Be me, Bonky And this is a real fucking "be me" moment You're never more you when you're doing taxes Never less 'us' or 'we' or 'they' or 'them' I'm trying to pinpoint the exact feeling that doing taxes elicits Because I recognize it from somewhere in my life And I think it's that feeling from when you're a kid and there's an overbearing adult standing over you making sure you complete something that you're not good at It's that, but superimposed over the very adult feeling of looking over something intended for a child that's needlessly complicated to the point where you as an adult can't understand it and you're going over ways in which you could possibly explain it to them in a way they might understand. There's some kind of chase going on on the 5 o'clock news involving a bus And I want to watch it because somebody might fucking die on live television But I'm struck with a sudden case of the crybabies when I have to report on the sales of all my properties in the maldives It's just a nightmare Because I've assigned all that work to Betty Because Betty's a trading demon Pretty much all her income for the year comes from flipping property And she sends me the paperwork in suitcases Everything is crammed haphazard into these suitcases She takes a percentage And always makes a profit But sometimes the margins are pretty thin She's the only person in the world who would sell a multi-million dollar property to pay for a daquiri And I pay through the ass on it in taxes Which is fine! Conceptually! I have the money! Somewhere! I just need to transfer it! Or ship it! Or transmute it! It's probably embodied in a statue! Or a painting somewhere! I just need clarity I need to clear my head I need a break I need to eat something I head to the kitchen Club sandwich I need a club sandwich I throw open the Freez-e-King and HOLY FUCKING SHIT a giant cloud of mold issues forth, blanketing me in a dull green powder I swear it wasn't like this when I started my taxes It feels like we just cleaned this unit My club sandwich is still there on the top rack Its shape perfectly preserved in a thick dusting of mold I have to do something about this Luckily, Pickle Horse-man made cleaning this up pretty easy I go out and grab the pressure washer, which is still hooked up to the hose and the hose is still running from whoever used it last I return to the fridge and set the pressure washer on full blast I blast the shit out and the shelves all flip up and everything clatters around inside and I'm hit with dark green moldy sprayback I stomp everything down into the hole cut into the bottom of the fridge, keeping the spray trained on it I flip the switch for the industrial shredder installed into the base Everything washes down into it and gets ground up Genius Absolute genius Once it gets hooked up to the sewage line instead of dumping directly into the basement, that is Once we do that: Genius. Absolute genius. The hose for the pressure washer falls into the industrial shredder The industrial shredder starts greedily eating our pressure washer It starts sucking down the hose like a spaghetti "Oh shit," someone says. It's Bonky Bonky Doo, Banky-Doo's improverished twin brother who has been sleeping on our couch The hose wrapped around the outside of the house, trapping him against a door frame He makes a hurking sound as it tightens "Think!" I tell myself, certain I can forestall whatever is about to happen, if only I can think fast and good enough. The really good hose pickle horse-man bought because it's nearly indestructible strains the door frame to its limit, then begins cracking it Bonky Bonky Doo is turning blue! The hose wrenches the whole side of the house inward towards the fridge "Oh my goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood," someone shouts. And that someone is me. The piping the hose is connected to is wrenched up from the ground. The pump that attaches to the municipal water supply is wrenched up with it it grabs everything in its path, including Bonky Bonky Doo, and feeds it all into the industrial shredder I look out at the destruction, the huge hole in the side of the house, the geyser of water spraying up from our ruined rose bushes the radio informs me that bus drivers nationwide are capturing horses and driving them into the atlantic ocean I wonder if that means me. I wonder if any of this has anything to do with me. I just have to think, fast and good! And the taxes are all around me in a mile-wide berth and the tide is way in.