Three-hundred-and-sixty-four days a year, I love this country. I love mom, apple pie, the flag. I get misty singing The National Anthem at baseball games. I'm not one of those "love it or leave it" types, but nobody's more patriotic than me-364 days a year.

Then there's the one day I sit down to do my taxes.

I start out OK, but by the time I'm finished, visions of student sit-ins, radical protest marches, and water towers near college campuses have filled my mind. Somewhere around Schedule A, Subsection B, Form F-1, Line 322-C to the power of pi, I start thinking about how I'd look in a camouflage jumpsuit with an anarchy symbol tattooed on my forehead.

I've never fired a gun in anger, but that's only because The Lovely Mrs. Taylor hides them on tax day. Otherwise ... well, I'd probably be writing about my time spent with The Lovely Cellmate Bubba.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not advocating the violent overthrow of anything (except maybe the network executives responsible for "American Idol"). I understand the need for taxes and-honestly-I don't mind paying them.

Every year around this time, armed with the best intentions, I sit down at the dining room table with all my forms and receipts, a calculator, my tax-software-loaded laptop, a pencil, an extra-large cup of Starbuck's coffee, some paper clips and a Bible opened to the book of Matthew-the passage about rendering unto Caesar.

My intention is to carefully go over all my records, figure out what I legitimately owe Uncle Sam, and pay up. It's my duty as an American.

If only it was that simple.

I begin by entering all the easy information; my name, Mrs. Taylor's name, our address, social security numbers, birthdates, shoe sizes, contact lens prescriptions, hopes, dreams and fears. Then I move on to the hard stuff.

First comes the info contained on the forms sent to me by my employer-how many hours I worked, how much I was paid (this one always brings tears to my eyes), and how much the government has already deducted (more tears). This is all straightforward stuff, and even a math atheist like me can figure it out.

Then comes the tricky part-the deductions.

 I'm a reasonably honest guy, and I would never intentionally claim a deduction to which I am not entitled. But I'm a writer, man! Not an accountant.

Can I claim mileage and vehicle depreciation for my weekend job (marriage counselor)? Schedule 4, Sub-paragraph 16-A seems to indicate I can. But only if I answered "yes" on Line 43, Part B-6-12. If I answered "no," then I can claim half the mileage but only 1/14th the depreciation value on each dollar and/or mile over the value indicated on Page 17-G of Form C-9-the one kept in a locked vault in the basement of the Pentagon.

It's usually around this time that I exhaust all the curse words I know and resort to making up new ones. (Ask me sometime what "flagringstienish fraggenheiser!" means; you'll be shocked.)

In the end, I wind up claiming less than half the deductions I'm probably entitled to and calling it a day. If Uncle Sam gets more of my money than he really needs ... well ... I hope he'll just consider me a patriot and leave me alone until next year!

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or investment advice, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com/ or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.