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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Just think, in less than an hour the Employment Department man shows up at my house to reenact Brokeback Mountain with me and my accounting methods, only I think he’s taken everything consensual and having to do with love out of the script, which is okay with me, I guess (as if I have a choice), because I’m fairly sure that this afternoon, when I meet with the IRS man at 1:00, he’s going to have his own script in hand, and I have this feeling that there’s nothing scarier than a jilted IRS playwright, who by the end of the day, will no doubt have every single one of my shirts hanging in a bedroom closet at his mother’s home, a fond memory of the time we shared together.
“Instead of me trying to explain this whole mess anymore,” Henry told the IRS auditor, “let’s play Lord of the Rings; I’ll be the the age of dwarves and you can be the Eye of Sauron.”
“This doesn’t make any sense at all,” Henry murmered to the bartender, “The government agent said to me, ‘don’t fight us, we’ll have our pound of flesh before this is over,’ but when I pulled up my shirt and told him I could spare him at least ten pounds, he ordered me out of his office and said I’d better come up with cash, fast.”
As I stood in line at the IRS office today, patiently waiting to drop off an envelope for my good friend, Mr. Anderson, I was fortunate enough to overhear the story of a man who will very soon have employment tax troubles much worse than I can even imagine, a secretary’s dull “huh?” as she is told by another secretary that she has just hit the wrong key and lost all of her computer’s data, and one entire half of a painfully loud cellphone conversation, in which a bony young Hispanic woman eating Cheetoes tells her (boyfriend? husband? it is never exactly revealed) that she is still waiting, and that she would have gotten here earlier, that the baby was ready and in the car, but that dad yelled, “I’m downloading!”, which the bony girl obviously felt the need to reenact at full volume, which then caused her mother, who was sitting next to her, to hush the girl in an even louder voice, just moments before stealing the bag of Cheetoes.
Henry’s plan to have his sick friend Bob sneeze on his IRS papers before he gave them to the taxman may or may not have gotten the taxman sick, but it definitely turned into instant bad karma when Henry caught Bob’s cold.
If over the phone an agent says anything about “ducks in a row,” don’t make the mistake of actually showing up for the meeting with trained ducks.
Because the state couldn’t find a way to tax my soul, I was informed by their accountant that I was free to do with it as I pleased, but that any pursuits that resulted in monetary gain would need to be reported; later that day two Mormon boys stopped by the house to to give me what I often refer to as “spiritual accounting” advice, but I told them that I still found spiritual taxation without representation preferable to anything I’d read in their pamphlets, thanked them for their time, then turned the dog loose to hasten things along.
Secure several juicy T-1’s from Qwest – book them as a liability – then pare them off to several clients, marking them up 15% and book them as an asset; mix, shake, stir and pray to God that the IRS, FTC and any other 3 letter agency doesn’t find out what you are doing.
“Oh look,” Henry said, “I get a refund they can garnish.”
I thought you’d find it interesting that my spam filter gobbles up your emails apparently using the same logarithm that you use to garnish my paychecks.
While it would be years before the IRS would catch on to Henry's tax dodge scheme of hiring his neighbor's cats for various odd jobs, the scam did eventually fall apart when Mr. Pickles proved to be a halfway decent publicist.
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