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