08 February 2006

Deep in the Heart of Taxes

It is all arrayed about me. All the tools I need. The “PhotoShop for Total Idiots: No, We’re not Joking Here, You’re A Total Jackass” book. A bottle of whiskey. Earphones to drown out any unreasonable demands. I settle down to learn layering.

A unshelled walnut bounces of the screen. I ignore it, but she soon finds my range and I am forced to remove the earphones.

“Have you got the taxes done?” She asks.

“Erm, no. I’m drinking here.”

“You always do better on our taxes when you’re drunk.” She replies.

Damnation. The woman. simply. will. not. leave! It’s like she lives here or something.

I put my earphones back on and get back to the task at hand.


I am making a cartoon. It is funny. I have no time for taxes.

An unshelled walnut bounces of my skull and this time she put English on it.

“TAXES!” She bellows.

I tax.

Now, the trick to getting the most out of one’s return is to divorce oneself entirely from reality. Not lying, of course, the IRS can figure that out; but pure, unadulterated lunacy. It confuses them, making them think you could be a lawyer, or worse, congresscritter.


Ethanol helps achieve this state, as do antipsychotics. My favorite combination is 5ml of Inapsine IM, followed by a fifth of Jameson’s. I jab, and drink.


By two in the morning I am finished, and by my calculations the IRS owes me New Jersey. I file the return electronically and go to bed.

The next morning is painful, but I get up and check to see if the IRS has accepted my return.

“You’ve got Jail!” announces the computer cheerily. Apparently, the IRS has a few piffling little quibbles vis-à-vis my return. It turns out that I cannot count my collection of inflatable ladies as dependents because A)They are not, in fact, people, and B). They are actually stolen form the Kinsey Sex Museum and therefore not technically mine.


So rather than actually receiving a Jersey sized refund, we owe a fair amount and I must file for an extension.

“Get a tax attorney to handle your extension.” Demands Gretchen.

“That’ll cost a fortune!” I reply. “Last week Irish Bob got a hooker to handle his extension for only fifty bucks. I’m going to try that!

This time the walnut gets me right between the eyes.


And that's the way I likes it.