Well, this is a crap deal.
You get the loot while I get looted…
“You know, Dad, it was tax evasion that ultimately did Al Capone in, right?”
“Well, we wouldn’t technically be ‘evading’ taxes–the casino already saw to that–we’re just presenting an ‘alternate tax situation’ before amending later. No laws shall be broken!”
Yes, that’s right, we were still trying to figure out exactly to handle the $45k of Ziplocked cash Dad had won gambling when he wasn’t supposed to be.
Now of course, you may bey wondering why he wasn’t supposed to be at that casino in the first place, and in that case it sounds like you might need to catch up on the first installment of this tale here.
And if you’re wondering where all that cash money$$$ went, you won’t want to forget to read about how Jolly Ol’ Saint Bob-olas generously blew much of it on track suits and definitely-non-mistresses, too.
As usual, I’m willing to hang out here for a hot minute while you go catch up on those…
Tax evasion-schmax evasion. I was being coerced into helping Dad out with what sure the hell felt shady af, even if it wasn’t outright “tax evasion.” Now, it wasn’t my first time handling the taxes for the family business. But then again, when I first volunteered to be our finances guy a few years earlier when I was still in high school, it was when “family business” meant “family farm,” and not “Southwest Kansas mafia.”
Apparently, though, Dad had it all figured out: for the purposes of the bankruptcy judge–the party-pooper who had poo-pooed on the idea of Dad & Daisy, my stepmom, enjoying some leisurely gambling–we were just going to create a version of our taxes that existed in the alternate timeline where he hadn’t won all that cash-ola.
Then, once ol’ Judge Dredd was satisfied that a large financial windfall hadn’t mysteriously wind-fallen upon us, then we would submit an amended tax return which more accurately (i.e ‘honestly’) reflected the pool of gold coins that one of us was swimming in.
And let me remind you that ’twas not I, the Noble and Beloved Narrator, who was drowning in greenbacks. Nope. All I had to my name for all my involvement was $100 and an surprisingly comfortable track suit–and I would have gotten the ----- track suit for Christmas, gambling winnings or not.
Now, why am I reiterating my woe-is-me situation yet again? Well, you see besides the bankruptcy judge, there was another party who would be interested in whether or not my family had suddenly came into some money: the fine folks at FAFSA.
Don’t ask me what FAFSA stands for, all I know is that, as a college student and son of a poor (on paper, at least) farmer, these mysterious folks were known to kindly dole out about $2k a semester to me. Throw in my merit-based scholarships, and it all added up to a fully-funded free ride to the esteemed Kansas State University.
But, the catch is that they would annually demand proof that your parents are poor, or else no dinero for you! And what form of proof do they require, you may be wondering? Tax returns, of course!
Fortunately, thanks to Dad’s little bankruptcy-judge-evasion scheme, I had a copy of our taxes proving that we were still wallowing in poverty.1For the record, farmers can write off a shit-ton of farming expenses, so while we typically had $20k in taxable income, we lived a lifestyle more around $60k. So not quite poor–but we play one on TV. At the time that I had to submit documentation, that was the only copy of taxes I had, so despite my unease with the situation, I had no choice but to mislead the FAFSA peoples as well.
But you know what? Bob J.’s crazy scheme was so crazy that it just might work…
It worked! It worked! Holy scheizen-hoffen, it worked!
Well, kinda…our creative tax reporting worked out for one of us, at least. Can you guess which one? I’ll give you a hint: not the one wearing the track suit.
I mean, I guess I wasn’t completely surprised when a month or so after filing the amended tax form, that I got a letter saying that my family was too rich for FAFSA to be giving me any money. I had a sneaking suspicion the whole time that the IRS and the FAFSA people were pretty tight and would be sharing intel on little rats like me. And sure as a pile of rat feces, the Tax Man Cometh for me.
Yup, that’s right: I lost out on a solid $4k to fund my Sophomore year of college, thanks to having ol’ Kenny Rogers2That’s a clear The Gambler reference, ummmkay? for a father figure. And mind you, this was the year 2000, so that would have been like, what? Let’s see…$6,456.40 in today’s money. That was the entirety my living expenses, dammit!
But that’s okay, at least I still had that sweet track suit, right? That had to have been worth what? Sixty smackaronis, easy…
…
*ahem*
Oh, what’s that? You didn’t pick up on my mild-yet-long-lasting bitterness over the whole “dammit-Dad-share-some-of-your-wealth-with-your-lastborn-son” situation? C’mon, you had to know that was coming–after all ‘Tis The Season!
And by “Season,” of course I’m referring to Festivus (“For the rest of us!”) Season. I figured I would go ahead and get a head start on The Airing Of Grievances this year…
The point of the story is that you would be well-advised to give your kids at least a cool grand in cash if you ever happen to stumble butthole-backwards into tens of thousands of dollars while illicitly gambling.
Otherwise, you can bet your jolly derrière that 2 decades later, one of them is bound to publicly drag your a$$ for screwing them over…
I guess what I’m trying to say is: Have a Festive Festivus, Everybodies!!!
Content created on: 11 December 2021 (Saturday)
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