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Can one of you fiscal sooper geniuses explain something to me, please?

I keep reading that 40% of Americans don’t pay any income taxes at all.

Twenty six years ago, before I was a corporate little Eichmann, I worked part time, minimum-wage-type jobs while I tried to establish myself as a freelance illustrator. My total income, including illustration work, was under $8,000 each of those years (yeah, wow, did I suck, or what?).

I got a little money back at tax time, but certainly not everything that had been withheld. In other words, I paid income taxes. Teeny, tiny taxes in proportion to my teeny, tiny income, but it still hurt.

So, ummm…what gives? Does almost half the population really not pay taxes at all now? Or are they counting benefits against taxes and calling it a wash? Or has everything changed since I were a lass?

Money make weasel doesn’t understand good.

October 20, 2008 — 4:40 pm
Comments: 38

Stand by: posting will be psychotic

duct tape weasel
<--- (Must give a shout-out to my man the Duct Tape Bandit, my go-to images search whenever I need to wad something up in a horrible Photoshopped ball of duct tape. You, sir, are my hero).

The closing on Weasel Manor is still tentatively set for November 25, and it looks good, but we haven’t gotten an official, can’t-back-out lockdown on the mortgage. Hence, I haven’t touched off the chain events that cost monies, mainly the movers and visas. Settlement visas are running about 20 days from the New York embassy, assuming there aren’t any problems. Which is an assumption you cannot assume without making an Ass of U and Me (one of my first acts as a corporate artiste was making a poster of that hideous slogan and, believe me, it made an ass of me for life).

With best of luck, we close on the 25th November, pussycat and I fly out on the 26th, and arrive in Jollye Olde on Thanksgiving Day, the 27th. Which would be impossibly cool.

Without luck, my visa won’t be approved when I sell the house and Charlotte and I will spend Thanksgiving sharing a Quiznos turkey sub in a hotel that isn’t fussy about pets.

Either way, between now and then stretches a vast desert plain of paperwork, lawyers, banks, cardboard boxes and assorted other scary grownup shit. Scary grownup shit isn’t really my strong suit. I have heretofore carefully crafted my life to include an absolute minimum of scary grownup shit. When scary grownup shit happens, little bits of junk start rattling off the weaselmachine.

So I’m going to keep up on sweasel.com as best I can in the next six to however-many weeks — it will no doubt be a tiny island of joy in a frothing sea of loose poopy — but I’m unlikely to maintain my usual frequency and high standard of low comedy.

I’d particularly like to apologize to my blogroll. I make a good faith effort to walk down that thing every day, check up on you guys, and comment where inappropriate. But much of my precious surfing time will be consumed by the aforementioned SGS. Also, people who have stumbled over this site and link to me — thank you! I always follow up and check your site out in return, and one day I will again. Just…not until Christmas.


— 1:20 pm
Comments: 21