Get ‘em young

A letter arrived for Fionn today. Not a card or a present of which the little fella has been lucky to get many so far, but a letter. A proper letter. Official, from Bonn.
He didn't seem too interested strangely enough, so Jenny opened it up for him. It was a letter from the Bundeszentralamt für Steuern, with his tax number. His ID number for taxes. He’s been on the planet for 32 days and they’ve sent him his tax number. Unbefuckinglieveable.
The number – he has been informed – is lebenslang gültig. Valid. For. Life.
They are aware he is 32 days old as they printed his date of birth, presumably so he knows they know it, and his sex, in case he forgets, or perhaps to show they know that too.
I’m not sure how many of those 32 days they’ve been gathering information on him – they haven’t had a lot of time to work with – but fuck it, they’ve gathered enough to nail him down for tax. A one month old.
I suppose now he’ll have to go off and find himself a job. I’m not sure what he’d do. He seems to like sleeping, grunting, snorting, crying, feeding and excreting. Perhaps a job in politics then. Maybe he could be the next Chancerer.
I’ll be writing back to the Bundeszentralamt für Steuern on his behalf. He hasn’t quite got the hang of correspondence just yet, so I’ll do it this once to inform them he has no intention of paying taxes anytime soon, nor does he need a number by which he can be tracked the rest of his days.
Taxes are one thing the Bundeszentralamt für Steuern will find hard to extract from a 32-day-old infant, but I also might include a sample of the one thing he can produce.


  1. how does that saying go? There are two things you can't avoid in life....death and taxes.

    oh so true!

  2. what, so he thinks he can just get to hang around, eat, drink, do nothing and get away with it because he's cute? they come to this world, don't speak our language and expect us to understand that gibberish.

  3. I know. Shockin'. I suppose when you put it like that, it is a bit rich coming into the world and expecting to get away with doing nothing just 'cause he's cute. To be honest, I'd say he's only pretending to speak gibberish. He knows damn well what he's doing.

    His first letter has been sent. I refrained from including the sample, but will save it for possible use later, depending on their reply.

  4. Don't panic, the number is only for identification purposes, like the Irish PPS or American Social Security number. Big Brother/Nanny State and all that. If and when he does start earning money he'll have to apply for ANOTHER tax number which is basically just a tax number, for tax paying purposes. Luckily he'll be old enough at that stage to look after the application himself because you won't want to do it. Believe me.

  5. I'm not sure they give you a PPS number as soon as you come out of the womb. But anyway, despite that fact, do they seriously believe a 32-day old nipper is going to need an identification number so he can identify himself when he's making enquiries about his tax affairs?! I mean, holy Schiesse, what in the name of Jaysus is going through their heads? Apart from paper and stamps and paperclips and forms. Fucking stampers.

    I'm giving them one more week to reply to his letter. If there's no reply then it's going online. Fionn is not too happy about his personal correspondence being paraded around for all and sundry but he's incensed they haven't bothered to reply. Even WHEN he used his personal fucking ID number!


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