I’m going to jail—federal Prison to be exact. I got a call from the IRS the other day. The very stern and serious guy on the phone said they had issued a warrant for my arrest for unpaid taxes, and officers were already on the way to arrest me. He said I needed to go buy a gift card then call a number and give them the information from the card to stop the officers from showing up at my front door. I certainly didn’t want to go to prison. I can’t imagine taking showers with other guys at my age. I’m pretty sure the Supreme Court would consider it cruel and unusual punishment for anyone to have to see me naked. I told the guy to hold on for a minute while I got a pencil and paper to write down the number to call, but he wouldn’t listen and just kept droning on about how rough federal prison is and how many years I would be locked up. I put down the phone and ran and got the pencil and paper, but when I got back, he had hung up. I didn’t know what to do, so I packed a suitcase and some cigarettes to trade so I wouldn’t have to be someone’s play toy in the pen. (I only brought a pack because thinking a play toy my age was worth even that much was more the result of an inflated ego than anything else.) Then I waited for the FBI to come and get me. They haven’t showed up yet, and I wish they would hurry because I have to pee.
A few days later the IRS called me again. This time it was a serious woman who informed me that they had mistakenly given me a tax return I wasn’t supposed to get, and if I would just call another number and give them my bank account information, they could straighten this all out, and they wouldn’t have to issue a warrant for my arrest. I tried to tell her that I hadn’t received a refund, and there were already officers coming to pick me up on the other warrant. I suggested they just have the same officers pick me up on both warrants instead of having to make two trips, and maybe they could save the government a couple bucks that way. She didn’t seem to be interested—this is why the federal budget is so bloated—in fact, she didn’t seem to even hear me, just like the first guy. I’ve come to the conclusion that it is some kind of affirmative action program where they hire the disabled for government jobs. It’s a good idea, but I really don’t think people with hearing disabilities should be making phone calls.
So I’m still here with my suitcase, waiting for the FBI or the US Marshall’s to show up and get me. I just had a nice young man with a foreign accent call me from Microsoft to let me know my computer has been hacked. I’ll need to run downstairs for a minute to give him access to my computer so he can fix the problem. I hope the officers don’t show up while I’m down there, because I still need to pee before they take me.
Joel Jurrens author’s page at Amazon
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