Fax Machine?!?

Yeah, I know it’s April 16th. Tax day.

I have an accountant named Shakey, and I sent my stuff to him a month ago, which for me is pretty impressive.

Since then, silencio. I left him a bunch of messages, I’ve been hoarding money, not knowing what I’m gonna have to pay.

Of course I’m gonna have to pay. We don’t have kids.

I got a couple of callbacks from his secretary. He’s working on it, he’ll call you when it’s done, etc.

Now it’s THE DAY. I left him a message this morning. “It’s Game Day, man. Where are we?”

Nothing.

Finally, at 3:00 pm I get a call from his secretary. Which is good because I was about to call again like Joe Pesci — “I do a lotta favors for you, you fuckin’ Jew prick you!”

I don’t know if he’s Jewish. But I was prepared to go there.

The secretary calls me. He’ll have everything finished and filed electronically tonight. Looks like I’m gonna owe about the same as last year, and as long as I mail the payment in with the voucher tomorrow, I’m golden.

How do I get the voucher? He’s 200 miles away.

She asks me for my fax number.

I don’t have a fax number.

She says “You don’t have a fax machine?”

I don’t say this, but no I don’t have a goddamn fax number, madam, because it’s 2012. I have a supercomputer in my pocket where I can write a novel, check for radioactivity, find the closest Applebee’s in Salt Lake City, and get any answer to any question I could ever think of in a million years.

A fax machine? What am I, Russell Crowe in THE INSIDER? Is this 1994?

I mean, yeah. There’s one at work and I’ll call with that number in the morning. At least I know it’s being taken care of and everything will be okay, but c’mon, man. Get a goddamn scanner and a gmail account.

I’m sure you can find a way to write it off as a business expense.

You fuckin’ Jew prick, you.

Peace & Love,
ThatBuddha