I, Carl Doink, have punched out five-eyed sharks on Jupiter’s icy moons. On Garalius-98, there’s a festival held in my honor, and though confetti can easily kill the planet’s inhabitants, they throw it anyway. I helped save the golden retriever king, Pete, when he was stolen from his milk-bone castle on Barkulon. I’ve had countless encounters across galaxies that will be spoken of for the rest of time. Yet, for the life of me, I can’t remember if we’ve had sex, Veronica from H&R Block.
Sitting here in your office on Earth-7, discussing my taxes, I feel like we might have. The way you put your head in your hands and sigh, the way you mutter “how have you never heard of a W-9 form?” is something I’ve seen before. Could it be you’re the one that got away during the Yeti orgy on Valahax? If so, I wish you’d have brought me in on your escape plan. Maybe you’re the sexy assassin from the opera house on Obreya. If that’s the case, why haven’t I been shot in the nuggets by your paralyzing electricity ray?
You’re making direct and serious eye contact with me. Maybe now’s my chance to ask… no, you’re crying. Oh Veronica, what have I done? Did I abandon you on the blood-typhoon hell known as Cashewpopopo, the Living Terraform? What’s that? You think my tax situation is too much for you to handle on your own? Poor Veronica. I understand, and apologize for putting my feet up on your desk and dropping a gold bar down while saying “this ought to cover it.” I should have dropped two or more gold bars.
Maybe you’re the person I canoodled with in that multiverse made up of H&R Blocks. Just adults with glasses taking Advil and slowly giving into depression for billions of miles. Now, this individual could turn into a hundred copies of themselves. Can you do that, Veronica? I’d love to find out after you’ve finished explaining why the IRS will be seizing my spaceship, The Larry Byrd, and my props from the 1997 classic, Chasing Amy.
Come to think of it, maybe we’ve never made whoopie. I hate to admit it, but it’s hard for me to tell tax preparation employees apart. Male, female, neither, or both, I just see the beige khaki spectrum and parade of black dress pants. I don’t know if that’s problematic per se, but the way you’re now downing shots of Waterloo seltzer makes me feel embarrassed either way. I think I should probably go burn my ship and its contents for the insurance money. I feel like I’ll need it.
