A Taxing Time of the Season

This time of the year is always McGruff like the crime dog, because it never fails that something is more screwed up than the nut and bolt aisle at Home De Pot.  For whatever reason, accoutants just don’t seem to be able to account for everything.  You give them all your stuff (I’m not talking about receipts for contraceptives, lunch tabs, and sock receipts you have in your George Costanza-like wallet), and they inevitably call you and ask for more stuff, or tell you that they don’t have the stuff that you already gave them.  You thought the whole year that these people had their mind on your money and your money on their mind a la Snoop Dogg – I still think one of his most philosophical moments was when he proclaimed, “It Ain’t No Fun If My Homies Can’t Have None.”  Alas, when April 15th gets near, you go meet with them, and they tell you that you owe enough money to purchase a sub-compact, ethanol burning Patchoulius made by Trail Mix Motors; and yet you’re supposed to sit there and take it like you were sleeping with your mouth open around the squat area at a local gym?  I mean, wash my nuts and call me Earl Grey.  How are you supposed to be happy about such an economical transgression?  I don’t know.

My business accountant is good to go, but he too has had some issues deciphering what deductions are mine, and what are my wife’s so as to be able to properly figure how much of “what we owe” each of us owe.  However, that is (as I am finding out from my friends) eagle for the course.  I think the most annoying thing is when you get your gear to your number nerd early enough for innaguration day, and they still say they need to file an extension like the Red Cross transfusing John Holmes.  I just don’t get it.  I know that these people have more clients than a Chinese phone book – that was supposed to be more Chins than a Chinese phonebook of course, but I just channeled Tom Waits there for some unknown reason and bastardized his lingo as my own – but how did my status as being a client not relegate me to the list entitled “Deadline Files” at some point.

I recently told my wife that maybe we should just go to one of those “accountants in a pubicle” that you see at Wally World and in your local mall.  They can apparently do up your WD40 or whatever in the same amount of time it takes you to buy a six pack of swill, some super glue, and Dale Jr. NASCAR hat.  They also give you the option of taking these credit card-like things that you apparently can go out and waste your return with prior to it ever being returned to you.  It’s like “Tax Files Gone Wild” or something.  I also have some kind of form called a K-1.  When I was sitting with our accountant, he asked for that form for my personal taxes, and my reply was “I don’t ski.”  I always thought that was the downhill ski course that almost killed John Cusack in Better Off Dead.  I had no idea what she was talking about until I talked to my accountant and he faxed it to her.  So I apparently do know how to ski, and I just wasn’t aware.

H & R Block sounds like an ex-Human Resources director who opened a masonry company.  There are a bunch of local firms that could be at my service as well, but they all have their drawbacks.  Williams, Williams, and Lentz sounds like someone with a stutter asking for change with a cockney English accent.  Clayton, Byrd, and Meeks sounds like the last reincarnation of a great 70′s vocal harmony band, before it started writing lame lyrics and the best member tore out before the fat, drugged out one started donating sperm to lesbians.  Moffit & Company sounds like a group of people who have made their living being associated with that one chick from the nursery rhyme.  Trevor Gough sounds like the clinical term for a seismologist’s cough.  Blythe & Associates makes me think that Gwyneth Paltrow’s mom has started a business, but refuses to tell you who she works with.

Well, that’s I could come up with on short notice.  Love, Peace, and Chicken Grease…