Here’s the deal: things that are funny make you happy – but things that make you happy aren’t funny. No one wants to hear a story about how “oh my gosh, traffic was totally fine today, the highway was empty and no one cut me off and I didn’t swear or curse the whole way home and I only cried once.” Because that’s boring.
Everyone wants to hear about when this guy in a white Monte Carlo cut you off and you honked and yelled “Where the hell do you think YOU’RE going, jackass?!” and he got out and said, “What’d you say, asswipe?” and you say “you heard me, you fat turd-burglar!” and then he pops his trunk and takes out a huge mother-effing bat and you shit your pants and screech over onto the shoulder to get around him and wave him the finger out your window as you go. And maybe he hurls the bat after you and just misses your bumper, but maybe the effort made his sunglasses fall off his head and they broke on the pavement and then maybe when he bends over to pick them up, a burly trucker jumps down from his cab and rapes him, and maybe you and your friends all cheer. Everyone loves that story.
For this reason, I was really hoping that doing my taxes was going to turn out to be a huge pain in the ass – because then at least it might make a funny story and my day wouldn’t be a total bore. No such luck. H&R Block is the Prince Charming of my Internet tax-filing fairy tale. That company up and swept me off my feet, took me on a crazy horse, magic carpet, Crazy Horse (holla, Pocahontas!) ride and left me breathless at my desk, with a sweet taste on my lips, a pounding heart in my chest, and a fire in my loins.
If I was a princess, and that was my first date with my Prince (both pretty much true), I would kill myself if he didn’t call back. H&R Block is lucky I don’t have his cell phone number because I’d already be peppering the old inbox with mushy text messages. “Hey boo, miss you already! Can’t wait to “do business” next year ;) call me! Muah!”
Good thing, I guess, because you just know he’d get turned off that I was so clingy and needy and then I’d probably go on anti-depressants and sleep with TurboTax, who’s basically the Rumpelstiltskin of the story, except with Turbo-charged libido – at least I hope so. (Don’t you hate when you’re doing that “try-to-get-over-him hook-up” and the guy you pick up at the bar whose pick-up line was when he said he liked your personality turns out to be kind of a pansy in the sack? Yeah, that’s never happened to me either.)
Where were we? Rumpled stilt skin? No, before that. Oh yeah, H&R Block and how much I want him to take me to the Prom. I know it’s kind of short notice, but I’m really hoping, because we really hit it off, and I know he’s really popular, but I don’t think he’s such a player. Deep down, we’re so similar, I can just feel it.
Plus, booyah! I get like $900 back from the government, which kicks ass! I know that’s just because of the economic stimulus package, but whatever. The economy’s not the only one getting his package stimulussed, you can bet on that. And I’m definitely giving all the credit to H&R Block anyway, just like girls in high school at the prom.
You know what I’m talking about: all these girls in high school with visions of romance compounded with the whisperings of a thousand slumber parties and two shots of cheap vodka who are dead-set on the idea of losing their virginity at prom and rationalize that the mop-top soccer player in his dad’s car is the dream boy because he bought her a corsage and smiled while he held the door for her.
My date was the only honorable one who told me that was what was really going on. Nice girl. Kinda outta my league, but at least she was honest. I think she might have let me kiss her, but she had to get home early.
No such excuse, H&R Block; you work round the clock, my heart you unlock, you harden my, resolve.
Guess what else is open 24 hours, H&R Block? My arms, and the other half of my bed. Like I said in the first place, you're easy; I just wish you were hard.