Brace Yourself, This Might Hurt

Writen by Kenneth C. Hoffman

At fifty years old I felt great. The legs could do twenty miles on a bike, I could photograph four weddings on a weekend and still build a patio the next day. Only one thing on my body was wearing out at a fast clip and that was my teeth. As I sat meekly in the dentist’s torture chair, he casually hiked his butt on the desk and gave me a choice. I could keep him filling the cavities one at a time or I could have them all pulled and get an upper.

“All?”, I squeaked. I still had fourteen teeth left in my upper jaw and I cringed at the thought of only one extraction, much less fourteen at once. He explained that it would all be done under the deadening effects of Novocain and I wouldn’t feel a thing. I would have to hide in the house only two days and the denture would be fitted immediately upon arrival. I mulled it over for two minutes and thinking that it would be great to be able to take out my teeth and scrub them up judiciously every night won me over. I said, “O.K. I’ll go for the package.

But on sale, the package was not. A specialist oral surgeon was required at a cost of three weeks salary. No wonder he had dozens of underwater photographs expensively displayed in his waiting room. Trips to Bermuda cost big bucks. I won’t go into the gory details, but one hour later, I saw in the mirror a hundred year old man, gumming his words and drooling on the floor.

Three days later, I entered our kitchen to a sympathetic wife, asking how I made out and giving me the “Let’s see your smile” bit. I grinned, she said, “Great”, and I asked, “Did you see the pflyers I made for the bulletin board?”

She said, “Pliers? I didn’t see any pliers” I said a little louder, “You know, the pfliers from Pfoodtown.”

At this point, she understood my problem and started to laugh. My new dentures didn’t quite fit properly and I couldn’t pronounce my “f’s” properly. At first I was embarrassed, but then we both had a big laugh. We laughed so hard, my stomach hurt and my eyes teared up. It’s never easy growing old.

Retired portrait photograper. What did you say?

I Heard It From Some Guy In A Pub …

Writen by Cynthia Pinsonnault

Used to be you could count on the information you picked up, say in a bar, or listening to other people’s conversations at work, or on the bus or subway. Frankly, I think someone who’s been drinking all day in a bar is as likely to tell you the truth as anyone although could be not everyone agrees with that assessment. So, for argument’s sake, let’s say there could be better sources for important data.

For instance, the guy in the pub might have seemed to say something about a catastrophe at the mall, but with all the slurring it sounds a bit like “they have cats for free down the hall.” So you’re left in a quandary do you worry about the devastation that might have occurred or do you go pick out a new pet?

The more sensible among us probably turn to the newspaper or television news programs to get the truth. Well, okay, I guess if you want to think of it that way -

The Noble Profession of Journalism:

“Study reveals 77 television stations aired video news releases without informing viewers even once that the reports were actually sponsored content.” from www.InfoShop.org/inews/

“Flaming Mouse Story Found To Be False Rumor Squashed: Flaming Mouse Didn’t Start House Fire.” from www.wsbtv.com/news/

“TV News Station Caught Inserting False Details Into ‘Live’ News Story.” from www.cuttingedge.org/news/

“Five weeks after Hurricane Katrina rumors repeated uncritically in the news media helped slow the response to the disaster ” Washington Post article

Truth, Justice, the Internet Way
So where can we turn for truth. The Internet, of course! Certainly, there could be no false information lurking on the medium of the masses.

“Congress caught making false entries in Wikipedia.” C|Net News.com article.

Well, okay. A few tiny little falsehoods may have crept in over time. But there’s a Web site dedicated to debunking Internet and email myths Snopes.com. Surely they have exposed any and all lies that might be floating about.

Of course, what if Snopes is lying? That would mean Nigerians really are giving away free money for helping them move large sums to American banks, and Bill Gates will send me money just for forwarding an email to everyone in my address book, and the moon landing really was filmed on a soundstage. Oh, my.

I thought I was going somewhere with all this. I guess I’m now thinking someone is going to read what I’ve written here and actually believe it. Then someday, someone will come along and prove that I was completely and utterly wrong not a drop of truth and then I’ll have to write about how I’m no longer a reliable source of information.

