Throughout my life I have tried several tax evasion schemes, but have gotten caught and gone broke every time.

I chose my career based on a tax loophole, but they closed the loophole. Instead of working, I threw a temper tantrum, wasted a bunch of time and money, then went broke.

I hate the government, but I decided to open my business in an area whose economy is supported by government facilities.  When those facilities closed, my business model couldn’t adapt and I went broke.

My wife left me, probably because I’m a paranoid conspiracy nut, and I went broke.

Short term changes in travel costs after 9/11 were more than my business model could handle, so I went broke.

I decided to move my business to a market that was already saturated with the service that I provide, and I went broke.

I found a wife who has similar tax strategies to mine. We got caught, then went broke.

I withdrew money from my retirement accounts instead of working. I didn’t pay taxes on it, got caught, then went broke.

The only cure for my stupidity is to crash my plane and hopefully kill all of the IRS agents that I couldn’t outsmart.

Goodbye, cruel world!

********

Here’s the full version:

If you’re reading this, you’re no doubt asking yourself, “Why did this have to happen?” The simple truth is that it is complicated and has been coming for a long time. The writing process, started many months ago, was intended to be therapy in the face of the looming realization that there isn’t enough therapy in the world that can fix what is really broken. Needless to say, this rant could fill volumes with example after example if I would let it. I find the process of writing it frustrating, tedious, and probably pointless… especially given my gross inability to gracefully articulate my thoughts in light of the storm raging in my head. Exactly what is therapeutic about that I’m not sure, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

We are all taught as children that without laws there would be no society, only anarchy. Sadly, starting at early ages we in this country have been brainwashed to believe that, in return for our dedication and service, our government stands for justice for all. We are further brainwashed to believe that there is freedom in this place, and that we should be ready to lay our lives down for the noble principals represented by its founding fathers. Remember? One of these was “no taxation without representation”. I have spent the total years of my adulthood unlearning that crap from only a few years of my childhood. These days anyone who really stands up for that principal is promptly labeled a “crackpot”, traitor and worse.

While very few working people would say they haven’t had their fair share of taxes (as can I), in my lifetime I can say with a great degree of certainty that there has never been a politician cast a vote on any matter with the likes of me or my interests in mind. Nor, for that matter, are they the least bit interested in me or anything I have to say.

Why is it that a handful of thugs and plunderers can commit unthinkable atrocities (and in the case of the GM executives, for scores of years) and when it’s time for their gravy train to crash under the weight of their gluttony and overwhelming stupidity, the force of the full federal government has no difficulty coming to their aid within days if not hours? Yet at the same time, the joke we call the American medical system, including the drug and insurance companies, are murdering tens of thousands of people a year and stealing from the corpses and victims they cripple, and this country’s leaders don’t see this as important as bailing out a few of their vile, rich cronies. Yet, the political “representatives” (thieves, liars, and self-serving scumbags is far more accurate) have endless time to sit around for year after year and debate the state of the “terrible health care problem”. It’s clear they see no crisis as long as the dead people don’t get in the way of their corporate profits rolling in.

And justice? You’ve got to be kidding!

How can any rational individual explain that white elephant conundrum in the middle of our tax system and, indeed, our entire legal system? Here we have a system that is, by far, too complicated for the brightest of the master scholars to understand. Yet, it mercilessly “holds accountable” its victims, claiming that they’re responsible for fully complying with laws not even the experts understand. The law “requires” a signature on the bottom of a tax filing; yet no one can say truthfully that they understand what they are signing; if that’s not “duress” than what is. If this is not the measure of a totalitarian regime, nothing is.

How did I get here?

