A few years ago I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to file my taxes for the first time in a decade. I don't know what came over me… I'd never given a shit before, so why start?
Hell, I'd even kinda forgotten what taxes were, beyond remembering that they had something to do with money. Was it coming or going? Was I winning money or losing money? Was I even supposed to be involved at all? For the life of me, I simply could not remember.
Then, like a bolt out of the blue, it came to me: in order to do my taxes, I was gonna have to figure this shit out! The prospect filled me with a feeling of diarrhea. As I sat there on the commode with this kind of nauseated snarl on my face, I suddenly remembered the reason why I'd abandoned my taxes (whatever those were) in the first place.
“Hey, I just had the sweetest idea! Why don't the three of us go back to my place and have ourselves a tax sandwich, animal style?”
After a couple of hours on the pot I realized that if I was serious about following through with this tax thing, some research was in order. I stumbled over to my laptop, pulled up my pants, and googled “help, my taxes are fucked” in the hope of eliciting an immediate internet miracle. What I got instead was thirty pages of links to articles like these…
- Do Your Taxes From Prison!
- Tax Assistance for the Bereaved
- Big Al's Tax Refunds – Not Just Another Tax Shark!
- Do Your Taxes Safely, While Medically Comatized
- Taxes Got You Down? Try Suicide! Free Consultation
- Death or Taxes – We Let You Choose, Bitch!
… and on and on, ad nauseum.
I was this close to saying “fuck it,” but I bolstered myself with another shot of 190 proof Tomahawk distilled spirits and clicked one more time. I was presented with this following ad:
H&R Cockblock – When It Comes to Taxes, We'll Be Your Wingman!
Whoa! I thought. Now we're cookin'.
Sure, it was a funny name for a tax company, but the “wingman” thing really hooked me. If I was gonna do this tax thing, then by God, I wanted– no, I NEEDED a wingman!
I made an appointment for the following day, and upon arriving, I noticed that H&R Cockblock was located immediately adjacent to my favorite liquor store, The Liquor Lookout. I was sure I'd found my tax guys. I went inside and located the front desk. Wow, was that receptionist a cutie pie! I licked my palms, smoothed out my ponytail, and approached her.
“Hello, I'm Ash Davis and–”
The receptionist looked up at me and I froze mid-sentence. She batted her lovely eyelashes and bestowed upon me a smile that could sink a thousand ships.
“Welcome to H&R Cockblock, Mr. Davis! You're here for a 2 o'Cock appointment, right? Haha! Looks like you're early. I like that in a man! How about you and I get to know each other while you're waiting. You can buy me a drink, and–”
Suddenly this blonde, athletic-looking frat-boy type wearing dark sunglasses and a pink Izod shirt with a popped collar popped up and regarded me with a look of distaste.
“Is this guy bothering you, Majestica?” he said. “Here, let me take over for you. I know how to handle guys like HIM.”
Popped collar frat-guy then escorted… Majestica, was it? to a door marked “VIP Area – Guest List Entry” and just like that, she was gone! What the fuck?
Frat guy was back in a flash.
“Now then… what can I do for you, Mr. Davis?” he said in a clear, no nonsense tone.
The next part happened so fast that I can only remember signing a contract designating frat guy as my personal tax wingman. I left my appointment thinking maybe frat guy wasn't such a bad guy after all, once you got to know him.
Later that evening I was out celebrating my new tax situation by tying one on at Chilly Legumes. After a couple of hours I was finally drunk enough to approach this really cute chick who frequents the 7-Eleven where I've worked for the past eight years, trading away my hours for various denominations of misery. So what if I'm old enough to be her dad, and grandpa to her toddler? It's simple biology, man!
I strode boldly up to her.
“Say, didn't we go to kindergarten together?” I blurted. She turned and regarded me with a “come hither” look.
“Well, I'm not sure,” she replied. “Maybe if we went somewhere more private and played doctor, it might help me to–”
That's when frat guy, my tax wingman, stumbled up to us drunkenly. “Yo, Ash! Whatcha doin' here, bro?” He leered at kindergarten chick and sidled up to her.