(Here comes the sappy part.) I guess all I can tell you is that the truth lies within each of us. Relying on anyone or any medium to tell you what is true will inevitably lead to disillusionment. Don’t let anyone tell you what to believe; find out for yourself.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t trust people. After all, the guy who’s been drinking in a pub all day may really know what he’s talking about free cats for everyone!

Cynthia Pinsonnault, writer, designer, consultant. More life commentary articles by Cynthia Pinsonnault can be read at Wordspill: http://cyntheta.blogspot.com/ - Cynthia also writes for the Pinsonnault Creative marketing, advertising & graphic design solutions newsletter at http://www.pinscreative.com/blog/

Abandoning Crude Oil in 2150

Writen by Lance Winslow

It appears at the current rate of new technologies and considering our nations growth, illegal immigrant population increases and demand issues that we may actually break our addiction to oil by somewhere around the year 2150 if all goes perfect.

The good news is that our addiction to foreign Middle Eastern Oil will be broken much sooner than that in around 2146 nearly 4-years earlier and that is a major accomplishment and we should than the leadership of our nation for working hard to achieve this goal 4-years ahead of the oil ending as a fuel of choice by 2150; very impressive indeed and thanks to all.

Actually some might say that 2150 is such a long ways away that all this smoke and mirrors and talk is simply public relations babble and indeed some might argue that the reality of the efforts compared to the rhetoric is a little unnerving. Yet those who argue that nothing is being done clearly do not seem to be attempting to change their own habits? After all only some 400,000 Americans bother to drive Hybrid Automobiles or are even on a waiting list to get one.

If a consumer movement starts the market will respond and if not it won’t and there you have it you see? So, if you are complaining about the 2150 end date to stop burning oil then perhaps you should blame someone, yah like yourself? Mirrors are on sale at Wal-Mart during their 3-day weekend sale? Consider this in 2006.

Lance Winslow

Life Brought to a Dull Wedding

Writen by Jake Rose

Weddings can be a lot of fun. They can be exciting times to celebrate with friends and family. Even the guests can enjoy themselves with the celebration. But sometimes a wedding can fall short of its expectations. Sometimes you just want it to be over or even wish you weren’t invited or didn’t come. Here’s a few helpful tips to make every wedding a fun one.

Don’t fill up on the meal. Let’s face the facts. Most of the time it is decent at best. The real prize is in the cake. Of course you shouldn’t go too long without food before you have the cake. You don’t want to get sick or anything from it. You don’t want to eat too much of the meal either and ruin your taste buds. A reasonable one third to a half is a good amount.

Look for the funniest person at the table. They will be your best friend for a while. They will be your hope for living. Introduce yourself to them quickly, and if an empty seat opens up next to them at any point, take it. You won’t regret it.

If you are the funniest person at the table, you have two choices. Either find the person that laughs the most and become friends with them, or find a new table to sit at. You will need all the positive company you can.

Make well use of that camera they provide you with. Make it memorable for you and the lucky couple. Don’t waste your time listening to dull stories told by family members or boring toasts that are even sappier than the greeting cards at the store. Even if it’s not you that’s keeping the funny pictures, you will have the memories forever as the topic of them probably will linger for months if not years to come.

Avoid the dance floor. You don’t want some old lady or bad dancer luring you into a trap. It will happen if you are not careful. Find all possible routes to the bathroom and exit other than by the dance floor.

Don’t drink too much. You’ll already be regretting that you went. You don’t need other things to regret. You will want to remember every thing that happens, especially all the stupid things other people do. It is best to take notes, so bring a piece of paper and a pen.

Don’t be afraid to leave early. It’s your life. It’s not like you are getting paid for this. If it gets too tough, just leave. You can find a lot better things to do. Who cares if you leave your friends, family, significant other or freshly married spouse. Life’s too short.

Hopefully these tips make the next wedding you go to that much better. And if they don’t, then you didn’t hear them from me.

Jake Rose is an artist and an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Fiction Writing.

