haunt The global guys may choose to bolt That’s sure not what we want. Best keep the old Code we’ve got now It’s a known quantity All know what is/is not allowed Know every oddity.” The Stunkfunk lob-sters were a trip Dished out 2 tons of doodle Consistency of nasal drip And smell of liver strudle. Part 11. The News Release read: Simpli-Tax Is found to be a fraud. Its rationale found full of cracks, Its Mathematics flawed! So says McBoob, the President Of Econ Masters Group. “This bill would be a detriment… Create new lines for soup.” “Its guise of being simplified Is just more smoke and mirrors. Your prep work will be blimp-ified Best stock up now on beers. “And in the end, when revs fall short There’ll be a tax addendum Just ‘temporary’, they’ll report Send dollars and they’ll spend ‘em.” This breaking news comes on the heels Of Push for Tax Reform From pundits in their spiffed-up spiels, Chock full of fact de-form. McBoob advises: “Kill this now. Before folks grab false hope. Please nuke this undigested chow Can someone get a rope?” Part 12. The letter-writing campaign starts With notes from guys named Jones Ten thousand Jones notes tug at hearts Ten thousand tax bite moans. To News rooms for their Op Ed page To Congresswomen types To loudmouths from the screen and stage Who seek to find new gripes. The Jones blitz had a blanket reach To even late night news It found its way to News Talk screech And dudes who teach the Blues. They’d interview a Jones or two Who’d rail ‘gainst Simpli-Tax Who’d grouch until his head turned blue Or BP popped to max. The talking heads were stumped by this Thought Simpli-Tax was cool Could fill out forms while taking piss Or resting on the stool. Now all this outrage…what was missed? Had seemed like one slam dunk. This caged-up rage adds such a twist The slam dunk just went clunk. Part 13. The Stunkfunk spunky compu-geeks Devised a sleek new virus It only took them 2-3 weeks Called their new virus: Tyrus Would complicate the Compu-tax Throw user on some tangent They’d infiltrate with clever hacks Was simpler than imagined. You’d enter on Line 23 Would show on 28 Negate the 28 and see Would wipe out your Line 8. The program would erase your name Sub some obscenity From random obscene naming game… A hack amenity. Forced you to fill out some fake form That made no freaking sense Looked just like an official form That also made no sense. Then added ’bout a thousand bucks To how much tax you owed. And then it told you: “Man, this sucks! Seems your grass just got mowed.” The Stunkfunk gang all had a laugh They almost blew a geyser Had turned this into Compu-Gaffe… Best stick with your Advisor. Part 14. Meanwhile Stunkfunk’s crack econ team Was ginning up new “facts” For “Facts sheets” spun to fit their scheme With dreamed-up tax impacts. Made up fresh numbers as they went Drew graphs that had no basis Made statements – who knows what they meant Then closed with smiley faces. Baked pie charts in a flaky crust Fruit flavors of all kind But crust would bust and turn to dust And filling’d taste like rind. Weaved quasi-nalysis to ‘splain Conclusions that they want Could convolute a wiz-kid brain Deciphering this gaunt. Showed middle class will pay much more The rich guys pay much less Low-end pay less than less before… Who’s wanting all this mess? That 19 percent rate they claim Bett’r add 5 more percent Then 3 more, rolling out their game Cuz that dough’s all been spent. They’d accept all this bilge as true Had Rex McBoob’s initial Report’s crisp letterhead was blue It all looked quite official. Part 15. Had town hall meetings, where they’s claim The Simp-Tax was a plot By Ultra-rich…and names they’d name Like Shlumpp, Bill Shmates, and Shmott. Oh yes…these barons will all say They just want things more fair But they know how much less they’ll pay… ‘Nuff to redo their hair. And screw the working middle class The plumbers and the cops The ones who don’t spend time on ass Who’ve farmed this country’s crops It’s all one big conspiracy Wrapped up in slick disguise Be careful of their heresy Their twists, their spins, their lies. Was beautiful…this tale they weaved Like some fine work of art Could get the town folk so darn peeved ‘Fore they left for Wal Mart Some fell asleep in rows in back Worn out from piled-on hype Wiped out from gripes from some new quack With smell that’s much too ripe. Fatigue of Change: was all a plus A factor they’d forgot Folks just pooped-out of fuss and muss Whose energies were shot. Who just want to turn on the tube At ends of busy days Don’t want to hear a ranting rube Who sets his pants a-blaze. Part 16. The Vegas bunch were feeling pumped Were sensing shift of tide Felt backbones get untied, unslumped The backseat boys just cried: “I can’t believe my weary eyes… Tax may stay pains in butt! So we can keep our mesmerize Keep filers in their rut.” They all went out to celebrate With shots of discount rum Next morning, not sure what they ate But sure they’d gotten dumb. Recalled that Norfberg did a dance Right up there on the bar An Irish jig, in rum-laced trance While smoking rank cigar. And sang a song, “Oh Give me Tax Just like my daddy did.” No one there ever heard those tracks ‘Cept some old fart named Sid. They hugged and sang ’bout quaint tax things While patrons all looked puzzled At some point, they had ’nuff tax sings Said: these guys should be muzzled. Part 17. The polls they took would say it all The Simp-Tax trend had drooped Fave numbers, each week , took a fall Some stuff was needing scooped. Jones letters kept on flowing in Got Jones inside their bones So much Jones that their heads would spin And rattle much loose stones. They’d lobbied every interest group Pressed hard convincing banks That they’d all need to clean the coup Get used to hitting shanks. Pushed hard on every charity Stressed contribs would dry up Fundraisers: be a rarity Bring back your begging cup. Bye bye to 401K plans That well will soon go dry Best sell before stuff hits them fans And PUTS hit all new highs. The only fear that Stunkfunk feared Was lack of fear itself Were careful not to get too weird Used mostly fears on shelf. Part 18. The final step in Stunk’s grand plan The last nail in the coffin A plan to get a target clan Whom they would need to soften. The CPA firms ‘cross the land Had held hands and agreed To give this group a helping hand A group that’s so in need. They’d offered every congressman And congresswoman, too A break for all the “good they’ve done” That’s helped, well, who knows who A 90 percent reduction In personal tax service An earmarked target deduction That made no tax guy nervous. A mini-pay-off…some might say? But they’d just say: a perq. For all their services, night and day That, some might claim, is work. But would this be enough to swing Enough to drown this float? Who knows? But let’s see if they bring The Simpli-Tax to vote. The End.