Taxes

It's tax time once again, dear readers. It's that time of year when we receive a little piece of paper in the mail encapsulating and distilling all the worry, sweat, political manuevering, yes'ing, meetings, office potlucks and fake smiles in the hallway, into a sterile number in Box 1 of your W-2.

Imagine my annoyance opening my W-2s from the Old Boy Network Law Firm, P.C. and found that the third copy of my W-2 wasn't mine. It was a copy of the Popcorn-Smell Hating Partner's W-2. Box 1 on his form let me know that he made a whopping $180,000.00 last year while sitting in his office on his fat Dockers-encased butt.

Naturally, I called the firm's bookkeeper and told her of the mistake. She said she'd send me a new set of W-2s. When I asked her what I should do with Dockerboy's W-2, she said to rip it up.

"I'm guessing that won't be a problem," she said kindly.

"I'm happy to do it!" I answered.