Why I Did Not Become A Surgeon

Writen by Cornelius Babasanya-Craig

From my early teens, my dad spent time counseling me on my choice of profession. At an early age, I had the mind to study law. I joined the debating society in school as a preparatory step. In my last two years in school, I was the number one choice to represent my school in inter-schools’ debates. It happened that in 1953, during the masquerade festival in our locality in Abeokuta, a city in Nigeria, a lorry driver knocked down a masquerade. The accident occurred at a T-junction where our house was located. The accident victim was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. It was on a Sunday evening.

The driver engaged the services of my brother, who was practicing as a lawyer in Lagos, but came home for the weekend. As it happened, the case came before my dad on Monday. To my horror, it was thrown out on technical grounds the following day. Technical grounds my foot; we all witnessed the commotion that greeted the manslaughter event. I challenged my brother to explain to me why a culprit should be allowed to go scot-free. He told me with pride that the victim was not identified at the site of the accident as a mask usually covered the face of a masquerade. The prosecution was unable to establish the identity of the accident victim in court. He therefore sized the opportunity to submit that his client had no case to answer.

Two things disturbed me. I accused however mildly, my dad and my brother of partisanship or favoritism. Both denied anything of the sort. Secondly, I could not understand why a guilty person should be allowed to go scot-free. However, the legal minds told me that until proved, he was not guilty. The effect on my life was immediate. If that was part of the things a lawyer would be paid for, I should not like to become one.

My choice of profession shifted to medicine. I decided to become a surgeon. The biology syllabus of the Cambridge School Certificate Exam at that time demanded that a student should dissect a frog, study and draw the internal organs. I approached the period with excited expectation. This was about three years after I abandoned the law profession. Frog was in good supply. So it was you to your frog. During the class, I considered it cruel to apply chloroform to knock the frog out. A classmate did it for me. With the frog still visibly breathing, I pinned the ends of the four limbs to the board, with the underside up. Using the surgical blade, I slit the frog’s belly open. As I did so, blood trickled out. I could not take it. I ran out, and failed to submit any report. That put paid to my ambition to become a surgeon. I immediately regarded medical doctors hard hearted, wondering how they had the nerve to cut human beings up.

At the end of my second year in the high school, I privately went through the algebra and geometry syllabi for the school-leaving Cambridge Exam. While still in school, I flirted with making a profession out of chemistry; but I considered it not mathematical enough. After I left school, I looked at engineering as it was suggested to me at the Science School. The endless engineering drawings put me off. I settled for physics because I found it more challenging than merely applying formulae to solve problems.

Playing Go-Between in the Digital Age

Writen by Kristin Johnson

NOTE: This article was originally published in May 2000 at *spark-online.com when my grandmother was alive. I came across the link from my Web site and, after debating whether or not to change anything, decided to leave it. As Jadzia Dax said in STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE, “If you want to know who you are, it’s important to know who you’ve been.” Of course, Edna Mode in THE INCREDIBLES SAYS, “I never look back, dahling. It distracts from the now.” So I won’t look back, i.e. revise, and will present this essay as it originally appeared.

* * *

April 2000

“Anyone home?” My neighbor Nancy’s yellow inner tube enters the house before she does. She holds up her bottle of iced tea in silent response to my offer of a cool drink. No one in 80-degree California desert weather would be without iced tea. Except for me. I still have my fourth cup of coffee in hand, waiting to burn my tongue the way the sidewalk outside does bare feet.

“I’m off to the pool to do my exercises,” Nancy says. “But before I go, do I have any messages?”

I smile apologetically. “None of the grandkids have written.”

Nancy stands there, face puckered in an oddly stoic expression. “None of them? Didn’t they get my e-mails?”

“There’s no way to tell.”

“They did before. They wrote me back.”

I nod. “They’re probably just busy.” Nancy has at least seven grandchildren scattered across North America. One of the girls is reportedly backpacking in Europe right now. The rest of them are all in college.

She shakes her head slowly. “So much for ‘If you had e-mail, we’d write you more often.’”

“Do you want to send them anything?”

“Nah. I have to go do my exercises.” Nancy maneuvers around with the inner tube. She pats me on the shoulder. “Thanks anyway.”

