Although I am the founder of a Fortune 01 company, gentle reader, I still enjoy getting my hands dirty whenever April 15 rolls around. Sure, I could hire a tax preparer to do my taxes–heck, I could purchase a gaggle of tax preparers and have each one fill out a single line on the form–but I’m a very do-it-yourself person. That reminds me of a quick story, actually.
This was a while back, I believe, but I don’t recall the exact year. I was just starting out because I remember eyeing my fifth condo when I received notice of an impending tax audit. The government apparently didn’t take too kindly to my claiming Oompah-Loompahs as dependents, and for the life of me I still don’t see why not. The Men in Suits and Dark Glasses were promptly deployed, though there might have been a Woman in a Blazer with Dark Glasses, I’m not sure. Things were just more conservative back then, so women were relegated to a more domestic role–as lithe ninja assassins who prowled noiselessly on rooftops for tax evaders.
Muse wasn’t around because she had flown to Chantilly to sue for libel. Some crackerjack author had apparently published a reimagining of Milton’s Paradise Lost and painted Muse in a rather scandalous light. Anyway, this made my escape from the States much easier, and so I booked it all the way to Bangalore with my auditors in close pursuit. Why they chose to follow me, I’ll never know. I got tired of running at some point, so I put on my Gloves of Tastefulness and made all the “deductions” I needed. It was a violent scene filled with papers and carnage, and to this day I still feel a little guilty. That’s why I do my own taxes.
Sometime last week I received a brief but flattering e-mail from the owner of this establishment, gentle reader, and we all know the best response is free advertisement. I’ve already put in a high priority memo to the Advertising Department, so I should hear from them shortly. For those of you taking notes, I would call this “quid pro com,” a simple concept that basically says, “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. You scratch my back again, I’ll rip your friggin’ head off.”
The writer bills himself as an Anglophile in the inaugural entry, and that’s just dandy. I am known in some circles as Ang-Lo–probably for my hip take on moors and crumpets–so I think we’re in agreement here. Whether you’re finishing a thesis on 18th century British history or an ardent Anglophile yourself, you may rest well knowing I’m in the hizouse with the DL on the Britshizzles.
Some of you may wonder from time to time why those nutty Englishpeople spell “favorite” as “favourite,” “shop” as “shoppe,” or “realize” as “realise.” It all began a few decades ago when Muse got bored with the States (I think those Rosie the Riveter posters pissed her off royally), so we hopped a yacht and booked it ‘cross the Atlantic, where I moonlighted as a treasure hunter along the Thames for a month or so.
We were diving for a rare type of ha’penny when we came upon a huge crate, an 8’ x 6’ affair wrapped tightly in chains. That’s 2.44 by 1.83 “metres,” in case you’re into that kind of thing. We got a few bystanders to help pull the crate onto dry ground while I supervised the enterprise. Strangely enough, the box was much lighter than it appeared. Muse was the first to approach the crate. She pressed her ear against the wood.
“Wait, I know what’s inside!” she said excitedly. “Quick, give me the Cane.”
Within moments she had worked off the chains. How she did it so quickly, I’ll probably never find out.
What ensued was sheer chaos, as thousands of vowels and the occasional “s” poured out of the package. The bystanders started running in terror from the scene, and one fellow–I’ll never forget this–looked like Willy Hague engaged simultaneously in a coronary and an argument. But Muse, in all her infinite charm and mysterious ways, whispered something and waved her hand in a curious fashion. All the letters settled down instantly.
It turns out that Jack the Ripper did a grisly job cutting the five vowels from their rightful words, citing an unquenchable lust for more efficient spelling. And the occasional “s”? Let’s not talk about that. Fortunately, though, good literature is damn nigh eternal, so most of these letters escaped unscathed. With a quiet word from Muse and an outpouring of public support, many of the letters agreed to find their way home. That’s how I remember it, at least.
Monday rituals invite a study all by themselves, gentle reader, and I’ve been theorizing about how best to deal with them start-of-the-week blues. I will share these ideas with you in due time, but for now consider giving this game a whirl. The manual suggests compiling the game to make it run, but I had neither the means nor the patience to do so. Those of you in the same boat may find instant gratification here.
It’s a ping-pong simulator, in case I’ve been too cryptic, and you should give it a try despite the funky interface. After going through the tutorial and playing on “easy” for about fifteen minutes, I was swept back to those glorious weekday afternoons spent ping-ponging in a smelly, lawless room filled with troubled youth and worn paddles. Nostalgic is as nostalgic does.