My introduction to the real American nightmare starts back in the early ’80s. Unfortunately after more than 16 years of school, somewhere along the line I picked up the absurd, pompous notion that I could read and understand plain English. Some friends introduced me to a group of people who were having ‘tax code’ readings and discussions. In particular, zeroed in on a section relating to the wonderful “exemptions” that make institutions like the vulgar, corrupt Catholic Church so incredibly wealthy. We carefully studied the law (with the help of some of the “best”, high-paid, experienced tax lawyers in the business), and then began to do exactly what the “big boys” were doing (except that we weren’t steeling from our congregation or lying to the government about our massive profits in the name of God). We took a great deal of care to make it all visible, following all of the rules, exactly the way the law said it was to be done.

The intent of this exercise and our efforts was to bring about a much-needed re-evaluation of the laws that allow the monsters of organized religion to make such a mockery of people who earn an honest living. However, this is where I learned that there are two “interpretations” for every law; one for the very rich, and one for the rest of us… Oh, and the monsters are the very ones making and enforcing the laws; the inquisition is still alive and well today in this country.

That little lesson in patriotism cost me $40,000+, 10 years of my life, and set my retirement plans back to 0. It made me realize for the first time that I live in a country with an ideology that is based on a total and complete lie. It also made me realize, not only how naive I had been, but also the incredible stupidity of the American public; that they buy, hook, line, and sinker, the crap about their “freedom”… and that they continue to do so with eyes closed in the face of overwhelming evidence and all that keeps happening in front of them.

Before even having to make a shaky recovery from the sting of the first lesson on what justice really means in this country (around 1984 after making my way through engineering school and still another five years of “paying my dues”), I felt I finally had to take a chance of launching my dream of becoming an independent engineer.

On the subjects of engineers and dreams of independence, I should digress somewhat to say that I’m sure that I inherited the fascination for creative problem solving from my father. I realized this at a very young age.

The significance of independence, however, came much later during my early years of college; at the age of 18 or 19 when I was living on my own as student in an apartment in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. My neighbor was an elderly retired woman (80+ seemed ancient to me at that age) who was the widowed wife of a retired steel worker. Her husband had worked all his life in the steel mills of central Pennsylvania with promises from big business and the union that, for his 30 years of service, he would have a pension and medical care to look forward to in his retirement. Instead he was one of the thousands who got nothing because the incompetent mill management and corrupt union (not to mention the government) raided their pension funds and stole their retirement. All she had was social security to live on.

In retrospect, the situation was laughable because here I was living on peanut butter and bread (or Ritz crackers when I could afford to splurge) for months at a time. When I got to know this poor figure and heard her story I felt worse for her plight than for my own (I, after all, I thought I had everything to in front of me). I was genuinely appalled at one point, as we exchanged stories and commiserated with each other over our situations, when she in her grandmotherly fashion tried to convince me that I would be “healthier” eating cat food (like her) rather than trying to get all my substance from peanut butter and bread. I couldn’t quite go there, but the impression was made. I decided that I didn’t trust big business to take care of me, and that I would take responsibility for my own future and myself.

Return to the early ’80s, and here I was off to a terrifying start as a ‘wet-behind-the-ears’ contract software engineer… and two years later, thanks to the fine backroom, midnight effort by the sleazy executives of Arthur Andersen (the very same folks who later brought us Enron and other such calamities) and an equally sleazy New York Senator (Patrick Moynihan), we saw the passage of 1986 tax reform act with its section 1706.

For you who are unfamiliar, here is the core text of the IRS Section 1706, defining the treatment of workers (such as contract engineers) for tax purposes. Visit this link for a conference committee report (http://www.synergistech.com/1706.shtml#ConferenceCommitteeReport) regarding the intended interpretation of Section 1706 and the relevant parts of Section 530, as amended. For information on how these laws affect technical services workers and their clients, read our discussion here (http://www.synergistech.com/ic-taxlaw.shtml).

SEC. 1706. TREATMENT OF CERTAIN TECHNICAL PERSONNEL.

