I like to take care of things as they arrive, I've learned that if I put stuff off just once, then I have broken the seal, and I will punish my self less if I continue to put it off. Eventually memories of these said tasks would melt away like ice and snow, only to make room for more stuff I really don't feel like taking caring of.

My Uncle Sam is ok, I think he's an all right guy, perhaps he could use some mood lifters at times, but all in all, he means well. He is always pushing me, pointing his finger at me, which can become real annoying at times. And the incessant deadline issuing, which is tossed in my face every winter. I don't get it. This happens to him every winter. The summer and fall, he is ok, but come February, it's as if he comes out this reverse hibernation, all guns blazing. He's almost like a werewolf, because right around Valentines Day, the finger pointing and the demands for money start to begin.

If you read this column often, you know how I am about money. I hate spending on anything that is not gratifying to me. I'm still bellyaching about having my fuse box replaced by circuit breakers in my house. Two thousand dollars later, and the lights look the same. Can't stand it.

And there is always the inherent holiday recovery, where we all scrounge to recover funds we drained during the December blitz, and right around the time I get up from all this, I'm knocked down by his pointy figure and red, white, and blue hat. I could see him a mile away if I was even paying attention. He has his “February scowl” making him look like a pro wrestler of sorts, or perhaps a deviant sex criminal, but I can't judge him, because he's my Uncle, and he's here to collect. He's your Uncle too, and he wants you.

“April 15th!” he exclaims, getting his point across, to assure that I will accommodate his direction this year, which has not worked since Tag Team was on the charts with their smash hit, “Whoomp, there it is.” He intimidates his other precious minions, not that I'm not a little freaked, but these minions, they just have direction and poise, where I on the other hand, am lost in dreamland, avoiding the rest of the world who is listening to the radio to hear the miraculously asinine campy hits of the day. “Whoomp, there it is,” quickly turned into “Vibeology,” followed by the “Macarena.” And you wonder why I think Limp Bizkit and the Backstreet Boys suck. But at the very least, these buffoons file on time.

The rest of this free country takes this direction too, they follow the rules, they see pictures of their favorite celebrities filing their taxes, and they follow suit. They are aware that April 15th is tax time, whereas to me, it's almost time to transfer my assets from my plow guy trust into my lawn mowing guy trust. Perhaps if I removed my head from my arse and smelled some roses as opposed to my own bullshit, I could get this done on time. But no, we are now entering the third week of May, and my w-2's are in a little dust laden pile, directly underneath the Valentine's Day cards. Tell Cupid to call my accountant while I go buy some stamps.