Uncle Sam was not very nice to me the other day.
Most of the time, I love him very dearly. He allows me to live in the greatest country on earth and he gives me great liberties and freedom to do what I want to do how and when I want to do it. He is the emblem of living in the land of the free and the home of the brave.
But, around April 15 of each year, he is just plain mean. Another way of putting it is he is a pain in the posterior.
April 15 is like Uncle Sam’s Christmas and his birthday all rolled in to one.
I have been saving some money to put back for him every other week or so, but this year it wasn’t enough.
And, he hauled off and punched me in the mouth.
Well, not literally, but it sure enough did happen figuratively.
Uncle Sam is not very nice about it either. He demands I pay him. He doesn’t ask politely.
Oh, to be sure, my Uncle Sam is the best there is. He gets things done. I can’t outfit my own aircraft carrier against the Russians, but he can. And speaking of the Russians, no matter what you know who tells you, they are still the mortal enemy of freedom loving people everywhere.
Uncle Sam also does good things like run the highway system and keep the airplanes in the air and last year his hired helpers told me that Hurricane Helene was going to knock us a winding.
I can’t single handedly pave my own road or serve as an air traffic controller or give warnings about hurricanes and tornadoes. I could, but by the time I realized what was happening, everything would be gone with the wind.
You would think if he was going to take so much money from me he would at least show some gratitude toward me. I mean for what I have contributed to Uncle Sam, why doesn’t he have ol’ Pete Hegseth add me to the group chats of all the important, strategic defense operations.
Or maybe Uncle Sam could use the proceeds he gets from just one of the new tariffs he’s levied and let me off the hook — or refund part of what he took from me.
Or, better yet, since it effects my livelihood and could potentially harm my ability to pay him, why can’t Unk find out what in the Louis DeJoy is wrong with the post office. I mean if we can put a man on the moon, and invent marvelous things like Zax sauce, Doritos and chocolate chip cookies, why can’t we come up with a solution? Why doesn’t he ask what’s his name — that billionaire guy he put in charge of everything, to check on it. Can’t we at least make it where The Times can get to Mershon, Bristol, Offerman and points beyond in a timely manner? Some of our subscribers report they do not get their copies of The Times for up to eight weeks at a time and then they get all eight on the same day. What's wrong here? How does that make any sense at all. How are you delivering the mail? Do you haul it in a stagecoach pulled by a team of sloths? And, why do you direct your other nieces and nephews who are employed by said postal service to deny responsibility and say things like 'It’s that danged ol’ Blackshear Times fault. They pulled out your copy of the paper and set it on fire and/or fed it to goats.” Or, worst yet, they tell our valued subscribers that us folks at The Times are just plain lazy and must not have mailed it this week.
I've worked with The Times for almost 25 years. We have never, I repeat never, missed an edition or getting the copies to the post office to mail on time. We delivered even in the aftermath of a hurricane and once during a rare South Georgia snow storm.
I wish you would just tell me what’s wrong.
I mean, haven’t I been good to you Uncle Sam? I paid on time all year. And this is the thanks I get?
If I have offended you in some way, just tell me and I’ll try to do better.
I mean, after all, it seems I’m still going to be working for you no matter what.
And by the way, happy April 15th to you.
