Originally, this post was going to be titled, “Get a Load of These Fuckers: The Car Dealership.” Then I came home to a letter from the IRS asking for six hundred dollars (ugh IRS get a job I can’t support you forever). We’ll get to the IRS, but first, wanted to talk about the word “fuckers.” It’s such a funny word. A word you use when you’re exasperated. It’s not something you say when you legitimately hate someone. Just when they’re being a fucker. Dogs are often fuckers. Kids are often fuckers. Today, the dealership where I get my oil changed was a bunch of fuckers. I was thinking blogging about their fuckery might be a better outlet for my anger than refilling my cup with root beer six times later at P. Terry’s because “I deserve it” but then, well, the IRS letter. No time to start a new blog series in which I vent about various fuckers. I need to deal with my tax liability.
I don’t know exactly what happened. It has something to do with the Covid recovery payments. Seems like the IRS and TurboTax are maybe in disagreement, or I might’ve clicked something wrong on TurboTax because I was doing my taxes the night before they were due and I was doing them in the parking lot of the Vet ER because Fargo was NOT AT ALL BEING A FUCKER and just had a cough, poor little thing, but we were all (us and the vets) a little worried she’d swallowed something large and dangerous and was trying to throw it up (good dog; good puppy; sorry you were sick, girl). Anyway, now the IRS is on my ass and I have to pay them by September 6th or they’ll do IRS shit, and not the normal IRS shit where they just come around asking you for six hundred dollars because ONCE AGAIN IRS I AM NOT GOING TO SUPPORT YOU FOREVER AT SOME POINT YOU NEED TO MAKE YOUR OWN MONEY AND STOP SPENDING IT ON ALL THIS PAPER.
I’ll get to the IRS thing on Monday. Maybe tomorrow, even. Whatever. Car dealership is off the hook for now (went to Jiffy Lube instead).
hahahahahaha
fuckers.