Snow On Tax Day

When I left the house this morning there were blizzard-like conditions, when only a few hours earlier the temperature was in the 60s. “Why not?” I thought. It’s Tax Day.

IMG_1905As I drove down to Cincinnati, the odor of rubbery, overcooked broccoli somehow started seeping from my car’s ventilation system. After I parked my car in the Queen City I was pushed to the ground by an angry nun, then kicked in the butt by a dwarf dressed up like Uncle Sam. “Why not?” I thought. It’s Tax Day.

At lunch a packet of mustard sprayed all over my favorite tie, and the people the next table over got into a loud and aggressive discussion about whether Al Franken was a more compelling historical figure than Ted Cruz. “Why not?” I thought. It’s Tax Day.

After my meeting was over it rained dead frogs on the way to the car, then a thick plague of locusts descended, turning the daylight to darkness. “Why not?” I thought. It’s Tax Day.

As I drove home, the classic rock station on the car radio played the song The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot. “What the hell?” I thought. I know it’s Tax Day, but playing The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald is where I draw the line.

1 thought on “Snow On Tax Day

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