Cowboy Confessional

A thick packet plopped into my inbox courtesy of the United States Census Bureau (actually, they have sent three – your tax dollars at work). This I found somewhat confusing as it is not a census year, which occurs on the decade and not 12 months in advance.

The bulk of the package was a 28 page form call the American Community Survey. Within the 28 sheets of dead tree are 48 questions concerning my name, address, employment status, drinking habits, body odor and the color of the sky where I live.

Evidentially the folks at the Census Bureau don’t get out much.

The wan wankers within the Bureau estimated that completing to form would rob me of a mere 38 minutes of my life. The envelope and several lap-filler leaflets that fell from the pouch made vague threats of some unspecified drastic punishment that awaited me should I fail to fill out the form within an unspecified period (your tax dollars at work). Fearful that my life, liberty and property were at stake, I explored the U.S. code to discover the penalty for failing to jump through this particular regime rule.

$100.

When I’m in the mood to charge people for my creative content, I bill at $250 an hour. Frankly it is worth the minor fine the thumb my philosophical nose at the bureau. Except now I’m somewhat intrigued. What depth of data do the dilatants in D.C. require than consumes 28 pages, 48 questions and 38 minutes? Or can I simply rubber stamp the word “confidential” on each page and be done with it.

Let’s find out.

Uncle Sam’s intrusions begin on the very first page as the bureau assigned with the duty of counting noses asks for my name, serial number and baby formula (I was not a bottle baby, which explains a certain life long addiction of mine). The confidential stamp applies here. They do want to know how many people are living at my residence, so I think I’ll say three – myself, the neighbor’s cat (they are people too) who invites herself in whenever the mood suits, and a ghost allegedly living in the attic, though that might be the cat looking for a warmer place to nap.

On the cover is a block that tells you where to telephone if you need assistance with 28 pages, 48 questions and if it all takes you more than 38 minutes. These instructions are repeated in Spanish which gives you some idea of the porous nature of our southern border and the desire of some partisans to count those visiting without visas. This also explains why the first question inside the bureau’s canvass asks the names of people living at Château d’Saster. Some undocumented dishwasher likely needs help filling out the form.

The interrogation also accepts the names and private details of up to 12 people, which is the average size of an illegal immigrant household.

After inventorying resident homosapians (the bureau did not bother to specify if the person was actually alive or not), the survey moves on to housing data. The government wants to know if you live in a mobile home, when it was built and if local law requires you, as certified trailer trash, to drink Jim Beam, the inferior substitute to Jack Daniels.

Question eight asks if you have hot and cold running water and a flush toilet. Now there are people in America who don’t have either, but they also don’t have mailboxes, ink pens or teeth, so sending and receiving back from them a completed form is futile. Thus the question is a futile endeavor, and whatever negative responses the bureau receives are likely pranks by bored college boys and other vermin.

Question 12 is interesting. It seeks to determine if anyone in the household is receiving Food Stamps, a long running welfare program than has been criticized for being an underground currency. In the Food Stamp Underground scheme you get your stamps, you sell them for fifty-cents on the dollar to a scam artist who then pretends to be a grocery store and collects money from the same government that asked question 12. I doubt the government is slick enough to cross validate this question with the food stamp database, and doubt that those ripping off the program are dumb enough to return the form.

The Busy Body Bureau then asks some questions concerning my health and insurance. The government wants to service people, and yes, that is as unpleasant as it sounds. A big debate in this country concerns a bunch of people do not have health insurance, and thus the government would like to prove that in order to establish government healthcare agencies, and yes, that is as unpleasant as it sounds. This is odd as many studies exist that note (to only Barack Obama’s surprise) that most uninsured people are either immigrants (mainly of the illegal variety who choose and need to fly under the radar) and young people (who prefer to spend their money on consumables more useful that health insurance – namely nice clothing and booze).

I’m tempted to provide an obscene answer to “Does this person have difficulty dressing and bathing?”

The entertainment value of the Census Privacy Invasion begins to peter-out after that. Sure there are question about your income, investments, employment status, degree of inbreeding and if this caused you to vote for Nancy Pelosi. Otherwise the remainder of the form is as dreadfully dull as the wan wankers within the Bureau itself.

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