“I’ll come get you if there’s anything in my mailbox,” I say before I head back to my home office. Sitting down at my keyboard, I ignore the sun shining off the palm trees and once again check Outlook Express. E-mail from my mother. Offers from Amazon.com. The e-mail newsletters I tell myself I don’t have time to read.

Nothing from Nancy’s grandchildren. I call up their addresses, cut and paste them into the TO line, then proceed to type: “Dear Kids, Your grandmother really wants to hear from you. She would be so tickled if you would write. Stay in school, have fun in Europe, nurse that ankle (whichever one of you is playing football), and keep warm! Love ya, Kristin.”

I click Send, and get back to whatever I was doing before Nancy’s visit. Hours later, I’m still checking my e-mail for Nancy, eager to tell her the new most-anticipated three words: “You’ve Got Mail!” I feel like the old switchboard operator in a small town, listening to everyone’s business. An odd image, that, considering the vast computing power of the Internet.

Or maybe not. After all, hackers can get into your AOL or Microsoft Outlook Inbox and read all about your last fight with your mother, your latest campaign finance blunders (you know who you are), that you hate your boss, or your wild fantasies about Harrison Ford. Heck, your company and the government can read the same things, and I guarantee you they’ll have less fun than the hackers.

Voyeurism: the final frontier. I could make a case for The Need for Connectedness in this Information Society. After all, E.M. Forster put it best: “Only connect.” And e-mail is allowing us to reach people we wouldn’t spend 33 cents, or a nickel a minute for the latest long distance plan, to talk to. It’s easy, it’s convenient, and as my neighbor says, “It’s fun!” It allows us to feel the thrill of anticipation we used to feel when the mail carrier arrived. But that was before we became adults. The anticipation dulls when you know the mail will bring the electric bill, a solicitation for the Policeman’s Ball, or a flyer titled “Have You Seen Me? Missing Children.” All important, but not satisfying.

Think of writing a letter in ancient times, the thought in the act of writing. We still enjoy the passionate love letters of Napoleon and Josephine, Abelard and Heloise. It is a glimpse into someone’s life we never knew.

There is something appealing about connecting this woman, who volunteers for the Red Cross and hesitates to buy a computer, with her grandkids. I am not just the letter-writer or the secretary. I am part of the connection.

Days later, still no word from the kids. I write them another letter: “Dear Kids, Your grandmother needs you! If you’re worrying about her bothering me, don’t. Please write to her. Only a few minutes of your time and I won’t tell your parents all the things she’s told me, things she would never tell your folks. What can I say, she’s an incredible woman.”

I’m not bluffing. I know how to find their parents. And I think they know I know. The next day, I get an answer from one of the girls: “Dear Kristin, How many things have you done that you didn’t want your parents to know about?” (More than she has.) “Get on with your life and let us get on with ours. Some of us have midterms. I don’t mean to sound rude. I love my grandmother. Sometimes I just getbusy. Tell her I’ll call her.”

I’ll call. And that reminds me: When was the last time I called someone instead of just writing an e-mail? Or actually sent a card? In my memories box are two dozen typewritten letters, liberally splashed with White-Out and full of mistakes, many crossed out with X’s. Several of these are writing critiques. The writer, my master’s thesis final project advisor Ben Masselink — former Marine, novelist, screenwriter, columnist and teacher — died in January. If my house caught on fire and I had to save one item, it wouldn’t be my Gateway laptop. It would be those letters, as well as every card I’ve ever received. Some of them are from people I rarely see. And yes, all the printed e-mails I saved.

E-mail is great, e-mail is wonderful. But it’s what’s behind e-mail that makes it great.

Nancy knocks on the door with her inner tube. “Anyone home?”

I smile and say, “You’ve got mail.”

Movie reviewer/screenwriter Kristin Johnson composes personalized poems, speeches, toasts, vows, and family memories. Visit http://www.poemsforyou.com to order your personalized memories. She is also co-author of the Midwest Book Review “enthusiastically recommended” pick Christmas Cookies Are For Giving: Stories, Recipes and Tips for Making Heartwarming Gifts (ISBN: 0-9723473-9-9). A downloadablemedia kit is available at our Web site, http://www.christmascookiesareforgiving.com, or e-mail the publisher (info@tyrpublishing.com) to receive a printed media kit and sample copy of the book. More articles available at http://www.bakingchristmascookies.com

Those Pants Won’t Dance

Writen by Bridgitte Williams

I was shopping with a friend the other day and saw some nice dress pants that I really liked. I hurried over to the rack to find my size and held them up proudly for her approval. I was not prepared for what came next.

