Tuesday, November 16, 2010

The Power Of The IRS

You can always tell when you're talking to someone who's been audited by the IRS.

You mention those three letters and beads of sweat pop out on their head. Their eyes take on that look you usually see on sheep right before they mow all of their fucking wool off - the one that says, "You're going to leave me naked and I really don't understand why, goddamnit."

A couple weeks ago, Duke and I received a letter stating we still owed a balance for a mistake (not my own, but, hey, who cares? It's the fucking IRS!) that was made for the 2008 tax year. The problem was that the amount I presently owe should have been reduced by the incredibly painful check that was cashed by the U.S. Treasury on November 8th in 2009. Holy shit that was a lot of fucking money. The notice I received did not reflect that payment or the fact that we ate nothing but dry motherfucking granola for the next 2 months because of that payment. And I had to sell a goddamn kidney.

I called to question the notice, thinking, like the Disney character that I am, it would be a painless procedure.

My daughter's head was 40 centimeters around. When I started screaming for someone to please kill me with the fucking speculum, the nurse gave me an aspirin and a pat on the head. THAT was less painful.

My "Hey, check this out!" moment that ended in the ER with electricity burns? Not as painful.

I BROKE MY PUBIC BONE ON A MECHANICAL BULL. (true story) MILDLY PLEASANT IN COMPARISON.

After answering a series of questions and working around the language barrier (there are 4 people in the whole fucking free world who could have interpreted her questions and 3 of them are native to her country. Seriously, the representative and I finally agreed that my payment was "misapplied".

"Well, what the hell does that mean?" I asked.

"I don't know," she answered.

"At least you're honest. What the hell do I do now?"

"I don't know."

"Ok, that won't work on this question, Paraguinamay. How do you know it's been misapplied?"

"I don't."

I put the phone down, banged my forehead into the wall four times and and made myself a triple shot Jim Beam and coke. When I returned, Paraguinamay was patiently waiting.

"I had to make a drink," I explained.

"I know. Everyone does," she said.

"So! We have no idea where my money is and you have no record of me ever paying that ridiculous amount. I have a cancelled check right in front of me, but you can't find it."

"That is correct."

"Ok. Transfer me on. You know you don't want to deal with this shit. Just tell your supervisor I became verbally fucking abusive."

"Ok, hold please."

As I sat and listened to the classical music (intended to calm us down and keep us from tearing our own jugular out. I got YOUR number, IRS), I wondered: if money is received at the U.S. Treasury but there's no House Representative who needs a sex change and a blow-up doll at that exact goddamn moment, does the money really exist?

According to the supervisor, that would be a resounding "no".

"Dutchess, I need you to read me the series of numbers on the back of the cancelled check. That will give me exact information as to where the payment went."

"Ok. 7825154541123484645433 and 8954162148545612345413 and 2555548884541548864545876454 and 3258878954562158546315 and 154154584786545123654dash 48654585598744121545645 dash 235969565458854554865. And a zero."

"Thank you. One moment."

"You seriously got all of that? Or are you dicking me?"

"Mmm. Searching..." supervisor said.

"What's the square root of 9,365?"

"I have no idea, but I can tell you that 9653449 is a stella octangula number."

"You need a whole fancy office just for your head, don't you?" I asked.

"Well, bad news. I can't find it."

"Your head?" (maybe the extra shot of Jim Beam the in the third refil wasn't a good idea)

"Your money."

"Oh, fuuuuuck," I groaned. "It was sent to some group in Africa who study the mating habits of dung beetles, wasn't it? You can tell me. I can take it."

"No clue. You'll have to send a copy of that check to our research department in Cleveland," he answered.

"Cleveland? Noooo You might as well tell me to send it to the fucking Taco R Us on Main street. I want you to research it. You have the office size brain."

"I can't do that, Ma'am."

"But you told me the medusa oblongata thing!"

"Stella octangula," supervisor corrected.

"Yes! Exactly! You'll find my money!"

"Do you have a pen to write this address down?"

"What happens if they don't find it?"

"You'll have to pay it, again."

The HELL?

"But...I paid it, I have a cancelled check. Money gone."

"I'm sorry, Ma'am."

"And what happens if I won't?"

"We'll put a lien on your assets," supervisor said ominously.

"Ha! I have an old Shaun Cassidy poster, a pair of Converse from 1985 and a stale bag of mother fucking Doritos! Can I send THAT to Cleveland?"

"Seriously. They'll even take your dog if it has any resale value."

"I'd like to see you try, bitch!" I choked and hung up the phone. Cleveland, indeed.

Twenty minutes later, a land hurricane with a tornado hit our area and lasted 3 fucking days . The IRS does not fuck around.

However, I WANT MY SHINGLES BACK, YOU IRS FUCKS.

4 comments:

  1. oh crap... did I hear IRS? Crap.. I'm hiddin the crown and diving under the couch.. I fear... You know our hookers don't pay their taxes.. EVAH!!!.. IRS doesn't accept Xanex and Gin..

    ReplyDelete
  2. I HATE the IRS!! Hate them, hate them, HATE THEM!

    ReplyDelete

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