Antanagoge (an’-ta-na’-go-gee): Putting a positive spin on something that is nevertheless acknowledged to be negative or difficult.
I hate doing my income taxes, but without them, the government wouldn’t have any money, and go out of business. There would be no army or FBI, or Congress. NPR would cease to exist and Smokey the Bear would lose his job, and would have to raid dumps at night like other bears. The Lincoln Memorial would be closed down and his “Gettysburg Address” would be forgotten. “Fourscore and what?” people will ask each other trying to recapture the forgotten eloquence of the vanished speech. What about the arts: the NEH? Bye bye government support of the arts. Painters will be nearly bereft of materials— of acrylics, oils, water colors, canvases, brushes, stretchers, and easels, and models or bowls of fruit. And the studios will be locked.
Then, there’s the performing arts: music, drama, dance: all moved to street corners: “Cats,” “Oklahoma,” “Beetlejuice.” Classics dying in the streets, starved for money, bereft of talent, more players than audience members. Sinking. Drowning.
So, thank God we have taxes. It is no fun paying them, but they bring us benefits.
One year, about 20 years ago, I decided not to pay my taxes. I was mad at the federal government because the FDA banned the commercial sale of raccoon meat. I had hunted raccoons with hound dogs with my uncle Ellsworth since I was 10. Uncle Ellsworth had ignored the law about meat and sold furs too. The FDA agents came to uncle Ellsworth’s house and found a freezer full of carcasses marked with prices according to weight. Just as they were about to handcuff him, Uncle Ellsworth ran out to back door and into the swamp. We haven’t seen him since, but we were confident that he was ok—our family had lived adjacent to the swamp for hundreds of years, and we had made friends with it.
I owed the IRS $82.00. I burned my tax form in my fireplace. To hell with them until Uncle Ellsworth came home. Then, sometime in May, I got a letter from the IRS offering me a time payment plan with 20% interest. I panicked and wrote a check for the $82,00 I owed. One week later, I got a letter thanking me for paying my taxes and reminding me I still owed interest. I ignored the letter. They kept coming with interest compounding. My bill got up to $1,100. I was forced to rob a Cliff’s for the money. I was caught, tried and convicted. I spent 6 months in jail. I made pen pals with a woman who offered to pay my debt to the IRS. I took her up on her offer. We’re living together. She likes to throw crumpled-up balls of paper at me. She just throws the paper at me and acts like nothing happened. I’d like to get the hell out of here, but I’m temporarily stuck here until I can get another job. Maybe I could go back to raccoon hunting, but Uncle Ellsworth is still missing in the swamp. I hate to say it, but he’s probably dead.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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