By Clint Younts.
Dang! I just hate doing my tax return. Year after year, it’s the same routine that takes hours of my time collecting forms, receipts and canceled checks. Then another four hours at the computer plugging numbers into my Turbo Tax form, only to be informed that I can’t claim my new calves as exemptions. Hey, they are like children to me, so why can’t I claim them?
You know what I hate more than doing my tax return? Paying someone to assist me in my effort to get a “bigger refund”, and then nonchalantly informs me that I owe Uncle Sam a big chunk of money. It’s bad enough having to pay the IRS, but then I have to pay some number-cruncher an additional fee. I just don’t know how come a poor, broke-down cowpoke and a retired schoolmarm have to pay so much income taxes when there ain’t so much income. It’s so depressing!
Normally, I’m a friendly, forgiving sort. I don’t get riled too often. I tend to let stuff that irritates me just slide down my backside. Life’s too short to live in anger and hatred, but I must confess there are some things that really chap my hide, besides doing my tax return and sending hard-earned money to fund that clown circus up in Washington. While my blood pressure is still high after writing a check to the IRS, allow me to vent some steam and tell y’all what else I hate.
I really hate 4-way stops on major thoroughfares. They are apparently too confusing to people who are used to having a traffic light telling them when it’s their time to go. As much as I hate 4-way stops, I hate roundabouts even more.
I continue to see drivers texting and perusing the internet on their “smart” phones. If these phones are so smart, why do they allow their owners to become such a hazard behind the wheel? I just hate seeing this every day. I also dislike hearing people complain about folks who text while driving, and then see them check their own phones while cruising down a busy highway.
I hate cold coffee and warm beer. No, I’ve never had an ice coffee. I don’t plan to, neither. Coffee is meant to be served hot. If it’s served as a frozen drink, call it something else because that won’t get me out of bed at five in the morning on a cold morning. As for warm beer, I usually won’t allow a beer to get even close to ambient temperature unless it’s my 4th one and it’s spilling down my chest after dozing off in the hammock.
Something else that chaps my hide, literally, is a pair of jeans that fits like a glove first thing in the morning but tend to sag and twist three hours later. I know my body doesn’t change in that time frame, so how can denim go from a 36” waist to 40” loose-fitting Levis with a crotch sagging down around my knees? That might be proper attire for Justin Bieber, but it’s not the look I’m going for.
I simply hate hearing my favorite country music stars mixing rap into their songs. I love country music and really despise rap, hip-hop or whatever the heck they call that crap blasting out of car stereos these days. I refuse to label it as music. The sound of pigs being castrated has a better melody.
I hate free agency in the NFL. How can you have a favorite team when the line-up drastically changes every year? I once knew the entire starting line-up for the Dallas Cowboys. Now, I might recognize 4 or 5 names once the preseason starts up next summer. You can’t buy your favorite player’s jersey anymore because he may be playing for the Redskins next year.
Have y’all ever travelled to Florida and gone to a Mexican food restaurant? What the heck is that stuff they call “Salsa”? It’s like watered-down ketchup with bits of parsley floating in it. If the salsa doesn’t make your taste buds sweat, then I’m betting the main dish will be as spicy as the belt holding up my saggin’ Levis. I hate spending money at a Mexican food restaurant whose cooks think cilantro is the new SUV from Honda.
I really hate rainy days while vacationing at the beach. I hate ’em even more when I hear we didn’t get a drop of rain back home.
I hate seeing ugly tattoos on beautiful women. It’s like seeing pigeon crap on a park statue. It’s hard to fully appreciate the artwork in the sculpture when your eyes keep going back to that ugly bird turd plastered on Stevie Ray Vaughn’s hat.
Oh, did I tell y’all how much I hate doing my annual tax return? I’m so steamin’ angry, I’m gonna down this cold cup of coffee, hitch up my ill-fitting pants and head out to the Crow’s Nest where I have ice cold beer. I’m gonna plant myself in my hammock and drift off to a land with no taxes or rap music, where stop lights hang in the middle of all busy intersections. I’ll dream of sitting in a cantina on a sandy beach where the salsa is spicy, the music is good and the beer is ice cold. After a good nap, I should be back to my old, happy-go-lucky self until April 2015 rolls around.
Yep, Clint Younts can be an easy-going kinda guy. Just don’t get between him and tortilla chips, true salsa and a very cold beer.
