Dear Goddamned Beagle,
You’re not helping.
I know this is our first time together at tax season, but in the future, when I’m frantically trying to get them in on a Sunday before leaving for a week, while realizing I’d meant to get some info from the accountant who’s apparently now in the witness protection program, and I’m on the phone trying to get into my locked Staples account to find out how much I spent on the printer, and the doorbell rings, it’s just mean to steal my salad.
Adding to my tax ineptitude humiliation this year will be olive oil stains on my returns. Also, I didn’t want that piece of celery either.