I am NOT someone to be trifled with (part 2)

Wow, do I owe my faithful blog readers an apology. To leave you in the lurch after my previous blog was not right. Not right at all. I have blogging principles you know. If you've lost any sleep wondering how your beloved blogger did as the result of his visit to the local IRS office, I apologize. I know by the fan mail that many of you plan your business and personal calendars around the musings of me, your aforementioned blogger. That would make you the bloggee.

Well, here goes.

As it turns out the local IRS office is a mere 17 miles, as the crow flies, from my home, “Ranch Relaxo.” But the crow was grounded, so I had to drive. (Rim shot. I'll be here all week folks.) In order to get to the IRS office from my house, I have to traverse an intersection of two major Boston highways that is only free from mind numbing traffic jams between 11:59 pm and 12:01 am. Unfortunately the IRS is closed during that two minute window, so I had to trek the traffic to complete my mission. Now I am at my most snarkiest in the morning, so I planned to actually go to the IRS office at least 30 minutes before they lowered the drawbridge over the moat. I headed out about 7:30 am, a good hour and a half before the office opened, in order to allow for the traffic mayhem. 17 miles in 90 minutes. You with me? Of course, there wasn't a soul on the road enabling me to cover the 17 miles in a solid 15 minutes, and I got off at the exit way, way early for my “Clash of the Titans” experience. Well, you can't swing a dead cat by the tail in Massachusetts without hitting a Dunkin Donuts and what to my surprise was there in front of me just off the exit ramp, (you guessed it) a Dunkin Donuts. I cleverly pulled into the parking space next to an idling Brinks truck. I made sure the driver could see my hands at all times as I exited my motor vehicle. I could see the headlines now, “Totally Innocent Really, Really Nice Guy vaporized by Brink's employees gunfire for making sudden move with his iPad.” I entered Dunkin Donuts and proceeded to stand in line and cheerily greeted the illegal alien who was about to take my order. Now the lady in front of me had already placed her order for a medium decaf and as I noticed the DD employee reaching for the REGULAR coffee, I mentioned to the woman that they were about to give her regular coffee instead of decaf. It's just the kind of guy I am. No need to thank me. I like to think you would do the same thing if you were in my position. Actually you would probably envision the lady drinking her unsuspecting REGULAR coffee, getting the caffeine heebee jeebies and think it was funny and keep your mouth shut. But then that's the kind of person you are. Now it was my turn to order. I ordered my everything bagel with cream cheese with chive and a medium DECAF coffee with EXTRA cream, being oh so careful to make sure the former communist who was about pour the coffee got it from the right pot. This is exactly the kind of place where people think they can trifle with me. But then I noticed that the person who took my order said they don't carry cream cheese with chive anymore at Dunkin Donuts. EXCUSE ME but the entire Jewish race in New York City lives predominantly on “chive cheese” as they call it, so how could Dunkin Donuts discriminate against a poor, Irish kid from Lynn and stiff me sans chive cheese. Oy Vay! Of course this is what I was thinking and not what I said to Consuelo. And so taking on the persona of the pacifist nation of Switzerland as my support system, I ordered REGULAR cream cheese AND I wanted it ON the toasted bagel. (Are you still with me? Capitalizing this stuff is important so pay attention.) We haven't even got within a mile of the IRS office and I'm already on the verge of an international incident over chive cheese. I dutifully waited in the PICK UP ORDER area humming Beethoven's 9^th symphony in E Flat Major and lickity split here comes my bagel sans cream cheese, chive cheese, cheddar cheese or Chuck E. Cheese. I respectfully pointed out to the andromorph across the counter that I requested that the cheese, chive or not, be placed ON the bagel. You don't think I'm going to “schmeer” my own bagel with cream cheese do you? I have rights you know. The humanoid moved back to his cream cheese work station at about the same rate of speed that Jabba the Hut would have moved and proceeded the accede to my wishes and delicately swipe the PLAIN cream cheese on my now cooling bagel. I kept a keen eye on him to make sure he didn't expectorate on it prior to completion of his appointed rounds. So I'm all set, except for one thing, no coffee. Now one would think with a society that is reasonably health conscious (except for those of us who prefer pepperoni to breathing) that Dunkin Donuts would prepare more than one pot of decaf coffee for the unwashed masses of people that come through the swinging doors, especially at 8:00 am in the morning. But no, you get one pot o' decaf and you'll like it. If Dunkin Donuts made two pots of decaf and re-brewed a new pot after one of those pots was emptied, that would change the axis of the earth and melt the polar ice cap faster than Al Gore made $100 million dollars by selling out to Al Jazeera. So let me recap: I've got a decreasingly tepid bagel covered with not my first choice cream cheese and no coffee. Seemingly hours later, a pert and perky Hell's Angels wannabe cheerfully apologizes for my 30 second wait and handed me my SUPPOSED decaf coffee with ALLEGED extra cream. I was starting to think they were trifling with me. Well, I sat down at a table and since I didn't miss my mouth with either the bagel or the coffee, I guess we could call Round 1 a win for me. Next after killing 30 minutes checking out the blind, cripple and crazy people who occupied the seating area of Dunkin Donuts at 8:00 am, I was off to take on THE MAN, barehanded I might add.

