Tax and the Shitty

Posted: December 1, 2013 in MiB Hates Us All

Learning new things is generally a good way to tackle this morbid continuation of self-existence that we call life. For example, did you know that Hunter S Thompson left a frozen elk heart on Jack Nicholson’s doorstep as a birthday present? Oh, you did, you say? Well, koalas have three vaginas. Oh, you knew that too? Well shit, congratulations on being well-versed in both the arts of gonzo and genitalia. Your mother must be so proud.

I learnt two things this past week whilst celebrating my birthday in Cape Town. The first resulted in my getting into a confrontation with a coloured man working at a bakery after innocently asking him “Het jy ‘n koek?” He then proceeded to ask me a question that was unanswerable, as coloured folk are wont to do: “Fok, bra! Must I kick you in your poes?!” The first lesson that I learnt was “Well, if you can fucking find it, I don’t know” is not the appropriate answer to what really is, at its heart, a rhetorical question.

The second thing I learnt is that paragliding off Signal Hill a pretty fucking cool thing to do on your birthday if you’re into adrenalin rushes and near-death experiences. I can’t endorse getting into confrontations with coloured men though. To those supercilious fucks out there that did not take the time or courtesy to wish me happy birthday or send me a birthday gift: fuck you too. All will be forgiven if you send me a belated present though – I accept VISA, Mastercard and virgin sacrifices.

The thing with being 19 though is that it’s not really different to being 18, if you know what I mean. There’s no milestone event. You don’t celebrate being able to do something legally. Nobody congratulates you for making it to the 7th prime number. In all honesty, nobody really gives a dippity fuck. It’s not like turning 18, where people celebrate your finally being able to get intoxicated without breaking the law – which I’m not allowed to do, being Muslim and all – or fuck other adults freely – which I’m also not allowed to do, being Muslim and all – or vote – which I am allowed to do, and will probably be judged into oblivion if I don’t by my peers whose entire voting strategy is basically “Anybody but the ANC.”

The thing that really perplexes and puzzles and Pandora’s my mind’s box is how the hell do I learn how and when to stop being an idiot man-child and like, you know, grow up and do adulty things? Things like have a tax number and start trust funds for parasitical children that don’t yet exist and apply for asylum in foreign nations. Who teaches you these things?! How does one learn them?! Is there an online course that I can attend?! I don’t know about you, but I’d much rather take an online course in How to Not Fuck Up Your Future Hellspawn’s Future than “Fuck Ugly Girls from Johannesburg! Tonight!”

And when do I start to learn these things? Is there like a specific age that society has decided upon when they initiate you into being a functioning adult by wrinkling your everything and giving you high blood pressure and a tax number? Are there quotas to fulfil – you must have lost approximately 45% of your hair and be 1/3 of your way to a mid-life crisis. If you wear Crocs, you can ignore all of the above and move straight through to senility.

I’m especially concerned about getting a tax number because I recently had an interview for a job, which went about as well as you would expect it to. It turns out that you cannot write “God Almighty” as a reference and then “A prayer away” as contact details. After disagreeing with the manager interviewing me I still ended up getting the job, because I am a suave motherfucker. And then they asked me for a tax number, and this issue seems destined to plague my existence forevermore.

How the fuck do I get a tax number? Do I have to traverse to the apex of the SARS building like Moses summiting Mount Sinai to receive a tax number imprinted on tablets of stone? Does Jesus come down from heaven on the wings of archangels and solemnly say “This is your tax number that I bestow unto you.” Or do I simply meditate in a cave like the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and BOOM! Gabriel appears and is like “Count! This is your tax number. Remember that God watches your VAT claims. Salaam alaykum motherfucker.”

Furthermore, let’s say I live out a Bollywood movie and end up behind the white-picket fence with the woman of my dreams after five dance numbers and a cutting of family ties. And we’re financially stable and we have steady jobs and our cholesterol is like whatever the fuck good cholesterol is supposed to be, so we decide to have a kid. One kid. We can afford one kid. So we fuck, pork, bang, schtup, bump uglies and make the beast with two backs and nine months later, out pop TWINS. What the Weasley-fuck do we do then? We can’t afford two kids! We’ve budgeted for one. Now we have two. It’s not as if I can just stuff one back into my wife and walk away like you do in Checkers when you choose the wrong chocolate. It’s a legitimate problem. Do I put them in a playpen with their choice of weapon and have them hash it out to the death? Do I name one of them Shagufta and pray that God takes the child’s life as an act of mercy? What is the protocol?! DO I NEED A TAX NUMBER FOR THIS TOO?!?

Actually, why the fuck should I get a tax number in the first place? It’s certainly not adding value to anything but Uncle Jacob’s palace hut. Here I am stressing and striving to pay my dues as part of the workforce whilst Munty Zuma sings “Coz your tax takes me to paradise, yeah your tax takes me to paradise” in the fucking shower whilst polishing his double bald head with No More AIDS. You are not motherfucking Bruno SARS, Jacob. Stick to Umshini Wami.

I really hope that any adults reading are kind enough to contact me and guide me through the rest of my saturnine subsistence like some kind of Tax Number Fairy. Any assistance in culminating culinary skills would also be greatly appreciated too because the only things that I can currently make are reservations. Advice on the unwanted twin issue will also be mucho appreciato’d.  Just don’t expect any payment if you don’t have a tax number.

[Unlike Papa Jake, I freely admit when I steal things so I must come clean and admit that the “poes” joke is adapted from a Loyiso Gola line. Like Papa Jake, I also use my swimming pool as a “fire-pool” as a potential fire extinguisher and we are currently conducting research in tandem into how to make it a viable AIDS extinguisher too, thus eliminating the need for showers. Monitor my progress by subscribing to my blog or following me on Twitter @MibHatesUsAll]

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Comments
  1. Aslam says:

    Get a real job and they’ll get a tax number for you.

    If that fails, find a relative that knows tax things – this will be your go-to tax relative from this day forth so choose wisely. Returns happen annually and the rules change twice as often so you can’t break this tie.

    The advice above is all the adult-like learning I can impart on you. In my experience no one knows life, adult or otherwise, but lots of people know about the little bits that it supposedly consists of. Get to know lots of people and all the little bits will come together.

    Aunty Fay is my tax relative.

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