I couldnt decide between watching our local soccer team, Bafana Bafana, lose another match as they have become specialists at doing, or watching re-runs of BBC Food : A Toast To Toast. Some choices are really so much tougher than others. Having contemplated the evening that lay before me, I decided it would be less painful and infinitely more pleasurable if I spent it doing my taxes.
Now I know its our moral obligation to part with our hard-earned money in heaps and chunks and hand it over to the already bloated coffers of government beurocrats. The part I dont get, try as I might, is how much is just enough to stop some pencil-pusher knocking on my door and threatening me with (or enticing me with, depending on how you look at it) being some burly sweaty steroid junkies biaatch in the slammer. As inviting as slop and broth may sound, I must confess that the mere thought of spending a night in jail makes me cringe with fear and my bunghole starts spasming in a most unholy way. I have a family member who was locked up for 2 years. Unpaid parking tickets he said it was. Why they nicknamed him "The Merchant of Lenasia" still baffles me. He constantly regales me with tales of prison life. It's nothing like the vacation we know as "Prison Break", that I can assure you.
But alas, I transgress.
As I sit here before these stacks of papers and invoices before me, not sure what to submit as a tax return or what to use as cinder in my smoking pipe, I suddenly realise that im farting against a hurricane if I imagine I can make sense of doing taxes, and maybe just maybe they'd be kind enough to give me a single cell with Boardman bedsheets and soft goosedown pillows.
Theres a knocking on my door.
I have to go.
Please let it be a Jehova's Witness wanting to sell me a copy of Awake, coz im so darn sleepy right now.
Ps: This note has absolutely nothing at all to do with either Chomp, Bar One or any other make of chocolate.
But then you already knew that.