She said, no, those pants won’t dance.

I started laughing. I told her no, they won’t dance but, I like them. She gently explained to me that the pants were ugly and should sit on the rack forever. I was horrified. I can’t dance, why should my pants? Does that mean, nevermind. So, even though I am going no where near a club or planning to cut a rug somewhere, the pants are off limits.

This really distressed me. Now let me get this straight.

I need pants that dance, a shirt that shimmies and socks that swing? No, that doesn’t sound right. The socks should rock, right? Do I also need shoes that shuffle? If the pants won’t dance, that could be a problem. This conflict was never considered by me before. Forget the pants. I decided that I just needed earrings that fling. I left the store pantless, except for the ones that I was wearing. I did not dare ask my friend if those pants danced. I did not want to know. I can’t seem to shake this new clothes concept, though.

I now need a dress that dips and heels that holler to match my purse that pimps. My clothes have outdone me. I am exhausted. Maybe I will just stick to what I already have in my closet. I am sure that I have a hat that hustles in there, somewhere. It will probably clash with my toering that tangos, though. I know. I will off set the outfit with a belt that boogies. Hey, I have clogs that clog. Will that work? It should. I survived the seventies in a tshirt that tripped.

In the eighties, it became a tshirt that ripped. That sounds funny. About the pants, all the ones that I wore in the nineties were so full of holes that they all fell apart. I really do need some pants. I have now decided that instead of dress pants that won’t dance, I will get some jeans that jam. My next step is to find a hairstylist that will give me bangs that bang but, to get there, I need a car that creeps. That may take awhile.

Sheesh.

I will now retire in my robe that rolls.

Cheers.

Conversation Time Saver

Writen by Jens Hendrikkson

Ever wish you could make money off of people’s seemingly burning desire to give themselves hearing damage? If you can either

a) Hear Iron Maiden from 9 rows ahead of you on the Bus.
b) Feel the chassis of your car/truck/scooter rattling when someone pulls up in an Acura with the bass turned up louder than Armageddon.

OR

c) Picture someone boring a drill bit into their eardrum

Then you know you have a target audience!

What does this have to do with saving time and making money, you ask? Well, nothing to do with money, really. But time, yes. For you see, something happens when we age. Like it or not, the membrane of the inner ear becomes more rigid and the hair cells, less flexible. This leads to diminished hearing. This phenomena, combined with the natural desire of fame and fortune that can only be had through hearing damage, leads to an individual with very poor hearing.

With this information armed and in hand, set off to your nearest retirement home and witness the startling practical application of this knowledge: Some old people cannot hear very well.

But what, you ask. What does this all mean? Allow me to demonstrate in scenario form, everyone’s favorite:

Meanwhile, at the retirement house:

Kelly: (with slightly elevated tone) “Hey, mom, did you hear that blue ink has now passed black ink in terms of popularity in men aged 22-25?”

Mom: “What’s that, dear?”

This important, “What’s that, dear?” forces Kelly to reevaluate what she has said, and deems it either
a) Too unimportant to bother repeating
b) Too pointless and irrelevant to bother repeating
c) A wake up call for how stupid Kelly really is

This has an extremely important implication to real life:

When someone says something, don’t listen the first time. Then rudely reply, “What?” If they begin to repeat themselves, then you can pretty safely assume that what they are saying is mildly important or relevant. If not, you saved yourself the space in your brain to process what the person has said!

You can thank me now, Your neurons will thank me later.

For other such nonsense, check out:

http://queensdecree.com

The Sad and Untimely Demise of Captain Richard Head

Writen by Carolyn Magura

Before I went onto full time LTD and SSDI, I had my DREAM job. I was the first female part owner/VP Human Resources for an American Ship Repair Yard. We employed over 2,500 employees; 24/7 operations; 11 unions, and lots of turmoil!!!