(a) IN GENERAL - Section 530 of the Revenue Act of 1978 is amended by adding at the end thereof the following new subsection:

(d) EXCEPTION. - This section shall not apply in the case of an individual who pursuant to an arrangement between the taxpayer and another person, provides services for such other person as an engineer, designer, drafter, computer programmer, systems analyst, or other similarly skilled worker engaged in a similar line of work.

(b) EFFECTIVE DATE. - The amendment made by this section shall apply to remuneration paid and services rendered after December 31, 1986.

Note:

· “another person” is the client in the traditional job-shop relationship.

· “taxpayer” is the recruiter, broker, agency, or job shop.

· “individual”, “employee”, or “worker” is you.

Admittedly, you need to read the treatment to understand what it is saying but it’s not very complicated. The bottom line is that they may as well have put my name right in the text of section (d). Moreover, they could only have been more blunt if they would have came out and directly declared me a criminal and non-citizen slave. Twenty years later, I still can’t believe my eyes.

During 1987, I spent close to $5000 of my ‘pocket change’, and at least 1000 hours of my time writing, printing, and mailing to any senator, congressman, governor, or slug that might listen; none did, and they universally treated me as if I was wasting their time. I spent countless hours on the L.A. freeways driving to meetings and any and all of the disorganized professional groups who were attempting to mount a campaign against this atrocity. This, only to discover that our efforts were being easily derailed by a few moles from the brokers who were just beginning to enjoy the windfall from the new declaration of their “freedom”. Oh, and don’t forget, for all of the time I was spending on this, I was loosing income that I couldn’t bill clients.

After months of struggling it had clearly gotten to be a futile exercise. The best we could get for all of our trouble is a pronouncement from an IRS mouthpiece that they weren’t going to enforce that provision (read harass engineers and scientists). This immediately proved to be a lie, and the mere existence of the regulation began to have its impact on my bottom line; this, of course, was the intended effect.

Again, rewind my retirement plans back to 0 and shift them into idle. If I had any sense, I clearly should have left abandoned engineering and never looked back.

Instead I got busy working 100-hour workweeks. Then came the L.A. depression of the early 1990s. Our leaders decided that they didn’t need the all of those extra Air Force bases they had in Southern California, so they were closed; just like that. The result was economic devastation in the region that rivaled the widely publicized Texas S&L fiasco. However, because the government caused it, no one gave a shit about all of the young families who lost their homes or street after street of boarded up houses abandoned to the wealthy loan companies who received government funds to “shore up” their windfall. Again, I lost my retirement.

Years later, after weathering a divorce and the constant struggle trying to build some momentum with my business, I find myself once again beginning to finally pick up some speed. Then came the .COM bust and the 911 nightmare. Our leaders decided that all aircraft were grounded for what seemed like an eternity; and long after that, ’special’ facilities like San Francisco were on security alert for months. This made access to my customers prohibitively expensive. Ironically, after what they had done the Government came to the aid of the airlines with billions of our tax dollars … as usual they left me to rot and die while they bailed out their rich, incompetent cronies WITH MY MONEY! After these events, there went my business but not quite yet all of my retirement and savings.

By this time, I’m thinking that it might be good for a change. Bye to California, I’ll try Austin for a while. So I moved, only to find out that this is a place with a highly inflated sense of self-importance and where damn little real engineering work is done. I’ve never experienced such a hard time finding work. The rates are 1/3 of what I was earning before the crash, because pay rates here are fixed by the three or four large companies in the area who are in collusion to drive down prices and wages… and this happens because the justice department is all on the take and doesn’t give a fuck about serving anyone or anything but themselves and their rich buddies.

To survive, I was forced to cannibalize my savings and retirement, the last of which was a small IRA. This came in a year with mammoth expenses and not a single dollar of income. I filed no return that year thinking that because I didn’t have any income there was no need. The sleazy government decided that they disagreed. But they didn’t notify me in time for me to launch a legal objection so when I attempted to get a protest filed with the court I was told I was no longer entitled to due process because the time to file ran out. Bend over for another $10,000 helping of justice.

