The IRS destroys the lives of those who would otherwise fiercly support the country that grants asylum to that evil empire.  They tear the flesh from the backs of the nation’s wounded, widows and orphans.  They errode the economic fiber that that once made this a great nation.

The day may come when the urinals of life are flushed into the eternal lagoon and they shall become a forgotten dribble of piss that otherwise might have run down the leg of a gonorrheic goat.

At least, that’s what I’ve been told…

Imagine standing before G-d as an IRS agent, explaining what you did to His people.  I don’t think He’ll be happy, do you?

Why would they view me as a threat? 

What could they have possibly done to me that might elicit retaliation?

He lit the candle in his dark room and soon realized it was a fuse.

“Oh well. Light is light,” he thought to himself, and went about his business.

When I die, grind my bones and mix them with concrete.  Pour me into a sidewalk and let people continue to walk on me.

Be careful!  One day, when I have had enough, my hand will reach up and grab your ankle and I will pull you into a shallow grave.

His pen rings like a bell as it skates across the paper, singing his thoughts in a song no one will hear.

He dips the quill into a reservoir of blood mixed with hope and returns to his private symphony of tinkling thoughts and dreams, conceived but never born.  No one can read his thoughts, so what he writes will remained locked in eternity’s vault until the Day of Reading.

They cannot judge what they cannot read.  His heart is safe from the prying eyes of mortal men.  Their judgment is vain and impotent.  Mudslingers are they, unable to hurl a worthy stone.  They spat on the ground and formed a ball from the waste from their miserable lives.  They throw it like a monkey hurling dung at visitors at the zoo.

Mudslingers are they, nothing more, nothing less.  Unable to hear the Symphony that plays in a nearby room.

Is is any wonder the door is locked from the inside?