Printed for personal use only  Forms of Punishment  Nothing
taxes me quite like filing each April.  Every spring, I take my
shoebox full of tax receipts to Steve Blacketer in Plainfield. I
met Steve 31 years ago, and he has done my taxes ever since,
keeping me out of jail. Besides a bureaucrat or two at the IRS,
Steve is the only person who knows how much my wife and I earn
each year. People tend to be secretive about their income, and
I’ve never understood why. It is a fairly simple matter to look
at someone’s home and discern how much they make. I don’t mind
telling you I make somewhere between $10,000 and $150,000 a
year.  I get a letter from the IRS every couple of years saying
I owe them more money. I give the letter to Steve, who writes
the people at the IRS and tells them they’re mistaken. They must
have a high opinion of Steve, because it always seems to settle
the matter. I’ve never had to send more money. Once they even
sent me money. I phoned Steve, who told me not to spend it, that
the IRS had mad