My mind was far away, not as far as Falloonia, but far away.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Just working on my taxes.”
“Ah taxes,” he said. He sat in a chair near where I was
working and folded his hands. “Rendering unto Caesar?”
“You might say.”
“I think taxes are a great way to offer praise,” he said. “So
does my church.”
Now I have to admit that he had caught me in a bad mood. “That’s
because your church doesn’t have to pay them,” I said.
He crossed himself. “You are forgiven.”
Ignoring him, I went back to my computer.
“So,” he said. “As I understand it, your species uses its
system of taxes to help the poor in spirit and, as we say, ‘the least of those
among us?’ That’s a blessed approach.”
“Used to be,” I said. “Some of us think it is old-fashioned.”
“Oh? Please explain.”
“Some modern thinkers believe that the poor will be with us
always, so we should direct our public resources to helping those who are more,
not less, fortunate.”
He thought for a moment. “If you don’t mind my lapsing into
the vernacular,” he said. “That doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.”
“Welcome to the modern tax code,” I said. “Aaaargh!” I
continued as a figure flashed on my computer screen.
“Peace, my son,” he said. “Think happy thoughts.”
I glared at him. “Don’t tempt me,” I said.
He took on a beatific smile and formed his fingers into the
shape of a steeple. “One has to admit …,” he said. He thought for a few seconds
and began again. “One has to admit that it is wise of your species to prevent
the government from acting unwisely by simply not approving taxes for untoward
behavior, say, for casting pearls before swine or starting unnecessary wars.”
I looked up to see if he was serious. “Are you crazy? You
think that stops war?”
“How could a country wage war on credit?”
“Wait one,” I said. I punched a few keys and found a “favorite”
on the computer. I started it running and turned the screen toward him. It was
a scene from a documentary showing the bombs beginning to fall on Baghdad on day
one of the “Shock and Awe War.” As explosions rocked a public square, a father
ran across the screen holding a young son. A broad stain showed that the lad
had soiled himself from fear. “Ask these folks,” I said.
“I see I have angered you,” he said.
“Up yours,” I said.
“I shall leave you to deal with your anger, my son.”
“Pray do.”
“You have inspired me.”
I looked up. “Inspired you?”
“Yes, I’m going to write your congressman and suggest some
changes to the tax code.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, remembering the church’s admonition to comfort those who hunger, I shall
suggest that the drug Viagra be tax deductible.”
“That will make some folks happy,” I said.
“Oh, but remembering our charge to be fruitful and multiply,
I have another suggestion.”
 |
| Your wars would not be as popular if they didn't show so well on the nightly news. - C.W. |
“Let me guess.”
“Pray do.”
“Contraceptives won’t be.”
“In nomine patre,”
he said, extending a hand in benediction.
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