All across the city, as in every other place in the country, self-respecting adults like me (who are about to lose that inflated view of their image) are locking themselves in rooms with instructions to the youngsters on the “outside.” “No matter what you hear in there, DON’T OPEN THE DOOR!”

Shame on you! Get your mind out of the gutter. This column is about horror, not anything sensual or fun! It’s like the classic scene from Mel Brook’s “Young Frankenstein,” where the good doctor locks himself in the room with the monster to teach him how to be civilized. At tax time that’s when the screaming at our famous uncle begins. At my house you hear the same thing. “Let me out, don’t you people know I was only kidding? #&%$%&@* Uncle Sam!”

You can’t imagine sitting down to examine your financial life over the last 12 months unless you’re forced to do it. It’s similar to a trip to the dentist’s office, where he has the high-speed drill whining ready to perform the root canal, and you realize that this has been the most pleasant trip to the dentist’s office ever up until now. Then it suddenly dawns on you that he has forgot the Novocain! Frantically you try to get his attention in a wild protest. Unfortunately, with the other torture devices he has in your mouth, any hope of verbal communication is completely shot! So when that fails you let your butt do the walking down the chair, around the corner, and out the door. I never knew how athletic my cheeks really could be when challenged!

Sitting in that room with boxes of receipts, a computer, no lines of communication, and a stiff drink (who am I kidding, it’s a whole bottle) for hours, even days at a time, I do my taxes! I squirm in the chair (my athletic rump is limber from the exercise with the dentist) as I look over the paperwork. I think one of two things. The first trend of thought is inevitably “Hey, look at all of the money we made this year!” I’m surprised and almost proud until I realize that all we’ve managed to keep is $23.17, twenty-nine returnable soda pop bottles, and my mother-in-law from coming to the house more than twice this year!

The other thought that comes to mind is “Holy cow, how did we manage to live a whole year on that?” Then I think of the money we’ve wasted. There was the paper trail for seventy-two outrageously exotic, eye-bleeding, Hawaiian shirts spent on Marguerite Fridays (as we like to call those weekend kickoff days away from work). The “Weekend Drunken Stupor” tour was classic but expensive. We’d wake up Monday morning with new wardrobes. We’d find new furniture that was placed somewhere unfamiliar (so much so that you’d break your kneecap when you unexpectedly ran into it). Then the trip to the hospital to fix the broken kneecap including their 17-hour emergency waiting room spa and fun park was costly too. My favorite extravagance was waking up Monday morning to 23 cases of twinkees on the hood of the Ferrari in the driveway. That’s how you measure a fun weekend!

I know I could be independently wealthy if I just didn’t have to deal with money! Oh, the groaning, screaming, wailing, and gnashing of teeth heard through that “tax-room” door is enough to scare the children into obeying their parents!

Then I delve deeper into who is getting my money and realize there are so many drains. Aside from the family’s own unabashed wild spending sprees were the necessary costs on things like underwear with extra long-lasting elastic. I mean, who wants that plain regular rubber-band strength adhesion when you can now get the industrial-strength spandex garments recommended by construction workers, and rude burley hospital nurses?

There are other sources sapping our monetary strength too. The most costly giveaways are to the Federal, State, County, and City Governments, and some guy named Hal! Believe it or not this Hal dude is as much to blame as those other folks! Every time we go to buy something he wants extra money! I’m talking about more than what the price tag indicates! He stands behind the counter with his Mickey Mouse lettering job on a bad nameplate that states “My name is…” Then it looks like the store made him try to disprove he was worthy of the job through his manual dexterity by making him glue the letters of his name on the plate one at a time. Hal is no artist, and from the looks of the lettering job, just barely employable! I’m sure my daughter could color in the lines better than him. This guy is worse than having another child.

My kid can sometimes be fooled into not extracting money from my wallet. Sure, there is the whining, convulsive, floor-slapping, embarrassing tantrum every now and then, but my wife forgives me for those. My point is my daughter lets me off the hook more than the tax man!

When was he born into our family? It’s like my wife snuck in another child when I wasn’t looking, and what’s worse he’s the invisible offspring. He sneaks up when you least suspect it, and grabs nickels, dimes, quarters, even whole dollars from my pocket. He leaves me scratching my head wondering if I’ve inherited my father’s memory. Dad’s recollection strength was mostly exemplified by phone calls to talk to us about nothing consequential for 10 minutes, then hanging up to leave you wondering. Three minutes later he’d call back with the same questions, and stories. “Am I ready for the old folk’s home or what?” I think I had an extra $2.37 in my wallet before I came in here, and now it’s nowhere to be found! Thanks, Hal!

So sitting there half inebriated in the dimly computer monitor-lit dungeon, I plod through this entire past year of income, and expense. I have the aid of the highfalutin newfangled computer software tax program that will do all of the work for me. All I have to do is put my figures in the forms, and it does the rest. It even calculates my refund (ha-ha, that’s a joke too). Once it tallies how much we owe it instructs us where to send the money. You click the “okay” button to reach the final feature, which is a snickering sound effect. Then the credits for the program is displayed. “This program designed by Hal!” It’s enough to make you scream, but remember, don’t open the door!

****
Giosue’ Santarelli is a prolific political columnist, humor columnist, and feature writer who has been scribbling for nearly 40 years.
Visit his humor column website “The Devil’s Advocate”