the breakfast table is a warzone of overstuffed binders loose sheets laptops calculator and printer surrounding one irate fellow grappling with his taxes late into each night.
should be seasoned by now, somebody says. what i want to know is, how does one get seasoned to novel demands for greater details of increasing intimacy questionable useability and complete unpredictability? as in, how was i supposed to know you would want me to keep this stuff at my fingertips for my husband to report to you? before i threw it away?
the award for this year's bureaucrat's delight goes to:
highest account balance recorded in reporting year
i can't be totally sure, but i suspect a misguided young ideologue on the loose.
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