So now we come to the present. After my experience with the CPA world, following the business crash I swore that I’d never enter another accountant’s office again. But here I am with a new marriage and a boatload of undocumented income, not to mention an expensive new business asset, a piano, which I had no idea how to handle. After considerable thought I decided that it would be irresponsible NOT to get professional help; a very big mistake.

When we received the forms back I was very optimistic that they were in order. I had taken all of the years information to Bill Ross, and he came back with results very similar to what I was expecting. Except that he had neglected to include the contents of Sheryl’s unreported income; $12,700 worth of it. To make matters worse, Ross knew all along this was missing and I didn’t have a clue until he pointed it out in the middle of the audit. By that time it had become brutally evident that he was representing himself and not me.

This left me stuck in the middle of this disaster trying to defend transactions that have no relationship to anything tax-related (at least the tax-related transactions were poorly documented). Things I never knew anything about and things my wife had no clue would ever matter to anyone. The end result is… well, just look around.

I remember reading about the stock market crash before the “great” depression and how there were wealthy bankers and businessmen jumping out of windows when they realized they screwed up and lost everything. Isn’t it ironic how far we’ve come in 60 years in this country that they now know how to fix that little economic problem; they just steal from the middle class (who doesn’t have any say in it, elections are a joke) to cover their asses and it’s “business-as-usual”. Now when the wealthy fuck up, the poor get to die for the mistakes… isn’t that a clever, tidy solution.

As government agencies go, the FAA is often justifiably referred to as a tombstone agency, though they are hardly alone. The recent presidential puppet GW Bush and his cronies in their eight years certainly reinforced for all of us that this criticism rings equally true for all of the government. Nothing changes unless there is a body count (unless it is in the interest of the wealthy sows at the government trough). In a government full of hypocrites from top to bottom, life is as cheap as their lies and their self-serving laws.

I know I’m hardly the first one to decide I have had all I can stand. It has always been a myth that people have stopped dying for their freedom in this country, and it isn’t limited to the blacks, and poor immigrants. I know there have been countless before me and there are sure to be as many after. But I also know that by not adding my body to the count, I insure nothing will change. I choose to not keep looking over my shoulder at “big brother” while he strips my carcass, I choose not to ignore what is going on all around me, I choose not to pretend that business as usual won’t continue; I have just had enough.

I can only hope that the numbers quickly get too big to be white washed and ignored that the American zombies wake up and revolt; it will take nothing less. I would only hope that by striking a nerve that stimulates the inevitable double standard, knee-jerk government reaction that results in more stupid draconian restrictions people wake up and begin to see the pompous political thugs and their mindless minions for what they are. Sadly, though I spent my entire life trying to believe it wasn’t so, but violence not only is the answer, it is the only answer. The cruel joke is that the really big chunks of shit at the top have known this all along and have been laughing, at and using this awareness against, fools like me all along.

I saw it written once that the definition of insanity is repeating the same process over and over and expecting the outcome to suddenly be different. I am finally ready to stop this insanity. Well, Mr. Big Brother IRS man, let’s try something different; take my pound of flesh and sleep well.

The communist creed: From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.

The capitalist creed: From each according to his gullibility, to each according to his greed.

Joe Stack (1956-2010)

02/18/2010

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If you would like to place an order, shoot me an email: sisia@chuckandkendra.com

Restart your browser and come back to the photo gallery and look at one of the albums in “slideshow” view. The pics will appear as a “wall of photos” that you can navigate through and click on. You’d really have to see it to understand, but it’s worth the two minutes it takes to install the app.

Twas a Friday night, well past 11 o’clock, and we were lounging about watching a movie. THE WIFE had stepped onto the front porch for a bit of fresh air a few minutes before barging back in with the oh so titilating news. As the man of the house, I dutifully went out to investigate (i.e. figure out what she was talking about).

“A guy went by on a motorcycle really fast, then another guy came by, went to the end of the street and turned; then I saw him go by again. I don’t think he made the turn.

