The Census Man Cometh
by John Seiler
Previously by John Seiler: Plunder!
Dissects Government Unions
on an article at my home desk on May 14, at about 6 pm I heard a
knock on my door. UPS? FedEx? Nope. Not expecting anything. And
too late. Might have been some kid selling candy for a school function.
I turned off
the music and walked over to the door. "Who is it?"
I had been
dreading this moment since the day months ago I decided, again,
not to fill out the governmentís snoopy form. Also, there have been
recent reports, even
one I read earlier the day of the knocking, of violence by Census
takers against citizens.
I heard the
guy groan, then he walked away. I never looked at him. But he sounded
like some kid earning a few bucks during our Fed-caused Depression.
My sympathies. My friends and I have been struggling, too. But Iím
still not cooperating.
I turned the
music back on and noticed the Internet radio station was playing:
Days" by The Doors:
have found us
Strange days have tracked us down
They're going to destroy
Our casual joys
We shall go on playing
Or find a new town
I know that
standing up to the government, even passively, can have consequences.
The fines supposedly can be from $100 to $5,000. As with most things
involving the government, itís hard to say what the real number
the guy just guessed at my status, or asked neighbors, and wrote
something in his book. (If heís reading this, Iíll reveal my Census
info: I live in a writerís garret with 27 wives and 82 children,
own six Bentleys, and am of mixed Hittite and Tierra del Fuegan
origin. As a fan of Cervantes and enchiladas, Iím also Hispanic.)
In 2000, I
didnít comply and nothing happened. In 1990, I only filled in my
name, following the strict requirement the Constitution stipulates
only for an "enumeration," back when I thought the Constitution
still was operative. Again, nothing happened.
In 1980, I
was a single guy in the U.S. Army, so it filled out the form for
me (I think; itís been 30 years). In 1970, I was 15 and full of
community spirit, so I think I filled out the form for my family;
my father signed it. In 1960, my father filled out the form.
The U.S. Census
form that came weeks ago in the mail Ė which I still have somewhere
Ė pleaded that itís important for me to fill out the form so my
area gets more federal money from government programs. Well, I certainly
pay taxes for those programs. But I donít want it spent here.
Huntington Beach already has way too much government at all levels:
local, state and, especially, federal.
I want less
government spending here, and would like for all federal spending
to stop and the federal workers to leave. Iíd rather just pay the
taxes and get nothing in return. Even better: no federal
spending, no federal workers, and no federal taxes.
that with federal money comes federal officials. They not only boss
you around, maybe
kill you, but occupy your local community and start voting in
local elections. The federal government unions, such as the American
Federation of Government Employees, are powerful. They influence
not only federal politicians to get themselves high pay and Lucullan
perks, but naturally side with their local and state government-drone
brethren in local and state government.
government workersí pay is double
that of private-sector workers. That means when these tax-eating
parasites move to your community, they drive up the cost of housing
Ė maybe so much you canít afford to buy a home, even in times of
Look at Washington,
D.C.: a hellish swamp no one would voluntarily live in, even with
air conditioning. But because itís the central lair of the federal
government, high salaries drive housing prices to among
the highest in the Republic.
And why, anyway,
should I follow the supposed constitutional requirement to fill
out a snoopy form Ė "But you have to!" Ė when the feds
themselves no longer follow one jot or tittle of the Constitution?
go away and leave me in peace.
Seiler [send him
mail], an editorial writer with The Orange County
Register for 19 years, is a reporter and analyst for†CalWatchDog.com.
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