Guns and Grandmas

When Southerners make the news it's never the "Mild-mannered College Professor Cures Cancer" type of story. It's not even the "Socialite Bequeaths Diamonds to Charity" type story. Oh no. When we make the news it's more of a "please don't put that on the front page and for goodness sake don't put a picture or say they're related to me" type of story. In which case I point out the happenings for the whole word to enjoy.

But in the sense of fairness, because this could have happened to anybody, I've left out Bubba and Junior's real names and supplied fitting character-generated epithets.

Here in the Redneck Capital of the World, a story made the newspaper that involved all the necessary ingredients of a made-for-TV movie—or a family reunion, depending on whether potato salad was served.

Seems Granny was unable to sleep what with pondering the whereabouts of her debit card, and woke up Nephew Number One to ask for his input on the matter. Meanwhile, Nephew Number Two, The Bad ’Un, wandered away from his plant-cultivating hobby, leaving his pipe on the kitchen table long enough to grab up Grandma in a choke hold, and poke the business end of a rifle into the throat of our boy, Rip Van Winkle. He takes a shot at the family Bible and sends Rip in to sit on the couch wearing nothing but his underpants and a plastic bag on his head.

But suddenly the plot twist kicks in. When Bad Boy turns to look out the door, Captain Underpants overpowers him, grabs the rifle, and hotfoots it down the street, where, despite his lack of fashion sense, he convinces a neighbor to call Emergency Services. (I have no proof, but I’m assuming he dislodged the fancy bag hat before the action sequence.)

If it weren’t for the Bible incident, I’d be leaning toward the Family Reunion story. But no Southern boy is going to take a pot shot that separates Matthew from Mark, Luke, and John in front of his grandmother and live to tell about it. Which leads us to the question: Where was Granny during the excitement? Any Southern Grandma worth her weight in blackstrap molasses would have pulled out a shotgun of her own and blasted the pants off Mr.Yuk. The whole tale smacks of “If you believe that one, then listen to this.”

As it was, reports state that Mr. Meanie was caught after a brief pursuit. From the descriptions, it sounds like they got their nephews mixed up because the briefs were last seen high-tailing it over the river and through the woods away from Grandma’s House.

Taxing Times

Bill usually handles the Income Tax filing around our house. I’m not exactly sure why, except for the fact that when I was a single mom filing my own taxes it took three years, a letter to my State Representative, and a notarized document from the daycare to receive my refund. I can’t prove it, but I think the IRS secretly penalized me for correcting the grammar on their form. I personally think the word “short” is misused on that form, but they proved to be a little touchy about their paperwork.

Some years, depending how test comments are received, I offer to help Bill with the taxes. I probably won’t this year because I’m a recovering flu victim and I’m not up to the task of reprimanding the Sheriff for driving up on the rose bushes the way he does when he’s in a hurry. I only have the one live rose bush left, anyway. I’m almost as talented with plants as I am with taxes, except plants don’t give me any money back, even tomatoes which would save on my grocery bill if they didn’t attract unappealing insects, turn black, and die.

So, in the spirit of helpfulness and teamwork, I have devised a plan to help Bill out with the tax task without actually having to speak to him at all. I don’t like to converse with him directly during tax time because I feel responsible for the resulting medical bills. And hair loss. Besides, he has the Sheriff on speed dial.

I often compose lists for Bill to help him organize his household tasks. I know he is thankful because he immediately bows his head to pray when I hand him my latest composition. He is either thanking God for having such a helpful wife or trying to call Emergency Services on the sly.

This year, I have prepared a list of how not to get audited by the Internal Revenue Service. That should keep Bill on the straight and narrow and head off any trouble the IRS might be having in processing my refund. We’ve already seen how they can drag their feet over an extra dependent or two.

Anyway, the following is my helpful advice for avoiding an audit from the Internal Revenue Service:

1. Don’t tell the government if you make any money. That way they won’t keep trying to steal away with your meager paycheck. Honestly, it’s like two guys fighting over a muscle car with a bad head gasket. It looks good, but won’t get you very far.

2. Throw away all your receipts. The government can’t tax what they can’t find. Get rid of that pesky paper trail. Fire ants can’t bite your ankle if they can’t scale your foot.

3. Pretend to give money to charity. You have the best of intentions, right? Pledge a big ole number with a comma in it. You’ll get around to sending it someday. And when you do, be sure to remind the big guys about your gift of giving.

4. Send “Thinking of You” cards to the IRS every day during tax season. They're working hard. These folks need some recognition, too, right? It’s like a random act of kindness, only you get a check.

5. Send them an itemized bill for your refund. Keep all figures clear and concise. If there are important items that you don’t want them to miss, mark them in red ink to avoid confusion. These folks handle a lot of returns. Make yours easy!

And if you happen to see my husband wandering around the drug store with a fistful of BC Powders and a tub of Pepto Bismol, just send him back home. I have a list of things for him to do.