The Champion of Bad Taste (Part 3)

There is a great tragedy about to befall us all. A great, terrible, unavoidable tragedy. We as a society, are about to lose what few of us ever came to truly appreciate. The realisation of the tragedy for most will only occur this New Year’s Eve, though essentially it has already occurred. If you’re confused as to what the fuck it is I mean, I want you to think tacky, I want you to think plastic and sparkles, I want you to think novelty New Years Eve glasses:



Come this New Years Eve, we will never again be able to wear those ridiculous glasses denoting the numerals of the year in to which we are heading.






Why? Because “2011” is simply not practical when it comes to novelty eyewear. I think that’s pretty self explanatory. Even 2010 was able to get its foot in the door in a half arsed final salute to the previous 10 years of fuglyness.




For the past decade, when the clock struck 12 the best of us rose to the challenge and carried on the torch of bad taste from one year through to the next. Creatures of all colours and creed were brought together by the hideous mess of "lame" plastered to their drunken faces.




In a way, I feel those Novelty Oversized glasses came to represent a unity among us all that seems so lacking in this day and age.




I say we take a moment to reflect, for never again, will a decade befall our lifetimes with such retardedly joyous eyewear.





I’m so depressed.

Alaska

It was the kind of party that makes you feel like someone just for being invited. Then you arrive to find it’s just the big fish from a stagnant backwater pond crammed into one house like sardines. B-grade celebrities in a town that no one's ever heard of. It wasn’t shit but it wasn’t that good either. I spent the better part of the night watching those big fish floundering around in their swamp of rotting social graces. I tried it on of course, but even the smell of that swamp was unbearable and my gag reflexes betrayed me every time. So I gave up and explored the house with a girl who said she had some good speed she wanted to share with someone, but she didn’t want to have to share to it with like, everyone.

We found a bedroom and slipped inside. She took a set of keys from her bag and begun scooping the soft crystals between her lips.

I think this is my ex boyfriend’s room, she said, handing me the key laden with my own small mound.

She opened a bedside draw, removed the modest stash of condoms and proceeded to fetch a safety pin from her bag.

It’s ok, no one will even remember if they catch us, she assured me.

I felt uneasy that as us I’d already been implicated.

Sounds from the party forced their way in through the crack under the door, making the silence between us all the more blatant. Not knowing what to say or do, I studied the luke warm mug of wine in my hands as if it may contain suggestions.

I love this song, she started not looking up from the condoms she had begun methodically stabbing with a single pin prick each.

I don’t know it, I admitted.

I like the way it makes me feel.

It’s kind of depressing, though?

Yeah, but I think sometimes we don’t really give a fuck about what it is we actually feel. We just want to know that it’s ok to feel that way.

This song does that for me. She offered, stabbing the last of the condoms.

Her massacre complete she looked up, startled by my presence.

Do you want some more speed then? She asked as she returned the condoms to the draw.

Al Capone's Guide to Tax Returns

I’ve been on holidays for over 3 weeks now. It’s been great. And by great I mean drunk. The only time my system hasn’t been rife with all number of glorious intoxicants is when I’ve been at work. Even then, the dregs of last night’s hideously cheap wine have been doing their last rounds through my veins. The other day I had a dream (And Yes, I mean day not night) that I was a whale and I was stoned. I had a buddy who was also a stoned whale and we had a tin shed that made us invisible when we swam underneath it. Not dissimilar to the invisibility cloak in Harry Potter. When I woke up from this dream I laughed, tried to call a friend to tell her about it and went back to sleep when she didn’t answer. When I woke up again I decided it was time to calm down a little.

I’ve decided to focus my mind on more constructive things. It’s high time I do something intellectual so I’ve chosen to write a practical guide to tax returns. After all, it is that time of year again and I am an accountant in training! Keep in mind, it’s totally illegal that I dispense any sort of legal, accounting or taxation advice to anyone, given I’m far from qualified. So I’ll make it very clear right here and now that this is in no way advice of any sort but instead a few mere points of interest that may not have been considered previously by my fellow tax payers. If you find them applicable, it’s up to you to seek professional advice. Disclaimer done.

Anywho.

Did you know that you’re required to declare all income regardless of whether you made it legally or illegally? That’s right. So if you’ve sold any drugs, prostituted any hoes or bootlegged any crap during the past income year, then I suggest you get declaring lest you be reported for tax evasion. If you weren’t required to pay tax on income made from such activities then the tax office would essentially be rewarding you for your chosen line of work.

At the same time, if you do choose to declare such income the jig will essentially be up and you may as well pack your bags because you're on your way to mexico or jail. Better that then the vengeful wrath of the ATO though, the tax department truly is a force to be reckoned with. I’m not kidding, how do you think they got Al Capone in the end? Unable to officially link and charge Al Capone with any of his bootlegging, murder and general bad-assness, authorities finally charged him with income tax evasion in 1931 and he was convicted to 11 years in jail. Eek!

I hope you now spend many-a restless night over the next few weeks wracked with fear that tax ninjas will come crashing through your windows in the wee hours. Coz, like, they actually will. Trust me, I’ve spent a semester studying this shit- I think I’d know. HOWEVER. There could be one saving grace if you’re lucky. If it’s found that you’re drugs, prostitutes or hideous knock off designer sunglass stall is in fact a hobby and not a business then you won’t owe any tax. That’s because hobbies are not taxable activities. Phewf! Let’s go through some everyday examples of illegal income that are unlikely to constitute a business: Say, for example, you sold your last pill one Saturday night for taxi money to get home? That’s a one off event and therefore not a business. And say, you only gave the odd blozzy here and there for an extra buck or two this income year? I’m sure we could easily class that a hobby and not a business.

If it turns out you are a business tycoon and not just a neighbourhood embarrassment, the only other saving grace out there is if you’ve actually been running at a loss. If you're carry on a business and you've been running at a loss you won't owe any tax. However, under our current legal system you will be classed as a “major-dumb-fuck” , which is what we call people who can’t even manage to make a small profit from peddling drugs or sex. That being said, bad deals do happen. Crack whores and the po-po get all up in yo’ biznaz and the next thing you know half your “stock” has to be written off as lost or stolen. So, if you’re running at a loss you won’t owe any tax. What a relief, right?

Well, that’s all for now. With my mind clearly scraped from the gutter and having been given a brief intellectual work out I think I’m ready to return to the blur to alcoholism and debauchery for the last reaming week of my holiday.


Ta.