Simpli-tax, the series
Simpli-Tax part 1.
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.
