Only Two Things in Life Are for Sure:
Death and the IRS Fucking Frank Haskins

by Frank Haskins

The old-timers out there may remember that poster of Uncle Sam pointing and saying "I Want You." Well, when you're Frank Haskins, Uncle Sam makes a fist and says, "I Want You ... to Bend Over."

April 15th sucks for most everybody, but for Frank Haskins, "IRS" stands for "Inserted Rectally Service." It all started out as a typically shitty day. I woke up to the easy listening sounds of Limp Bizkit, as an eardrum-shattering blast of volume from my teenage son's speakers shook the picture of Munch's "The Scream" off its nail in the wall above me. As I stepped out of bed to get an ice pack for the lump on my head, I planted my bare foot into a freshly-yacked-up hairball, courtesy of my lazy-shit cat. Next, as I was washing my nads in the shower, my teenage daughter flushed the john, scorching "Dick Cheney and his two balding aides." My jewels looked like a pile of oven-roasted dates.

Believe it or not, things only got shittier from there. I got to work to discover that I now had a "cubicle mate," an extremely obese, sweaty guy with flatulence issues. Then I call my accountant to find out how far I'm gonna spread 'em this year, and he tells me, "Spread your arms as far apart as possible. That much." Turns out that my soon-to-be-ex-wife cashed out all $55,000 of her 401(k) money last year when she moved out, so now I owe the IRS 22 grand in taxes and penalties. When I called her to ask her what the fuck she spent the money on, she said, "edible underwear for my boyfriend."

Came home, and my chicken franks caught fire in the toaster oven. Turned on the tube and saw my family priest getting arrested on "Cops." So I figured I could salvage the day with a Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap at my favorite watering hole. Since they had hosted a stag party that night, they were out of beer and had nothing left but Zima.

When you're Frank Haskins, life doesn't hand you lemons. Life puts lemon juice in your Preparation-H.