An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Thursday, July 16, 2009

An Open Letter to the IRS

Dear Internal Revenue Service,

Where the fuck's my money at, bitches?

Seriously. I want my 1st Time Homebuyer Tax Credit check, please.

We bought a home, and it was our first time. Seriously, our cherries got popped all over the place at the Weichert Closing Office. They got money, we got keys, a clogged bathroom sink, and a house where the previous owners fixed everything with tape. Hilarious, right? Yeah. Now give us our fucking money.

Our accountant advised us that we could either wait until we filed our income tax return in April of this year, or file for it to be retroactively applied to last year's tax return. Pretty nifty, right? You people didn't make a lot of noise about that, did you? Didn't want too many people out there knowing they could do that, did you?

Well, motherfuckers, that's what accountants, and bloggers, are for.

I check the mailbox obsessively and excessively. Sometimes three or four times a day.

And that's a pretty significant feat for someone who is at work for most of the day.

Seriously, where the fuck's my check?

My wife wants her new car already, fuckheads. She's tired of tooling around in like a tool in my black Ford Focus.

She wants her Honda Fit.

She's been going on and on about it since the damn things came to this country. That was, like, almost four years ago, man.

We're not getting this car until we get that check. Everytime I see that Focus, I want to throw up. I can't believe I've been making payments on that piece of shit since April 9, 2005. I mean, come on already.

Look, enough bullshit....

I know a guy. Eddie. Drools when he talks. Retarded. Plays viola da gamba. Impotent. Lives in Jersey. His mother's a trashcan. Eddie likes to wack guys on their knees with lead pipes. He also likes to fart into styrofoam cups and smell it. Please, don't make me have Eddie come down there and pay you guys a visit.

Just give us our check already. You don't want to meet Eddie. You should hear him play, though. Move you to fucking tears.

Sincerely,
Mr. Apron

3 comments:

  1. I don't know which is scarier...

    People from Jersey or the IRS
    (and yes, I'm from Jersey)

    ReplyDelete
  2. I think Eddie needs to pay a visit anyway, just to drive the point home.

    Which is something it sounds like your Focus can't do.

    ReplyDelete
  3. An interesting postscript to this entry:

    Yesterday, a letter from the Department of the Teasury, IRS, arrived in our mailbox:

    "You may have already received your refund by direct deposit or mail. If not, you can expect it in approximately 2 weeks."

    YAY! Thanks, Eddie!

    ReplyDelete

Got something to say? Rock on with your badass apron!