If it moves, tax it

Have you ever tried to crush an ant? One second under even your little finger and its brief life is over. It dies so easily, doesn’t it? There’s such a feeling of satisfaction after getting that annoying little creature out of your way.

But have you ever been the victim of an invasion of ants? Picture them crawling in their creepy thousands, pouring out of whatever woodwork in your house they have been inhabiting. You’ll have to call in a fumigator for that one. And then the builders, once you realise just how much damage has been going on inside the cracks and crevices they have been calling home for months, even years.

We, your loud-mouthed neighbours, located at latitude 0.0236° S and longitude 37.9062° E are the ants; the oppressed, frustrated, depressed, penniless, overworked, overtaxed, unappreciated, underpaid, under-employed and unemployed citizens of the nation of Kenya. 

We are the ants pouring out of the anthill, the first thousand sending messengers to the neighbouring anthills and the next thousand doing the same until now the ground trembles under the onslaught of this tiny, mighty, unstoppable army.

We are the ants, with no special protective gear on our tiny bodies except the determination that we did not subscribe to dying a waking death every day that we wake up to breathe our allocated amount of oxygen (subject to 16% tax, oxygen masks not inclusive, terms and conditions apply). Tax in the city and tax in the countryside. 

Old taxes in the morning and new taxes in the evening. Tax if you have two breasts and tax if you have one. Tax on the unborn and tax on the dead. Tax on your animals and tax on your excrement. Tax on every hair of your head and if you decide to go bald then well, you’re denying your government revenue, you unpatriotic maggot, so there’s stamp duty on that bald head too. 
So today the ants crawled up the leg of the tax master, heading towards delicate regions that never see the light of day with just one message: “We are tired!”