You have a crappy day at work, then come home to the wife, bitching and moaning about her sister’s latest idiocy, to escape you excuse yourself to go out to the mailbox. The usual suspects taking refuge in the black box.

Mumbling as you walk to hundred or so feet back to the house.

“Bill, bill, bill. Junk mail, junk mail, F*** no I don’t want a free trip to the Bahamas, hmmmm a new Cablela’s catalogue.”

Then you stop, staring at it

At the bottom of the pile.

There it is,

That envelope, the one with that dreaded name on it,

A name that strikes fear into all men.

The Internal Revenue Service, Auditing division

You fall to your knees wailing, teeth gnashing, tears flow like rain, you tear at your hair.

Your neighbors stare, thinking ol’ Richard has finally made it all the way round the bend.

As a final gesture you cry out at the sky, “What have I done to deserve such misery!?!?!?!?!?!?”

And then you search your deepest darkest place and find the courage to open the curse of modern man.

It’s a friendly little note telling you that you were automatically, electronically, painlessly audited and my return was peachy-neato-keeno!

I hate them!

May their children become accountants, a pox upon their family down through four generations, may their hair fall out overnight, may their parking spot be infested with 16 penny nails, may their satellite service fail three seconds into the adult film they just coughed up 20 bucks for. May their pharmacy fill their Viagra prescription with sedatives by mistake.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrgghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!