Tax Day is the common term for the day on which tax returns (statements about income taxes) are due to the U.S. Federal Government and to the U.S. states from U.S. citizens, resident aliens, and certain nonresident aliens. More specifically, this is the last day on which tax returns can be mailed (as postmarked) to avoid penalties, with some exceptions. In the United States, Tax Day has usually been April 15 since 1955.
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At the end of the tax year, the Tax Office sent an inspector to audit the books of a synagogue. While he was checking the books he turned to the Rabbi and said: 'I notice you buy a lot of candles. What do you do with the candledrippings?'
'Good question', noted the Rabbi. 'We save them up and send them back to the candle makers, and every now and then they send us a free box of candles.''Oh', replied the auditor, somewhat disappointed that his unusual question had a practical answer.
But on he went, in his obnoxious way: 'What about all these biscuit purchases? What do you do with the crumbs?'
'Ah, yes', replied the Rabbi, realising that the inspector was trying to trap him with an unanswerable question. 'We collect them and send them back to the manufacturers, and every now and then they send a free box of holy biscuits.' 'I see!' replied the auditor, thinking hard about how he could fluster the know-it-all Rabbi.
'Well, Rabbi', he went on, 'Wh at do you do with all the leftover foreskins from the circumcisions you perform?'
'Here, too, we do not waste', answered the Rabbi. 'What we do is save up all the foreskins and send them to the Tax Office, and about once a year they send us a complete dick.'
Obviously this post is a day late and a dollar short (no pun intended) - well... maybe... :-)
SONG: Taxman by The Beatles
BOOK: The Don't Sweat Guide to Taxes: Avoiding Stress over April 15th by Richard Carlson
POEM: One From One Leaves Two by Ogden Nash
POEM: One From One Leaves Two by Ogden Nash
Higgledy piggledy, my black hen,
She lays eggs for gentlemen.
Gentlemen come every day
To count what my black hen doth lay.
If perchance she lays too many,
They fine my hen a pretty penny;
If perchance she fails to lay,
The gentlemen a bonus pay.
Mumbledy pumbledy, my red cow,
She's cooperating now.
At first she didn't understand
That milk production must be planned;
She didn't understand at first
She either had to plan or burst,
But now the government reports
She's giving pints instead of quarts.
Fiddle de dee, my next-door neighbors,
They are giggling at their labors.
First they plant the tiny seed,
Then they water, then they weed,
Then they hoe and prune and lop,
They they raise a record crop,
Then they laugh their sides asunder,
And plow the whole caboodle under.
Abracadabra, thus we learn
The more you create, the less you earn.
The less you earn, the more you're given,
The less you lead, the more you're driven,
The more destroyed, the more they feed,
The more you pay, the more they need,
The more you earn, the less you keep,
And now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to take
If the tax-collector hasn't got it before I wake.
QUOTE: "We have long had death and taxes as the two standards of inevitability. But there are those who believe that death is the preferable of the two. "At least," as one man said, "there's one advantage about death; it doesn't get worse every time Congress meets." ~ Erwin N. Griswold
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