“I'm his tax man,” he practically slobbered. “We're best buddies! We LOVES to do us some taxes!”
Frat guy pulled me aside. “I'm gonna do you a solid, bro,” he whispered. Then he turned back to kindergarten chick.
“Hey, I just had the sweetest idea! Why don't the three of us go back to my place and have ourselves a tax sandwich, animal style? I'll bring the 1040's!”
He cast about drunkenly for kindergarten chick. I didn't see her anywhere… she'd split!
Man, was I furious! Somehow though, I just couldn't stay angry at frat guy. He was my tax wingman, after all! After a couple more shots we went back to my place and did some taxes. The last thing I remember was frat guy peeling away in his 2011 Charger, completely shit-faced and yelling out of his window to me, “Sorry I cockblocked you, bro! Hahahaha!”
Eventually tax season rolled around again. I hadn't seen frat guy for a while, and I was kinda looking forward to hooking up with him again. We'd had some good times together last tax season, even though he was a big fat cockblocking asshole…
WAIT A MINUTE! H&R Cockblock… No, it couldn't be. It was just a fantastic coincidence! I put it out of my mind. The next day I got a call from frat guy.
Frat guy: Hey Ash! What's happenin', bro?
Me: Aw, nothin', just waiting around for tax season!
Frat guy: Haha! You animal! Hey, remember last year, when you first came into the office for an appointment?
Me: Yeah… and?
Frat guy: And that really cute receptionist chick kinda seemed like she had a thing for you…
Me: Yeah? YEAH??
Frat guy: Well, she just wanted me to tell you that she's totally out of your league. HAHAHAHAHA!
I hung up. Man, was I furious!
I stormed around my apartment for a while, thinking of the slowest and most painful ways to kill frat guy, but I calmed down after a few minutes. Somehow I just couldn't stay pissed off at frat guy. He was my tax wingman!
Finally it was tax day. It'd been a year since my first visit to H&R Cockblock and today my taxes would be in order for the first time in ten years. Man, was I excited as I headed off triumphantly to my last appointment. Imagine my surprise upon arriving to a rave going on full swing! I spotted frat guy through the crowd on the other side of the office, being fed upside down shots of Patron by strippers. I ran over and pulled a punch to his abdomen.
“Ash, you maniac!” frat guy spluttered, spewing Patron on one of the strippers. “Hey everybody, this party is for Ash, to celebrate his up-to-date taxes! Let's hear it for Ash and H&R Cockblock!”
There was a thunderous roar from the crowd. I was overcome with a grand sense of accomplishment. Thanks to frat guy, my tax wingman at H&R Cockblock, my taxes were finally up to date! I was actually crying tears of joy when I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I turned and was shocked right out of my underpants to see her, the long lost love of my life, standing there looking up at me with a furtive smile. I couldn't believe my eyes!
“Is it really you? Am I dreaming?” I uttered, dazed.
“Yes, I'm really here. When I heard how you'd taken control of your taxes, I was overwhelmed. I've never stopped loving you, you know… it was just that your tax situation was so fucked up…”
Our eyes met, and we both burst into tears as we embraced. “Never leave me again, and I swear… I'll always have good taxes from now on!”
“It's a deal, you big silly!” she sobbed joyfully. Then frat guy came rolling up with his big fat popped collar.
“Is this guy bothering you, honey?” he said. “Just so you know, I did all of his taxes while he just sat around and got shit-faced. He's a loser. Come with me baby, and I'll show you how a REAL man does taxes.”
As they strode away arm in arm, the love of my life looked back once, shrugged, and mouthed “Sorry!” Then they both walked out of my life forever.
I screamed futilely after them: “FRAT GUY, YOU BIG FAT COCKBLOCKER! YOU'RE A SHITTY WINGMAN! I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU! FOREVER!” I fell to my knees and wept. I wanted to die. After about an hour I finally stood up, wiped my eyes, and ambled back home, destitute and alone.
At least my taxes were in order.