You know I hate doing my taxes. I always get a nasty little head rush when I look down and the number on that check has two commas in it.
My accountant, Murray, tells me that I can't take most of the deductions I was counting on. The six figures I paid out to Steve Houze for criminal defense isn't deductible. Neither are the fines I paid to the team. And the man flat-out laughed at my story about medical marijuana.
Gas for the Humvee? Not deductible. Munchie stops with Rasheed? I was trying for a business entertainment theory, but Murray's telling me no-go. That damn alarm system ought to be deductible, but there's no way. Home drug test? Uh-uh. Tattoo touch-up? Nope.
At least drug rehab counts as a medical expense. And I get to take my donations to charity when I'm apologizing after my busts. But they hardly make a dent, man. Uncle Sam takes me to the cleaners worse than Sam Cassell.
Then, just my luck. I try to heat up a burrito in the microwave while I'm looking over the tax papers, and I damn near blow up the house.
Forgot to take it out of the tinfoil.
--Posted by Damon at 1:53 am
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