Y'uns Like Tax Time?

They Said What?

We use an answering service at the office and that means two things. I don't have to answer the phone and I get to make fun of the messages we receive. Sometimes the callers just leave odd messages and other times, the answering service just gets it wrong. This is a text message I received where they got it so very wrong. (Keep in mind that we're a landscape company and we do irrigation repairs)

[MSG]{Walter is leaking in the parking lot again.}

Oh, that Walter. We try to keep him contained, but he keeps chewing through the cage bars.

The Tax Man Cometh and, Man is He Crazy

At one of the tax preparation offices here, they have come up with a brilliant marketing plan. And by brilliant I mean kooky. They have a guy dressed as Uncle Sam standing on the street corner waving at cars. But he doesn't really look like Uncle Sam. He looks more like a ringmaster at the circus. Albeit, a very frumpy ringmaster. And he stands there all day waving. I wonder if he practices his wave in front of the mirror at home. No. NO. NO. That's not right. Quit twiddling your fingers around so much. You're never going to get this right. Okay, 3 waves with the left hand, then 2 with the right. Fingers together, but relaxed. Elbows tucked. Now try it again. You can do this. Oh god! You're such a moron. Do you want to get out there and look like a total doink in your Uncle Sam circus outfit? It's waving, for christ's sake. How can you fuck up waving?

Is this marketing ploy really supposed to work, tax preparation people? Do you really think we will begin to look at tax-time as a celebratory time of year that is reminiscent of childhoods spent at the circus? Is Uncle Sam the Ringmaster supposed to bring people into your office in droves, begging you to prepare their taxes? Because it has the opposite effect on me.

I have this vision that if I were to walk into your office Entrance of the Gladiators would begin playing, and Zelda the All-Seeing Receptionist would know my name before I told her and would then inform me that she saw great riches in my future in the form of a check from the US Treasury. Boingo the Bouncing Clown would keep finding quarters behind my ear and would incessantly pull fake floral bouquets out of his sleeve. Fire breathers and sword swallowers would be working the room, and would be sporting low-cut, sequined, spandex shirts that showed their man-cleavage and chest zits. No, I don't want your complimentary popcorn, peanuts or cotton candy. And I really don't want my taxes done by the bearded fat lady, while Monkey Boy tap dances in the corner. Tax-time is supposed to be a horrible, depressing time of year. Don't take that away from me, you sick, sick bastards.

Y'uns Speak Arkansan?

In my last post I mentioned the word, "y'uns" which prompted the Most Holy Fwig to ask me if y'uns was a contraction of "you ones". I don't know the answer to this question. Does anyone know what the hell "y'uns" is supposed to be? Is it possibly a bastardized version of "young'uns", which is a contraction of "young ones"? No. That doesn't even make sense. "Young ones" should be "young'ens". So what is young'uns? Young buns? suns? puns? nuns? Sweet mother of god, I'm losing my mind.

I just live among these people, I obviously shouldn't attempt to decipher their language.

Take Care,

The Bablatrice - who has circus music in her head all the time.