Down With The Income Tax!

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Deadline For Prior User To Remove Clothes From Dryer Extended 5 Minutes

JOHNSON CITY, TN—Upon finding the machine in her apartment building’s laundry room completely untouched since she last stopped by, exasperated local woman Sandra Hermus reportedly mounted all her magnanimity Monday and extended the deadline for the previous user to remove their clothing from the dryer by five minutes.

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RIO RANCHO, NM—His pace steadily quickening as he rounded the corner out of his kitchen and made a beeline for the front door, local man Henry Parnasse reportedly found himself locked in a race against time Wednesday morning to take out a trash bag with a widening hole in its side.
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Down With The Income Tax!

Reading from his enormous ledger book, my accountant informed me today that my decision to purchase the Almagamated Vulcanized Testicle Company had resulted in a considerable loss, and I had no choice but to sell. Drat the foul luck! Why isn't the fool public purchasing rubber testicles? They're easy to care for and jaunty-looking, and they emit a pleasant odor!

Sensing my disgust, my accountant added that any losses could be offset by a reduction in what I owe for the capital gains tax.

Surely this must be some kind of mistake, I told my accountant. T. Herman Zweibel must pay some sort of tax? Nonsense! In fact, I levy my own taxes. The people of the nearby village have been long-accustomed to my bridge-toll, the excise on woolen goods and the turnip surcharge. But taxes levied on me? By whose authority?

The accountant replied that this was the doing of the federal government, which drafted a law requiring citizens to pay what is called an "income-tax" on their earned compensation. I was aghast. "When was this decided?" I demanded. "Since 1910," he answered.

I know that trust-busting bastard Roosevelt has it in for us robber-barons, but to actually expect us to fork over a portion of our wealth to the government? It's like some fairy-pixie notion straight out of Cloud-Cuckoo-Land!

Then, it all began to make sense. This "income-tax" is simply a false scheme devised by my wastrel sons to make off with my estate! Trick Old Man Zweibel into believing he owes a tax, then have him sign a check payable to an "Internal Revenue Service," which is obviously some kind of holding company secretly owned by my wretched offspring! A somewhat clever ruse, boys, but woefully transparent!

I immediately called in my Swiss Guards to arrest the accountant, obviously part of the plot. The simp, still mistaking me for some kind of chump, had the gall to protest that my sons had all died of old age decades ago, but I had him cast into the moat! Yes sir, you have to rise pretty early in the morning to get the best of T. Herman Zweibel! Hear me well, "Internal Revenue Service": I shall pay no income-tax this year, or any year!