That Time Again…
Well, it came in the mail today. My county property tax assesment. Take a wild guess. A really wild blue yonder guess. Do you think they increased my taxes again? (sigh)
Two years ago I got a 40 percent increase and fought it. Did not bathe or shave for three days, and drove my stinky self and mud covered pickup to the courthouse and got them to leave my taxes alone. Not sure if it was the smell, the cup of tobacco spit placed on his fine desk, or the muddy boot prints on his new carpet…but it worked. I think I will need to come up with something new this time.
I think I will pack a picnic lunch and arrive to the courthouse early that morning, just so I can park in the space next to the ‘Reserved for Tax Assessor’. Think this time, I will fill the pick up with a load of chicken droppings a few days ahead and water them real good, being sure to park it in a sunny location. Then with this ‘chicken tea’ dripping all over his parking spot, will await his arrival for work. With a dozen copies of how the real estate prices are dropping faster than Ms Jackson’s wardrobe, at a half time show, I will reach out with a not so clean hand and say, “Howdy Mr Tax Assessor, my name if Farmboy, and if you have a minute we need to talk.”
I will shove the papers into his hand, and follow him into his office. I hope he makes me wait. Im used to the smell, and wont bother me at all if he wants to keep me sitting outside the tiny room next to his office. With central Air conditioning, I give it about half an hour before half the courthouse wants to know ‘What is that smell?!!”
He will eventually get around to inviting me in to his office and probably ask about the brown paper bag at which time I will tell him, “Oh, thats just my lunch, I figure we will be here for a spell working this ‘adjustment’ out. Say, would you care for a pickeled egg?” I will pull out a pint mason jar about half full of tobacco spit, unscrew the lid, and deposit a healthy amount into the jar before placing it on his desk. ( I wonder if he will remember me at that point?)
And having ate a dozen or so pickeled eggs for breakfast that morning, and some refried beans, we can sit and discuss his figures. For as long as it takes, or until he passes out.
You know, these visits to the tax assessor is starting to be fun. Get to dress up like Halloween, dont have to take a bath for a couple days, course, I will have to clean out the bed of the pick up afterwards and brush my teeth with Chrolox to get em white again. Still, its about as much fun as going to the county fair. And they do tell me, all is fair in love and war, and this latest tax paper is a declaration of war if I ever seen one. I wonder if picking my nose would be a little too much?
Crude, Rude, Socially Unaccecptable, (at times) Farmboy
who says, “When fighting in a den of thieves, there aint no rules or social graces”.