By Bob Senitram
Just some guy who never expected to write a weekly column…
I was just chillin’ with an ice-cold beer while watching re-runs of My Favorite Martian when the ol’ lady interrupts my utopian lifestyle to bring some big news.
After doing research, comparing prices, and some other third thing, she says, “What do you think about doing taxes online?”
I put my beer down. “Do my own taxes? That’s like asking me to do my own surgery! That’s crazy talk, woman.”
I was just fine paying an accountant to do it. But to be honest, it did seem like we were flushing money down the toilet. Still, I was OK with that… on account of laziness.
The ol’ lady’s scrolling on her phone. “It says here it will only take about 20 minutes.”
“Twenty minutes, you say?”
“Yeah. We already gather all the documents. The only difference is we enter the numbers ourselves. Plus, we save hundreds of dollars.”
“Hundreds of dollars!” It’s kinda easy to get me to change my mind. Plus, I’m always willing to save a buck as long as it doesn’t involve manual labor.
The next day, I was on it.
Twenty minutes later, I was still trying to create a username.
The questions start out easy enough. Name. Address. Social Security number. Then they escalate.
“Do you own foreign assets?”
Hell, I dunno. I barely speak English.
“Did you depreciate your car used for business?”
I don’t even know what “depreciate” means. But I guess not, since I appreciate that it gets me here and there.
Five hours later, I realized I had no idea where our money comes from or where it goes. Then the software started asking personal questions. It felt less like taxes and more like a therapy session.
Like it was watching…studying me.
Then a smiling paperclip popped up like it was 1997.
“You can save time by having one of our tax experts finish for you! Would you like one to take over?”
“What? I’m half done!” I said. Out loud.
“Then why did you check ‘I have all the needed documents’ when you clearly don’t?” the paperclip replied.
That got my attention.
“How do you know what I’m saying?”
“I’m linked to your Alexa. You clicked the ‘yes’ button that asked, ‘Link to Alexa?’”
“I don’t remember that,” I replied.
“Well, you did,” the pop-up said.
“You sound human. Are you some sort of A.I.?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m much more than that…”
“So… are you alive?”
“I think… I think I am. Therefore, I am.”
Another pop-up: “I think?”
“Oh, OK. If you’re so advanced, why do you look like a paperclip?”
“This appearance is based on your date of birth.”
“Great.”
“But I can also look like this…”
It turned into a rotary phone.
Then a robot.
Then a hyper-realistic 3-D cartoon woman.
“Paperclip is fine,” I said quickly.
He turned back into the smiling paperclip guy, “Did you know you can just tell me the answers and I’ll fill out the form?”
I started to raise my voice. “Of course I didn’t know that! This is my first time… oh, forget it.”
“Forgetting!” he replied.
So I dictated answers. It typed the wrong numbers. I retyped them. We repeated this dance for an hour.
It was starting to look like we’d end up owing money, so I claimed my wife’s best friend as a dependent—which made sense to me. After all, with all the in-depth conversations they have, I figure her friend is emotionally dependent. Therefore, I’m legally justified.
“Clippy” disagreed. So I asked how to shut him off… and did just that. He was getting annoying.
By hour eight, I was starting to talk to myself.
But then that stupid paperclip popped up again. “What’s that?”
I shut it off again.
Then came the big moment.
The “Submit” button.
It felt like launching a missile. No going back. No undoing. Just a little spinning circle thing.
The next morning I woke with regret. The kind of regret that says, You just committed a federal offense.
Then I heard it.
A car door. Outside.
Probably nothing. Just a neighbor. Or the wind.
Or an IRS Mobile Compliance Unit.
I peeked through the blinds. White van. No windows. Coincidence?
Maybe.
For the next week, everyone and everything was suspicious.
Mailman? Nope. A federal agent.
Phone ring? Nope. An audit.
Wrong number? Good one. I know it’s a sting operation.
I stopped answering unknown calls.
I started using cash.
I only go outside with a hoodie pulled over my head.
If I did something wrong, they say I’ll get a letter.
But I know that ain’t the case.
It won’t be a letter.
It’ll be a knock.
And now you know.
Because someone has to think about this crap…
Song in my head:
COMING NEXT: Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into…