INTERMISSION

(If you need to take a break, it's OK with me. The blog will still be here when you get back. Just remember to wash your hands.)

Since I have a GPS, I was reasonably certain that I would get to the IRS office without further ado or any other type of ado. That's sort of true, but the office is located in a building that although fairly big, by the office building standards of Stoneham, MA, there was no sign that the IRS was housed there. I mean I wasn't expecting searchlights in the sky or Las Vegas type neon lights or anything, but I thought they could help me out here and maybe just ease my anxieties by having a sign out front that let me know I was on the right track. Since I was reasonably certain that I was at the right address, I tried to find a parking space. The only problem was all the signs in the parking garage said that the spaces were ALL assigned and that anyone caught parking in an unassigned space would have to listen to Barry Manilow songs for a period of time equal to but not exceeding the amount of time Obama was a United States Senator. Actually I thought it might be worth the risk since Obama performed his duties as a Senator for less time than it took me to get my bagel. But I digress. Nice, big office building (again we're talking Stoneham, MA here) and NO PLACE TO PARK. I drove around the block 3 times trying to look for a sign that said “Parking for IRS Visitors,” but nope no sign. I parked on a side street some ways away from the building and, while marching down the street with John Philip Souza fervor, I headed to the IRS office.

Now I want you to know I'm half an hour early for the 9 am opening and there are already three people ahead of me. Clearly they were tax dodgers and malcontents who would take hours to declare to the anticipated myriad of IRS agents that they didn't know that had to pay taxes on their income and how were they going to support all of Nicaragua if they had to send the money to Harry Reid instead of Che Guevera or one of his appointed henchmen. I cooled my heels. I must say the IRS people are prompt. At EXACTLY 9:00 am, and I mean EXACTLY, the door opened. I mean nothing pisses me off more, and I mean nothing, than to be waiting for the bank or Costco to open the doors or Mass to start at the appointed hour and 2, 3 or horrifically 5 agonizing minutes late they open the doors or start the Mass. Hey God, I'm busy here. Well not the IRS. With Swiss accuracy the door opened and out stepped an ARMED security guard. Now I was expecting to see a lot of things, but a uniformed security guard with a Glock 9 on his belt at the IRS wasn't one of them. I mean if they have an armed security guard for an IRS office, shouldn't they have at least one B52 circling over our Post Offices? I figured I could disarm the security guard anyway if need be with my National Guard hand to hand combat training from the late 60's, if events deteriorated to the point that this was the only alternative. But heck, I'm just here about Form 5695. What are the chances of indiscriminate gun fire? Now I wish I'd dressed in cammo. I waited for the other three people to enter the office before me, since one of the other people was a woman and I figured she would kick my ass if I cut in front of her. Turns out she was accompanying one of the other men so actually there were only TWO people in front of me. This day, so far, is turning out just like an Annette Funicello movie for me. Dutifully, I went over to the machine that doles out the tickets that tell your place in line (think the deli counter at Stop & Shop) and pushed the button. Guess what number I got???????...................................200!!!!! As in 2 freakin' 0 freakin' 0. I looked at my number, I looked at the other three people standing in the waiting room with me and I thought to myself, “Are there several bus loads of undocumented aborigines walking up the stairs to the office just waiting to push me to number 200 in line? There weren't any aborigines, or aliens documented or otherwise, I just got number 200 and I would have to wait. Now the snarkey atom within my brain started to quiver. Are they going to start at number 1 and call off each and every number until they get to number 200, and then say, "I'm sorry sir, it's time for our four hour coffee break, followed by our three hour lunch. We should return by 5 o'clock just in time to shut down the office for the day." Well, mirabile dictu, it didn't happen that way. The two parties in front of me conducted their business without the necessity for gunfire and it was now my turn.