We live on a corner lot. The street that runs next to the house dead ends into another street one block south of us. People speed through here all the time, which never quite made sense to me because you can never go more than two blocks in any direction without hitting a stop sign.

I took a moment to process The Wife’s account of the events before summarily dismissing her concerns. Lately I’ve adopted this policy: If the story ends with horribly tragedy, it’s likely a exageration, misunderstanding or a bad dream. I’ve found the same policy works pretty well with libs and tree-huggers; if the point of their lecture is that the end of the world is coming, society will collapse, the polar bears are going to die… my eyes just kind of glaze over and I go to my happy place. Earlier in the evening, I had noticed a gaggle of teenagers hanging out next to that one idiot’s house, you know, the guy that keeps his basketball hoop in the middle of the sidewalk. If there was any idiocy going on, it was probably related to them and, if it wasn’t, they’re closer to the end of the street than we are.

Summarily dismissing The Wife’s concerns is one thing, but I’m still obligated to pretend like I care, so I walked, shoeless, mind you, off of the porch to at least verify that the kids were still hanging out by the corner. No such luck.

“Help”

One word. The night was perfectly quiet. Perfectly still. It wasn’t a yell; it wasn’t even a cry per se, but almost just a spoken word. The word seemed to muffled by quietness, like a whisper in an empty gymnasium.

I ran toward the word. I could see nothing, but I heard the word again about half way up the block. I dialed 911. By the time they answered, I had arrived.

He was 20ish, laying across the sidewalk; head toward the street, illuminated in a circle cast by the street light. I could see the knobby tire of his bike poking out of a shadow about 15 feet away. He was holding his leg. Moaning. There’s no way he landed where he lay: he had apparently dragged himself into the light. Ironically, he probably landed quite a bit further from the street, near the entrance to the cemetery.

The dispatcher transferred me to another dispatcher. I panted out the location and the details that I knew - basically that Some Guy had dumped his bike.

“It was a black guy. About 5-9. He’s headed towards McDonalds.”

I dutifully repeated this information to the dipatcher, assuming he was talking about the guy on the other bike. Or possibly this was a hit and run. More random information spilled from The Guy, none of it making any particular sense, but I passed it all along. Then I smelled it.

When I arrived, it was apparent that The Guy was conscious and there did not appear to be any blood. I kept back at least 5 feet because… well… because I didn’t see a need to get any closer. I wasn’t going to hold his hand until the ambulance arrived or help him get up, so I just stayed clear. I could smell the sweet smell of booze spilling out of The Guy from 10 feet away where I standing. Any pity that I might have had for The Guy was immediately replaced ten-fold by the annoyance I felt when I realized that I had been repeating drunken rambling to the police dispatcher.

Four cruisers arrived in about 2 minutes. Seven officers and a college kid out on a ride-along. They encircled The Guy and began interrogating him. I heard talk of video cameras in the cemetery, something about a 357 and a shotgun and, of course, “they made me do it”. He kept repeating a name. He was drunk and probably in shock.

Cries of “My leg hurts!” were answered with “The ambulance will be here in a few minutes, where’s your friend?” Apparently the officers had the foresight to leave their pity at the station, which allows them to get down to business a little more quickly.

Entertaining as I’m sure the rest of the scene was, our civic duty was done. We checked out with one of the officers and made our way back home.

The movie had ended while we were gone. The police came to the house an hour later to take The Wife’s statement, so all of our neighbors got to see a cruiser parked in front of my house at 1 o’clock in the morning. I sprained my foot running down the street with no shoes on.

LESSON LEARNED.

As is the typical way of things happening, crap is acquired and old crap must be stowed away. Oddly enough, the Christmas decorations, which came from the basement just after Thanksgiving, wouldn’t fit back down there after the holidays. “No Problem!”, I say. We’ve got about 800 square feet of pristine real estate that we’ve yet to tap. So, for the first time since we moved into the house about 8 months ago, I ascended the secret staircase to assess our storage possiblities.  I was greeted with terds. If little black terds were gold, then I would truly be a wealthy man.

