PapaGolf held hostage, day umpteen

The Weather-out-the-Window™ this morning looked good with clear blue skies and medium-ish winds at 10-12 knots, but a quick trip over to the aerodrome showed the futility of hoping to fly today. Much like a three day wine binge, the hangover from our ice storm is still causing me grievous discomfort. With an inch of ice below the 8 inches of snow, the plows have not been able to scrape their way down to actual pavement. While the snow has for the most part been pushed aside, the taxiways are still covered with a mix of packed down snow and ice. I'm reluctant to risk Papa on a snowy surface, as you can imagine, but even worse is that today's sun has melted the very top of the ice and created a wet, slippery sheen. Even my normally trusty and resolute Subaru was slip-sliding around, and given its normal sure footedness that's really saying something.

So, no flying today, although I may still get outside long enough to take Brave Sir Hogarth for a walk, assuming that I get over my intense anger with him. You see, we had a co-worker and his family over for dinner last night, myself having talked up my superb secret-recipe pot roast (the secret ingredient is bacon - you can never go wrong with bacon) during my drunken bragging at our office Christmas Secular Non-denominational Holiday party to the degree that he simply had to try it.

Accompanying him was his wife, two year old son, and three year old daughter. Brave Sir Hogarth loves children, but unfortunately he loves them in an extremely inappropriate physical way, if you get my drift. And, much like Shakespeare's Romeo, he is not easily dissuaded. Those poor kids were mounted more times than a merry-go-round pony. We work in a pretty small office, too, so by 10:00 Monday morning the entire office is going to be asking after the health of Brave Sir Babyhumper. As if I didn't dread Mondays enough already...

Assuming that I fail to find it within my heart to forgive the canine pedophile, I may start to think about getting going on my annual tax preparation nightmare. Regular readers of the Chronicles will know that I handle the stress of tax preparation in pretty much the way I handle the infuriating partisan bloviations of election season, which is to say: poorly. It's even worse this year as each new news cycle brings to light yet another of our illustrious ruling class that couldn't be bothered to pay the taxes that they so cavalierly burden us with, at least until such time as they were nominated to a high level position in the Hope and Change Administration.

I've decided that instead of the routine IRS 1040, Schedule A, Schedule B, Schedule D, and a covey of other brutally interrogative forms, this year I'm doing my taxes on the new IRS 1040dem form. It's even easier than the 1040EZ, itself being so simple that it is the only IRS form that can be filled out with a crayon. With the IRS 1040dem, you just take the form, wad it up, and throw it away. One caveat: you have to fill out a Schedule OOPS if you ever get nominated for a high visibility position. I don't figure that I'm likely to ever be offered such a position, so it seems like a win-win deal to me: no paperwork, and tens of thousands of my own dollars left in my pocket.

What could go wrong?