Dear Uncle Randy, The tax year has ended… how do I cook my books?! 

Let’s be honest, no one likes paying tax. Actually filing a tax return is nothing but a laborious campaign into the convoluted catacombs of governmental red tape – fiercely presided over by petty officials, jobsworths, bastard bureaucrats – truly, an administrative ache in the balls. I myself avoid paying tax like the plague and haven’t paid any state levies for over 250 tax years; but, fortunately for me, I’m not really real. You suckers in the real world however, have to pay tax. You must endure the indignant demands of communal contributions, obliged to bear this bitter goitre of civic responsibility.

As is common knowledge, the vast majority of people are getting paid fabulously well. The average joe is much like a financial PEZ dispenser, popping out gold bars like precious candies. And as the hoard of cold, hard cash accumulates, stashed inside bulging mattresses or on one of several yachts, the looming, covetous figure of the Taxman grows ever more sinister. Those filthy rotten stinking commies of Inland Revenue insist on extorting their pound of flesh for such follies as infrastructure, healthcare, welfare, education, foreign aid, emergency services, libraries, and even the cornerstone of that red devil called Socialism, public parks; all in the absurd name of “Society”. Evidently, too much traceable cash has become an all too common problem. So, how best to protect and preserve one’s vast wealth? How does one avoid, evade, non-disclose and deceive?

Legitimate business fronts often prove an effective means of concealing one’s true earnings. Cash based businesses such as car washes, strip clubs, vegan whole-food cafés, are virtually always money laundering rackets. Why not start your own legitimate children’s day-care fight club to convert surplus cash into verifiable gambling winnings, 15-1 on the kid with glasses. Next, scurry those winnings into offshore bank accounts in the Caribbean – alongside those of your local MP – where taxation is meagre and transactions elusive. Then, go global! Conglomerate! Monopolise the markets and hold mere nations economically hostage! Multi-nationals pay practically no tax, exacting billions whilst reinvesting nothing back into those markets and communities they capitalised. They don’t, so why should you?

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New To Town 

Dear Uncle Randy,

I’ve just arrived in town and I’m struggling to work out why everyone here whinges so much. Help me out here…

Are you blind? Are you on psychotropics? Don’t you get it?! Wake up and smell the hot steaming cup of crap that is life on Planet Diarrhoea! You may think it’s all fairy farts and candied nipples, but it’s not. Life is nothing but an irksome burden: a Lego under foot; a chronic wedgie; one blocked nostril; a video that buffers, and buffers, and buffers . . . but never plays past the ads.  

Life, it seems, is forever falling short of our glossy promises, a drab and vulgar simulacrum of those glamorous, airbrushed desires. It is the disparity in the gleaming wonder-burger of the menu board, and the sad, meaty mess falling apart between your cruddy fingers, flavoured only by the salt of your own worthless tears. Such are the torments of our conditioned dissatisfaction. Because, in reality, our lives are painfully humdrum, deliriously disappointing; deficient. Shouldn’t I be a world renowned man of intrigue posing front page with a harem of supermodels, already? Why are your abs sunken beneath fathoms of flab whilst your buttocks have the allure of road sign? Meanwhile, the house is too small and the car passé – phones, wristwatches, gizmo dongle thingthings have lost their shimmering novelty, only to become frustrating and obsolete, ultimately failing to remedy our deeper, inner voids.  

Our true needs have been hijacked and bastardised! Rather than life purpose and meaning, love and fulfilment, we suffer shallow artifices, sacrificing the authentic for the synthetic, everyday. We build our identities in furniture and kitchen appliances, affirm our existence in a pair of shoes, discover our very souls in a yoga mat. How can we be satisfied with such imposters?! And as sensations of discomfort and dissatisfaction simmer, we heave and retch and project our dismay blindly onto our own privileged existences, spitting with confused and bitter resentment. But, in doing so, pressure is released, inner tensions assuaged, and perhaps even a little meaning is wrested from the day, some substance snatched from the quotidian stupor of what life has become. 

We whinge, in short, because we are yet to discover what really matters to us, what truly deserves our energy and concern. And, ultimately, it just feels nice. Give it a go.  

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