Disregarding the Kid’s (and Wife’s) previous claims of squeaks and scratches coming from the third floor, I took my shiny new Christmas Shop Vac up the staircase to tidy up a bit. After all, if there are no terds, then there could not possibly be any critters.  This job will require more light.  Using a drop light and and very long extension cord, I began to explore. The attic’s not all that big, so one wouldn’t thing that there would be much to discover, but, lo’ and behold, I stumbled upon a North Wing to the attic! There is only one light bulb up there and a trick of the shadows concealed a chunk of space about four feet high, 20 feet deep  and maybe 12 feet wide above the Baby’s room. Overjoyed by the discovery of yet more space, I was completely elated to find that in this space there were two pieces of wood. Good wood. Two (oak?) boards, 16 feet long, 4/4 thick, one 12 inches wide and the other 24 inches wide. It’s the same wood that was used for the flooring in the attic and appears to be leftovers that they couldn’t get out after the roof was closed up.

If you can’t tell from my writing style, I’ve got an extremely short attention span. The prospect of cleaning up attic terds at this point was completely out the window. I’ve got lumber in the attic and I should try to find a way to get it out.  Never mind that it has been sitting up there for more than 85 years, it needs to be evaluated and moved. NOW.  With measuring tape in hand, I did the “squat walk” (the ceiling is four feet high in the north wing) back to where the boards lay. There were terds all over the place back there (I should get up there and clean that up some time), so crawling is out of the question.  After a few steps, I saw a mummified mouse with his little paws sticking up between two floor planks.  He was probably poking his head up when one of the boards got stepped on.  I theorize that he alone was responsible for the sea of terds.  Since he is very apparently no longer in the terd producing business, there shouldn’t be anything to worry about. I press on to reach the lumber, the ends of which are about halfway into the extension. The narrower board is on top, and I can now clearly see that the bottom board has split starting at the end and extending up the length of it. Grabbing the top board, I twist it to reveal the extent of the damage. HISSSSSSSSS!

What the hell was that?! This wasn’t a little snake hiss, or a two-liter-soda-bottle-being-opened hiss. It sounded like someone cracked the valve on a propane tank.  Ever the curious type, I gave the board a good solid kick. HISSSSSSS! On that note, I turned around quietly and did my stupid little squat walk (abeit quite a bit faster) and exited the attic entirely.

Getting chased out of my own attic was enough to cure my rodent denial. Unless he’s going to pony up for rent, he’s gotta’ go. At Wal Mart, I wrangled up some glue traps, a couple of mouse traps (please not the re-emergence of denial: I know full well that mice don’t hiss) and tin of hunting pellets.  The hunting pellets are pretty cool: they’re bell shaped air rifle pelets, but have pointed head instead of a flat one.

Back in the attic, I lay out a few glue traps and four mouse traps baited with peanut butter. I figure the worst thing that can happen is that whatever’s up there will get them stuck on his feet and won’t be able to run as fast. More likely, I figured, when I do see him he’ll be wearing one like a party hat and thanking me for the peanut butter.  The superfluousness of the exercise aside, I went about placing the little traps around the outside wall. All of the activity and the presence of guns (air rifle or not) had attracted the attention of The Kid, who was standing at the top of the secret staircase. One of the traps snapped as I put it down.  HISSSSSS! This time it came from over by the staircase, right next to The Kid.  I think he soiled himself. I quite possibly may have soiled myself.

