It turns out my tax preparer neglected to tell me I was supposed to send in a check. Thanks, buddy! Now go fuck yourself with a rusty spoon!
Last night I was so stressed over this - I am a worrier, people. I worry. A lot - that I didn't want to think about my screenplay. My script is so serious and sad, it was just compounding my worry.
So as I fell asleep I tried to think of a way to turn taxes into a movie. I ended up coming up with this surreal artsy thing with mystical elements - a story about a woman waiting in line to pay her taxes in a big white room with a huuuge green desk and some ugly old lady behind it but really high up. Then the woman goes through a portal to another world where she gets lost in a sea of paperwork.
Then, because I'm me, some dude showed up with a shitload of guns and started blasting the place.
It's the gunfire that lulled me to sleep.
Could your zombies eat the tax preparer, or are they of the variety that only eats organisms with brains?
ReplyDeleteThis is a good idea. I'll assemble my zombie hordes immediately.
ReplyDeleteNever know the tax script could be a nice follow up to Brazil. :)
ReplyDeleteHeh. Thanks. I paid it and as long as it doesn't affect my credit I'll be okay.
ReplyDeleteBut it did not help my tendency to worry too much.
death and taxes
ReplyDeleteHats, I'm new not to the world but to your blog.