The Merits of Moving to Ireland

Today should have been a wondrous day for me.
There is a new Muse album out. I had yet another interview for a job I actually want. It's not Monday. I had half a burrito for lunch...

And then came the moment, the pinnacle, the zenith of what should have made this day great - the arrival of my paycheck.

I am not like many people I work with. I disdain direct deposit. I want to hold my check, get to know it a bit, sign my name on it like I'm branding a pack animal and then take it to the bank so I can see it go through that kooky machine that zips it around in a semi-circle. These are the things I love. Because I earned that money, and I want it to be handed to me so that I might see it through.

According to my pay stub I worked a little over 60 hours in the last pay period. I get something on the order of 11 bucks per hour. As such, I thought it only fair to guess that I would make at least 600 bucks on this check.

So with childlike glee I tapped the envelope on my desk, ripped off one side of it, blew into it to open it enough for my fingers to reach in, and then - as an Academy award presenter would - I drew it out slowly and flipped open the folded paper within to see that I had made...

$580.83

Any younger readers should close their eyes and scroll down real fast, because this is about to get messy.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Aaaand we're back.
But seriously, what is going on here? How the hell did this happen?

So unlike most days where I simply say, Yea, that'll cover rent, this time I decided to take a good long look and crunch the numbers.

I did indeed work just a shade over 60 hours, so I was right about that. As such, my total income for this pay period was about 664 bucks.
Sweet! I could buy two PS3s for that kind of scratch.

And then came that God-scaringly terrifying field just below where it tells me how much I made... the Deductions.
Jesus, just that word alone is enough to make me want to leap out of a window because I know no love or goodness truly exists in this world.
First we have federal income tax, which I still think is bullshit. What the hell did the government do for me that I need to give them almost 30 bucks? But fine, you know what, take it. The there's the Medicare tax, which is hilarious considering that for the past four and a half years my medical plan has been slap a band aid on it, take a shot of whiskey and hope for the best. 10 dollars. Why? I don't know.
So what else was left? Two things only added up to a little over 40 bucks, and yet I had been fleeced something like eighty. So what could possibly...
...
Are you #%$ing kidding me?
Forty something bucks into....
Social Security? Social. Bloody. Security?

You mean that thing, that great thing that is supposed to sustain me when I am older and don't wanna work anymore? That pool of crystal clear life-water that is apparently being sucked through a mile-wide straw by an Oreck XL vacuum cleaner? That social security?!

Now I know what some of you might be saying:
Roan, dude, bro, calm down. All this money is, like, totally going to social programs that will, like, totally better our lives, man.

I'd punch you in the face if you weren't the hypothetical suggestion of what a hippie would sound like.
I have a fantastic plan. Anyone who wants to benefit from social programs can pay into them on their own damn time. If you think the government or someone else can better spend your money than you, then give it to them. Personally, I think I know what I want and I know how to get it (woo, Sex Pistols!) and that does not include asking someone else to do it for me.
And social security? Really? Who pays into an account at a bank when seemingly the only promise the bank gives you is that "However much you pay in, it won't be there when you want to take it out!"

Either give me hope that the system will still be operational or don't keep taking my money and putting it into it.
It's like using a priceless painting to try to put out a house fire. Sure, when the fire is small maybe you can beat it out, but once the whole bloody structure is alight there is no point anymore.

All of which brings me to the topic line (sure some of you were wondering when that would come into play) about moving to Ireland.

Basically it boils down to this:
I have given up on America and want to move to Ireland, where I won't be taxed, because I shall live in the fields in a small earthen cabin with my lovely, red-haired wife, who will knit sweaters out of the fleece of our flock of lambs, tossing her curly red locks over her shoulder as she bends over the large copper kettle to make our night's stew. I shall write and tend to our flock and will bend to no man or government. And we shall be happy there in our bucolic paradise, free from the constraints of society, able to live in harmonic coexistence with nature and God.

And if you are sitting there thinking "Well that sounds a bit too idealistic" I have this to offer.

It's a hell of a lot more realistic than the Obama-approved plans and social programs you're depending on to save your worthless ass the trouble of doing things for yourself.