"Actually, thanks to our creative bookkeeping and corporate loopholes, we only pay about $3 in taxes a year." - Smithers, The Simpsons

The Tax Moon. It's like a Harvest Moon, but instead of the significance of abundance and reaping, it signifies Form 1040.

With the great assistance of TaxCut, my tax form is complete and headed off to the IRS. It took me an hour to do the program, and I’ll be getting some money (that I already paid in) back from a Treasury Department printer somewhere in the lower 48. I actually view this as neutral news – I paid the money in, and now it’s coming back, like John Travolta’s career. It will go away again, though, like John Travolta’s career. The amount of my refund isn’t significant. Which is also like John Travolta’s career.

Tax day, though, bothers me. It’s put on the far side away from Election Day. I tend to think that we’d see different election results if they were the same day. The other thing that bothers me is that income is withheld throughout the year, so the number of dollars I’ve paid in over the course of that year don’t hurt as much as if I had to write a check on tax day for whatever I needed to pay.

It’s somewhat irritating that the IRS makes you fill out a form in order to pay them. A mugger, at least, just wants your cash, and doesn’t make you fill out a form and threaten to take you hostage if you make a math error.

The Boy neared the computer as I was sifting through the myriad of forms, letters, little stacks of receipts, and the voodoo doll that I was using to divine the taxes I would owe.

“Get. Out. Of. Here. NOW!”

With that, The Boy skittered away from the computer like politicians skitter away from indictment. Which is quickly. I finished the taxes in record time this year, a little over an hour, start to finish. It helps if you don’t worry so much, just type.

The Mrs. likewise skittered away, sneaking off into town. She doesn’t like being around me when I do taxes, either. To tell the truth, I don’t like being around me when I do them, but barring a late onset of schizophrenia, I’m stuck being with me when I do the taxes.

When I finished the Federal part, TaxCut helpfully told me that “You don’t live in a state that requires a state return. Print your Federal Return already and uninstall me already so The Mrs. has room on the hard drive for Grand Theft Auto: The Kindergarten Years.” The vast majority of the tax burden for Alaska is borne by the oil producers, and most of the rest comes via property taxes, ergo no state income tax. This saves Alaskans the burden of having to fill out yet another form in order to pay money.

I printed the six pages of forms, The Mrs. and I signed it, and I sealed it up. Done.

The next morning, I went to work. The Mrs. relayed the following conversation:

The Boy: “Good morning, The Mrs.”
The Mrs.: “Good morning, The Boy.”
The Boy: (looking at the computer) “Is Daddy done with taxes?”
The Mrs.: “Yes.”
The Boy: “Good.”

So say we all.