For this Kind of Income Tax . . .

I got yelled at at the post office today.

It did surprise me a bit; it is, after all, the fourth Saturday in a row that I spent better part of my morning there in order to organize my son’s Arabic exemption papers (Yep, I’m still there). I mean, we’re almost like family now, I practically know them all by name.

The first Saturday they needed to figure out how to solve my problem. The figured it out; I had paperwork missing.
The second Saturday I came with the missing paperwork, but then their computers were down.
The third Saturday I came back, the computers were working, but it turned out that some of the paperwork needed authorization first, so they send them to the Ministry of Education before we could proceed.

And here I was today, fourth Saturday in a row, with the authorized papers, waiting politely in line. It did irk me a bit that a seemingly decent looking lady overtook me, but I figured she must have had a reason. But when the lady at the third counter asked someone - who just came in - what he wanted, while I was standing like an idiot in that stupid line, waiting for someone to help me, I rolled my eyes.

A bit too dramatically, it seems, because the gentleman behind me decided to come to the rescue, and he belted out to the entire staff “What the hell are you thinking, letting us standing like idiots in the line while you let other people pass!?”

That didn't go down very well with the postal workers behind the counter, and they yelled back “What are you yelling at us for?” The verbal abuse went on for quite a bit, while the rest of the customers stood there, ignoring it. After all, fist fights have ensued over lesser matters, they know from experience.

It wasn’t pretty, but it did get me shoved to an empty counter. By that time however, the mood had changed, and the ladies were in no frame of mind to be helpful. No matter that we were almost family, after four Saturdays in a row.
It seemed that the papers I had gotten back from the Ministry were not stamped as requested. They were returned with some scribbles in pencil on them

“Why not?” I asked, and the lady read the scribbles.
She replied in Arabic.
“Well, what does that mean?”I asked again.
But she was in no mood to translate anything. She refused to say anything in French nor English, although from the past three Saturdays I am well aware of the fact that she can. And I know, she doesn’t have to. But it would be nice if I knew what was written on those papers in pencil.

I decided not to push it. I’ve got to go back with these papers to my son’s school, figure out what is missing/incomplete this time, and wait for next Saturday.
And then next Saturday, we’ll try again. Maybe they’ll be in a better mood.

And all this has ruined pretty much my entire Saturday, this attitude issue, and the pathetic bureaucracy.

Until now. I was just organizing my accounting. And I noticed that I paid only 4,075,099 LBP income tax this past fiscal year. That’s only 2,707 US dollars. Or 1,844 Euros. In think my Dad in Holland pays that on a monthly basis. My road tax bill last year was only some $100 as well.

And I figure, for that kind of income tax, I think I can handle a clusterf%#@*d bureaucracy and some yelling at the post office.And so I chilled, like the gentlemen playing taule (backgammon) on the street. Maybe I should make a collection of these:.