These days I pay to have my taxes done. I know it’s dumb with all the basically free websites you can use but I just pay someone. I used to do it myself then things got all complicated. We bought a house, I don’t know how to do that. I went back to school, I don’t know how to do that. Paid a bunch for MRI’s and back surgery, I don’t know how to do that either. Last year I got I letter from the IRS telling me my 2010 return was wrong and I owed a bunch on money. I though 2010, really, how far behind are these guys? That was 3 years ago, I still had some hair then. Anyway I took the letter to H &R Block and they fixed everything no problem and no money owed, so I just figure it’s worth it now.
I don’t trust those freaks working in the makeshift cubicle in Walmart though. Sure they are technically employed by a reputable company so you’re covered by their super, gold-star protection or whatever they call it, but they creep me out. Just cause you took a 5 day course after getting let go from the deep fried, gravy tasting plant doesn’t make me confident in your “Tax Professional” title.
I make an appointment at a year round location, with a year round employee. Sure this guy probably started as the guy at Costco in the fake cubicle, but now he’s put in a few years and seen more than as season’s worth of returns, plus they usually don’t look or smell like a regular at chuck-a-rama.
Today I enter the building and was greeted immediately by a guy asking if I was Mr. Barney. I told him indeed I am Mr. Barney and he led me to his desk.
This is when I notice a few things, tattoos and scars to be specific. I have nothing against either of those things, I have both however mine and his have a difference.
I have scars from the aforementioned surgery, a motorcycle accident and the ones on my heart from evil girls. His on the other hand were definitely the result of violence. Not like he was abused by his dad, but more like he and a few friends met some other dudes in a mall parking lot late one night and he got hit in the face with a chainsaw blade.
My tattoo I got on a table wrapped in plastic wrap in a tattoo parlor. He got his in 1 of 3 places, a garage, a crack house, or prison. It looked horrible on the web part between your thumb and the rest of your hand, although the poor quality text did inform me he was in fact a “Bad Boy”. Same place on the opposite hand he hand 3 dots in a triangle, like on a ferrets ear. I used to have a ferret so I just figured this meant he had been fixed and de-scented.
Based on appearance a lot of people might be put off, not me though. I figure this dude is one of those Life Time movie turn your life around guys. He made some bad choices in the past, but now he’s turned his life around. And worst case scenario he steals my identity, we track it back to an H&R Block employee and I sue the pants off them and buy an island, the Lakers, and maybe Kate Upton.
I’ll cut to the chase, this dude blazes through it all, sometimes whipping out a calculator to add up info off my papers before telling me he just got another thousand for me. This dude knows his way around tax returns like Kim Kardashian knows her way around the BET awards. At the end of 30 minutes of an hour long appointment I walk out with the anticipation of a fat return, which I technically already paid them so I shouldn’t be too excited about but still.