My agreement with the Managers who fixed ships was simple: I did people; they did big metal “things”.

It was a rainy Wednesday, end of October night - around 8:00 pm. We had a ship in for repair with an English Capt., Head, and his wife aboard (they traveled the world together). They were out for a stroll, and, for whatever reason, were walking down the middle of the one way street leading out of the Ship Repair Yard. 8 pm is “lunch time” for Swing Shift; and, they only get 30 minutes.

A young man working in the Yard for a Contractor came tearing out of the yard going way over the speed limit, trying to drive while wiping the windshield. He felt a thud, and stopped the car - only to discover that he had hit and, regretably killed - Capt. Head. I got a call at home about 3 am to come into the Yard and “deal” with the situation, since I did “people”. I came in, dealt with the police, the grieving widow, the hospital, etc. Got the widow into a downtown hotel; contacted her family in England and arranged to get them tickets to fly over to stay with her; went home for a few hours of sleep.

Now remember, the customer is always right. So, the next day, Thursday, I met with the family, and the widow wanted to have an open casket, full Catholic Mass, Memorial Service, the next day, in the Yard, so that the Ship’s company could say one last good-by to the Capt. I had already priced caskets, embalming, cremation, etc., and when I started to convey the information to the family, the “Ship’s Representative” - our “customer” said: “They no pay; you pay!”

I thought OK, but I wonder what Accounting was going to think when they saw my next month’s VISA statement wherein I charged a casket, embalming, and cremation onto it!!!!!

I leave the family; make arrangements with the Funeral Parlor to prepare the Capt. for the service the next evening - Friday - for a 6 pm service. Now, the only place within the Yard suitable for the service was a nice room off of our Company Cafeteria. And, the only door wide enough to accept a coffin was the one that would lead the coffin through the kitchen. So, I had to call the State Health Dept. to make sure that I wasn’t violating any health codes by wheeling a casket through the kitchen (and I wasn’t as long as the body was embalmed).

Now, that Friday, as luck would have it, was Halloween. And, remember this is a rough and tumble, grubby ship repair Yard!! Just years before the yard would host Halloween parties with an open casket filled with ice and booze! And, even though we were kinder and gentler now, I didn’t want the Swing Shift to see a group in the all windowed room off of the Cafeteria with an open casket! So, we purchased and figured out how to hang drapes.

Then, I remembered that I needed to find a Priest! Took a while to find one at the last minute~ It is finally Friday, around noon. I panic, remembering that I don’t have any appropriate “funeral Catholic Mass” music to play, and run to the nearest Mall’s music shop. I ask for funeral music, forgetting, momentarily that it is Halloween, and the clerk tries to sell me the Monster Mash. I explain and get the correct music; get back to the Yard and get the room set up for the Service. Dash home to change clothes; dash back to the Yard, where I remembered that I had to pay the Priest for his services!!

So, I dash to Accounting and ask for a check made out to the Priest, and receive the wierdiest looks - until I remembered that not all folks working in the Yard knew about the upcoming Memorial Service.

Get back to the room; all arrive and the Service begins. Now, I hope you realize how serious an event this is. I had preped the Priest, that the Capt.’s name was Richard Head. But his family came from the UK, and they insisted in calling him, throughout the service by his nickname, Dick. I was horrified when folks in the service put the two names together, in “American slang”, and started snickering. Well, we got through the Service; we had arranged for light food afterwards, and the evening ended, with all satisfied.

Observations: first of all, I challenge any other HR Executive to have this type of task to perform! Second of all, this is a True Story! Only in an American Ship Repair Yard can you have a full Catholic Mass Memorial Service for Capt. Dick Head on Halloween.

About DisabilityKey.com

The Disability Key Website ( http://www.disabilitykey.com ) is designed to assist each person in his/her own unique quest to navigate through the difficult and often conflicting and misleading information about coping with a disability.

Carolyn Magura, noted disability expert, has written an e-Book documenting the process that allowed her to:

a) continue to work and receive her “full salary” while on Long Term Disability; and

b) become the first person in her State to qualify for Social Security Disability the FIRST TIME, in UNDER 30 DAYS.

