STATE OF OKLAHOMA, EX. REL., OKLAHOMA TAX COMMISSION v. TIM INFINITY HOME CARE, CASPER AKA, TIM CASPER OF INFINITY HOME CARE, SSN XXX-XX-1880

Let’s cut right to the chase: a home care business in Oklahoma owes $42,509 in unpaid taxes — and somehow, the interest and penalties alone make up over a third of that bill. Yes, you read that right. The state is now dragging this operation into court not for fraud, not for patient neglect, but because someone forgot to cut a check to the taxman. Welcome to the thrilling world of civil enforcement, where the real crime isn’t embezzlement — it’s math.

Now, who are we even talking about here? On one side, you’ve got the State of Oklahoma, acting through its tax enforcer-in-chief, the Oklahoma Tax Commission. These are the folks who make sure your gas receipts get audited and your liquor license fees are paid on time. They don’t show up at parties, but they do show up at your bank account. Represented by attorneys from Linebarger Goggan Blair & Sampson — a firm so specialized in collections they might as well have “We Work for the Government (and We Will Find You)” on their business cards — they’re not here to negotiate. They’re here to collect.

On the other side? Tim Casper, doing business as Tim Infinity Home Care — which sounds less like a licensed caregiving operation and more like a wellness startup founded during a particularly intense yoga retreat. The name “Infinity” probably sounded aspirational when he filed the paperwork: endless care, boundless compassion, eternal patience with Medicare billing codes. But now, it just feels ironic. Because the one thing that has gone on infinitely? The accumulation of penalties and interest on unpaid withholding taxes.

So what happened? Let’s rewind. Back in late 2022 — specifically, the quarter covering October through December — Tim Infinity Home Care was supposed to withhold income taxes from its employees’ paychecks and send that money to the state. That’s how payroll taxes work: you take the money out, you hold it temporarily, and then you hand it over like a responsible adult. It’s not optional. It’s not discretionary. It’s the financial equivalent of “don’t eat the cookie jar money” — except the cookie jar belongs to the government, and the government has lawyers.

Somehow, Tim Casper didn’t do that. Or rather, he did the first part — paying employees — but skipped the second part — sending the withheld taxes to Oklahoma. And not a trivial amount, either. The original tax bill? $18,848.60. That’s nearly nineteen grand in state withholding taxes for a single quarter. For a home care business, that suggests a modest but active payroll — maybe a handful of caregivers, aides, maybe a scheduler or two. Nothing massive, but enough people on the books to trigger serious tax obligations.

But here’s where things go full Law & Order: Tax Fraud Unit. Instead of paying up, the debt sat. And sat. And sat. And like a neglected compost bin, it started to grow. Interest accrued — $9,456.03, to be exact. That’s half the original tax amount, just in interest. Then came the penalties — $1,920.86 — because the state, much like your gym membership, believes in charging you for non-participation. Add a $200 tax warrant penalty (basically a “you made us file paperwork” fee), a $36 filing fee (because bureaucracy is never free), and suddenly you’re staring at $30,461.49 — the amount officially assessed in October 2024.

Fast forward to March 13, 2026 — yes, the filing date is in the future, which either means someone’s running an impressively efficient government office or there’s a typo we’re legally obligated to ignore — and the total owed has ballooned to $42,509. That’s an extra $12,000 in just five months. Either the interest rate is apocalyptic, or someone really, really didn’t pick up the phone when the Tax Commission called.

Now, why are we in court? Because the state isn’t just sending reminder emails anymore. They’ve escalated to full-on legal weaponry. They’ve filed a tax warrant — which, in Oklahoma, functions like a court judgment without needing a trial. Once that warrant is recorded by the county clerk, it attaches to the business owner’s property like a financial vampire. It shows up on credit reports, blocks refinancing, and can lead to wage garnishments, bank levies, or even liens on real estate. The legal authority? Title 68 of the Oklahoma Statutes, Sections 231 to 255 — basically the state’s “how to collect money when people don’t pay” playbook. The state isn’t asking for damages, punitive relief, or a public apology. They’re not even demanding a jury trial. They just want their money. Plus fees. Plus interest. Plus whatever else the law allows.

And what do they want? $42,509. Is that a lot? In the world of civil lawsuits, it’s not exactly Erin Brockovich territory. But for a small home care business operating on thin margins — where profit per client might be a few hundred bucks a month — $42,500 is catastrophic. That’s not just a bad quarter. That’s a business-ending debt. To put it in perspective: that’s enough to buy a brand-new Ford F-150, or pay the annual salary of a registered nurse in Oklahoma. Or, if you’re Tim Casper, it’s what happens when you treat state tax obligations like an optional subscription you can cancel without consequences.

Here’s the wildest part: we don’t know why the taxes weren’t paid. Did the business run out of cash? Did someone misclassify the withholding as “future expenses” instead of “immediately due liabilities”? Did Tim Casper think “Infinity” meant the business had infinite time to pay? Was there a bookkeeping disaster? A misplaced check? A rogue accountant who fled to Belize? The filing doesn’t say. There’s no drama, no betrayal, no hidden offshore accounts. Just a quiet, bureaucratic implosion — the financial equivalent of leaving the garage door open during a tornado and being shocked when the lawnmower ends up in Nebraska.

And yet, that’s what makes this case so perfectly petty. It’s not a scandal. It’s not a conspiracy. It’s a cautionary tale about the one rule every business owner should know: you do not keep payroll taxes. They’re not yours. They never were. They’re just passing through your account on their way to the state. Treat them like rent money, or child support, or a loan shark’s weekly cut — because if you don’t, the consequences come due. And in Oklahoma, they come with interest.

Our take? We’re not rooting for the state. We’re not rooting for Tim Casper. We’re rooting for basic financial literacy. This isn’t a sob story about a small business crushed by bureaucracy — unless the bureaucracy was in his own office. If you’re running a business and you don’t have a system to pay payroll taxes on time, you don’t have a business. You have a liability with a logo.

And let’s be real: “Infinity Home Care” probably didn’t have an infinite supply of anything — not clients, not cash, and definitely not time before the taxman came knocking. The name should’ve been a warning. Instead, it became a punchline.

So here’s the moral of the story, straight from CrazyCivilCourt: if your business name includes words like “Infinity,” “Eternal,” or “Forever,” maybe double-check your tax filings. Because the one thing that is eternal? The state’s right to collect what’s owed. And baby, they will collect.