These are the kind of moments I was put on this earth for.

It was now MY TIME. (Cue the Whitney Houston music.)

NUMBER 200!

Since I was the only person now occupying the waiting room, my cat-like mind told me I was up to bat. That and the ticket that said “200” that I was holding. It was only about 10 to 12 feet from my seat to the counter but I crossed this no man's land without any concern for my personal well being or bodily harm. As I glanced to my right the security guard ever so lazily put his hand on his sidearm so slowly that I think he thought I wouldn't notice. But notice I did. He had the look of “trifle” in his cool, gray eyes.

I completely turned off the snarky gene and with my best Cheshire cat smile cheerfully greeted the civil servant who probably hated her job more than I hated the thought of Hillary taking over in 2016. “Good morning. I have a question and I wanted to know if you could help me, because I'm so helpable.” (The last part I didn't actually say, in case this blog ever ends up being read into the Congressional Record at my trial.)

“I have a question about Form 5695” I said.

And that’s when things started to go downhill.

She looked at me with a “We don't have no stinkin' Form 5695 here” look. She said, “Form 5695, Form 5695, let me check. Let me see which of those nasty forms is that 5695?” Her (I assume supervisor/associate/mentor/life partner) was right next to her on her computer, probably playing solitaire in a busy manner that would allay any fears that she was screwing off at 9:02 am on a workday. The screwing off and solitaire playing would have to wait until later in the day because we had to solve the mystery of Form 5695.

Ah, Form 5695.....Form 5695. (I was waiting for her to say it like Sydney Greenstreet in the Maltese Falcon.) Yes Form 5695, that's the Residential Energy Tax Credit Form. Now I knew we were getting somewhere and resolution, sweet resolution was just a question away. I related my question in my terse, tight manner (notwithstanding this never ending blog) and upon completion of my question, I reinforced it with, “Did I make myself clear with my question?” That always gets them because if they say yes, then fumble the answer, Mr. Snarky can release the hounds. “No, I understand your question completely........(I was so afraid that her next word would be the word “BUT” and here she comes, comin' round the mountain, the letter “B” forming at the edges of her mouth…...."BUT..........we don't handle those types of questions at offices like this." I tried not to make any sudden movements now or I knew the guard was to going to take the Glock off of safety if I did. There was no doubt in my mind that the government would re-open Alcatraz just for me. I really wanted to say, “At what level of IRS office do you answer questions about Form 5695, the MARS level? I wanted to say that I wasn't really asking where the (bleep) they buried Jimmy Hoffa. I just wanted a simple answer to a simple question about a simple tax credit on the simple ____ing Form 5695. I wanted to deliver this in a measured tone devoid of any unnecessary histrionics, since I was waiting for the security guard to bellow at any second, “SIR, STEP AWAY FROM THE COUNTER AND PLACE YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD.” It didn't get to that fortunately. I just visibly slumped in front of her completely devastated and destroyed, just like the time I found out, when I was 62, that Marshmallow Fluff wasn't good for you.

They don't answer questions about Form 5695 at that level IRS office.

They don't have chive cream cheese anymore at Dunkin Donuts.

And Annette Funicello isn't coming down for breakfast.

I said to myself, “Screw it. (actually it wasn't the word “screw” it was another word but we have to watch our language on this blog.) I'll fill out my taxes and I'm taking the $150 energy credit whether they like it or not.”

No, I will NOT be trifled with.

Not now.

Not ever.

Until next time.................................