DEATH AND TAXES

I believe that the existence of this particular space really needs a point of reference. A starting position if you will. By no means do I have the worst job in the world. Indeed, in these times, I am in a remarkably good situation. I earn a good salary, am relatively secure and have a job that challenges me and that I truly enjoy - most of the time. But it is definately those short periods of time that the job becomes so ridiculous (I can actually feel my brain being whipped into a neurotic smoothee) that make up for all the enjoyment.

For some background: I've been in this profession for eight years. I've worked in three different offices, each with their own challenges and their own particular quirks, but the general basis of my job remains the same: I am City Hall. Just me. To be sure, my responsibilities are scaled down accordingly to coincide with the population and demographics, but this is the easiest way to explain it.  I do have an assistant and a foreman, but, we have no departments, no Managers of Whateverthefuck, no Supervisors of Whyareyoudoingthat, just me. I'm responsible for policy, law, enforcement, accounting, taxation etc. etc. But most of all, I'm responsible for P.R. In all it's shapes and forms.

I am the third generation in my family to work in this profession. As a matter of fact, the office I currently preside over was held by my father before me. I had actually completed my training here, under him, and I swore that I wouldn't be his successor. But that is a story for another day. I tell you this so that you can appreciate the utter contempt that I felt when he told me this story. Please understand that my father is far more patient with people than I am. So if he was this flabbergasted; then I, surely, would have been muderous. I can appreciate it if you don't understand something, and I have no problem explaining it to you, but there are limits. To qualify those statements: Parents - learn your children. Wives - school your husbands. People - pull your heads out of your asses.

Please keep in mind that this is a man in his thirties. Without re-hashing the typical telephone pleasantries it goes thusly:

Asshat - "what is this bill that you sent me for?"
Pops - "Does it have an invoice number, sir?"
Asshat - "It's got a bunch of numbers"
Pops - "Ok, what is the amount?"
Asshat - "*Insert arbitrary amount here*"
Pops - "And what was the name?"
Asshat - "Douchebag Asshat."
Pops - "Ok, can you hold for a moment while I look it up?"
Asshat - "Why can't you just tell me what it's for?"
Pops - "Because we send out hundreds of invoices every year. Can you hold a moment?"
Asshat - "Fine."

            *Pops filps through approximately 150 invoices and cross references the spread sheet*

Pops - "I'm sorry sir, I can't find an invoice with your name on it."
Asshat - "What?!"
Pops - "We didn't send you an invoice."
Asshat - "What do you mean? I'm holding it in my hand!"
Pops - *thinks for a moment* "Mr. Asshat, what does it say at the top of the letter?"
Asshat - "Tax Notice."
Pops - "So it's not an invoice, it's a tax notice."
Asshat - "What do you mean?"
Pops - "Every year the municpality sends out a tax notice that is due by the end of December."
Asshat - "But I didn't buy anything from you!"
Angry Pops - "It's not an issue of you buying something from us; you own property and, as such, it is subject to taxation."

              *Pops also goes through a detailed explanation of the taxation system and purpose*

Asshat - "What do you mean, I have to pay this every year just to live here?"
Angry Pops - "Yes."
Asshat - "Well then, I'll just move!"
Angry Pops - "It doesn't matter. If you own property, you'll pay taxes no matter where you live."
Asshat - "I just bought this place from my mom! I've never paid taxes in my life!"
Angry Pops - "Then maybe you should call your mommy and have her explain it to you!"
Angry Pops - *slams phone down*

StabbyMart: Helping you rid the world of stupidity one idiot at a time.