Today, I did my taxes at a large tax service chain that rhymes with H&R Glock. "Steve" (his actual name) and I ripped through the tax code, working like hungry, cunning dogs ("Steve" did everything) until my taxes were complete. I think I kind of came out even, although the fact I don't really know basic math anymore prohibits me from knowing anything. And was I just another number to "Steve"? Did the guy ever give a shit about me in the first place? I've always wanted an amazing relationship with my accountant -- the kind of accountant who would cheat me some because he was in deep with some bookie, but take a bullet for me. The kind of accountant who would end up getting shot in the back and killed by a mugger just for his wedding ring, watch, and the few dollars in his wallet.
That's how I'd end up at H&R Glock.
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