After a long weekend away, I was eager to check my traps. Without fulling entering the attic I could see everything. Rat Trap #1, Glue Trap #1 and Mouse Traps 1,2 and 3 - all empty. Rat Trap #2 - empty. Mouse Trap #4 - Empty.  Glue Trap #2 - GONE! Now we’re talking.  I lit up the attic and looked around. At the far end of the North Wing, I could see the white board with brown masses upon it, but couldn’t make anything out beyond that.  I loaded the air rifle for the impending coup de grace.  A short squat walk and long stick was all I needed to fetch the trap and bring it into the open. Three.  Three panting rodents. Panic ensued when I realized that these were just babies. Mama is still out there.  I lifted the rifle, preparing to finish off the first one, then noticed that something was not right. Their bodies were writhing. Writhing like a dead animal that’s being consumed from the inside by something a little lower on the food chain. How’s that work? They aren’t even dead yet. Then one of them freed up enough of his body to make it clear.  Their bodies weren’t writhing, their wings were.  Rats with wings! whoda’ thunk! It had been unseasonably warm and these three gentlemen were apparently on their way out for the evening when they lighted upon my little trap.

I’m rather fond of bats. I took the trap outside, doused them with vegetable oil (which softens the glue) and painstakingly set about freeing them.  One was in the middle of the trap, stuck by his belly.  He came off pretty easily, crawled across the porch and flew away a few minutes later.  The next one was stuck by his wings and took a little more doin’, but eventually we got him free.  The last one was hanging off the edge and was only stuck by the tips of his wings and part of his chest.  Strangely, he turned out to be the most difficult.  Since his wings were folded, they didn’t just peel off like the others.  Since he wasn’t entirely on the trap, he kept grabbing onto things. He was also extremely pissed off.  When he finally was free, he just kinda’ laid there.  He was the only one that could struggle, so he wore himself out trying to get loose.

The next day I found another one stuck to a glue trap. He was already dead. One of the guys that I let loose on the back porch fell into a bucket of water and dun got his self frozed.  He’s still out there if anyone’s interested in a five gallon batcicle.

I called my Daddy. He and I went up to the attic - fully armed - and started pulling up floorboards. The first nest we found contained only a skeleton. The next one had a quietly sleeping bat who was pretty much unaware, or at least impartial, to our presence there. We found two more empty nests - probably belonging to batcicle and the glue trap victim.  We found evidence that there are many bats that have lived there for a very long time.

For now, we are going to live and let live. The eviction will begin in the spring when they wake up.  I know how they’re getting in and out, so we’re going to pull the old “one way door” trick on them.  Unfortunately, there is no way to completely seal the attic - The House is made of brick, so the roofline is made up of a sawtooth pattern, which is covered by a board on the outside, making every mortar joint a potential entry point. We’ll seal up as best we can and hang a nice cozy bat house on the chimney so maybe they won’t try as hard to get back in. We’ll see.

Well, here’s the side-by side. 

I would say that the two of them are not dissimilar. There’s certainly no shortage of hair or cheeks between the two of them! When we get some good shots of Hannah with her eyes open, we should be able to get a better comparison. My sister’s not one to skimp on the pictures, so be expecting them soon!

The smaller image below is that “something”.  I did not enhance, alter or change it in any way. The original, full size image (about 4 MB worth) is available in the photo gallery - click the image on the right and it should take you there. So, what is it?

The obvious answer is that it’s a person hiding behind a tree - maybe a poacher that was hunting on private property and hid when he saw us coming. Pictures can be deceiving in scale, but I estimate that that tree is 15 to 20 feet away from where the picture was taken.  Could someone have been standing that close without any of us noticing? I guess it’s possible.

The next option would be that there is light shining through the foliage, making an optical illusion. The problem with that is that I was looking uphill and the “something” is below the horizon, so there can’t be light shining through anything.

Is it supernatural?  I’ve heard of seeing the Virgin Mary in grilled cheese or Elvis in a sweat stain. People see different things when they look at this, but the concensus seems to be that it is a demonic clown. I guess if you take enough pictures, your bound to capture something weird, but, demon clowns? how could I be that lucky!

Anyway, I’d LOVE to hear what everybody thinks. Drop me a line and let me know!