To download Carolyn’s e-book, click on the following link: http://www.disabilitykey.com/products.htm

It’s Time to Exempt Me From Income Tax

Writen by John T Jones, Ph.D.

I’m 74 years old. Why do I still have to fill out income tax forms? Doesn’t President Bush know I hate it?

The President likes lowering taxes. Why not drop income taxes on pensions, annuities, and Social Security. That would let a lot of us old folks off the hook for life. It should start the day you turn 70 years old. He could set a limit of $50,000.00 to keep everybody happy. The rich people would have to keep paying. They don’t do their own taxes anyway.

All in favor of the above proposal say, “YEP! I’M IN!”

What would we do if we didn’t have tax software?

I still have to guess sometimes at what the correct answer should be to a question my tax software asks me, but if the error checker says all is okay, I agree. I transmit the form to the BIG “G” and the State of Idaho, and I’m done.

Sometimes, after I send in my return, I get a letter back from BIG “G.” It says that I’ve made a mistake.

Sometimes it actually corrects the error for me for me and asks if I agree with BIG “G.”

I always tell my good friends at IRS that they are correct and say, “Check enclosed.”

I think that once I paid too much and they increased my refund. Most of the time, they lower my refund. As long as I’m done for the year, I could care less.

Let me tell you why I love the IRS. I may be the only one that can say that.

When I graduated from the University of Utah for the first time in 1957 I was as poor as a church mouse.

(Writers: that’s what we mean by a cliche. Never use them.)

My boss paid the first month’s rent on the house.

The son of the local car dealer took the $1.37 I had in my pocket for down payment on a 1939 Chevy convertible.

(That Green Demon would climb from Golden, Colorado up Lookout Mountain-where Buffalo Bill is or is not buried-in high gear. Some of the high school kids who had been looking at the car about died when I drove it off the lot with my wife our first son.)

Back to the subject: So we were doing pretty good after I got a check for $135.00 for my first week’s work. All was well until tax time in 1958.

Because I had earned money during the first six months of the previous year and not paid any taxes, my new job put me in a higher tax bracket and I owed $300.00. I may as well have owed a million, I had no extra money to blow on the IRS.

I waited until the last minute to send in my tax forms. I wrote a note that told the IRS that I owed $300.00 and that $50.00 was enclosed for the first of 6 installments.

I got a quick answer from the IRS.

I was told that the IRS had no way to take installment payments. That was followed by a letter saying that IRS was coming after everything we had.

I wrote back with my next month’s check of $50.00 that we really had nothing of value, but they could do what they had to do.

I got another letter. It said IRS had no way to handle our $50.00 installment payments.

I sent them another $50.00 on schedule and told them that I had some very good news in that someone in the IRS had handled my previous checks and they should have that person handle this one.

I didn’t hear another word from the IRS until the last check was due. They were coming after me. I sent them the last check and thanked them for treating me so well; handling my checks every month even though they had no way to do it.

From this day I think the guy handling my account had decided I was doing the best I could and he held back several monthly form letters until I got to the last month.

I never heard from the IRS again on that matter.

I’ve heard from them a number of times since as I stated earlier. I’ve never had a bad experience with that organization. I’m sure that if I went in for an audit they would show me the deductions that I didn’t bother to make over the years and would give me a check that would send me and my wife to Hawaii.

I always say, be good to the IRS and they will be good to you.

I know that as soon as the White House Chief of Staff reads this article he will run into the President’s office and say, “Mr. President. I think I know how the Republicans can assure the next election.”

Well, I don’t know which party will win the next election. I chose the option to contribute to a political party. I checked a party for my wife and a party for me. Naturally they were the same party. Wrong! We’ve been canceling each other out for years. They never should have given the women the right to vote.

I’m only joking, Ladies. Lighten up!

John T. Jones, Ph.D. (tjbooks@hotmail.com, a retired VP of R&D for Lenox China, is author of detective & western novels, nonfiction (business, scientific, engineering, humor), poetry, etc. Former editor of Ceramic Industry Magazine. He calls himself “Taylor Jones, the hack writer.”

More info: http://www.tjbooks.com

Business web site: http://www.dumbincome.com.