Mr. Pug & Mr. Other Pug Get Taxed
Mr. Pug got up from the kitchen table.
“I’ll put on a pot of coffee,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night.”
“Why stay up?” asked Mr. Other Pug, holding his favorite blankie. “It’s way past bedtime already.”
“Tax time,” said MP. “I’m finishing up our taxes.”
Mr. Other Pug was confused. “Why do we need to do taxes?” he asked. “We’re pugs, dammit.”
“It’s part of being an American,” said Mr. Pug. “We all have to do our part.”
“That’s a load of horse-hockey,” said Mr. Other Pug. “Taxes-Schmaxes.”
“Well, whether you agree or not, it needs to be done,” said Mr. Pug. “And like millions of others, I procrastinated.”
“Maybe I can help,” said Mr. Other Pug.
“It requires skills in math,” warned Mr. Pug.
“Oh,” paused Mr. Other Pug. “Then let me take care of the coffee, you just tell me what we owe. Or maybe we’ll get a fat refund.”
“If I thought we were getting a tax refund I would have already done them,” said Mr. Pug, banging away on the calculator. “But I’m almost finished.”
“I don’t understand what the big hurry is,” said Mr. Other Pug. “There’s no compelling reason to send the IRS a check any sooner than you need to.”
Mr. Pug looked up from his paperwork.
“A check?” he asked. “Who said anything about a check? We don’t have a bank account, remember? When we pay our taxes, we need to send something of equal or greater value.”
“Like what?” asked Mr. Other Pug,
Mr. Pug pulled a cardboard box onto the tabletop. It was already addressed to the IRS and inside were old, saliva encrusted tennis balls, chewed-up Frisbees and various biscuits, bones and mal-functioning squeaky toys.
“NO! Not my Frisbee,” screamed Mr. Other Pug, as he dove into the box. He poked his head back out clamping down on the mangled flying disk with his puggy jaws.
“You have to give something up,” said Mr. Pug. “What about your blankie?”
“How dare you even say that,” seethed Mr. Other Pug. “Blankie is my girlfriend.”
“Then?” asked Mr. Pug.
“Has it really come down to my Frisbee or my sex life?” asked Mr. Other Pug.
“It really has,” affirmed Mr. Pug.
Mr. Other Pug dropped the Frisbee back into the box and hopped out.
“So you choose sex?” asked Mr. Pug.
“I hate the IRS,” said Mr. Other Pug.
“Don’t we all,” concluded Mr. Pug as he sealed the box closed. “Don’t we all.”