My Life In The Fast Lane: Being an Accountant in the Age of Ska

Articles | Mar 6th, 2005

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I sat behind my desk with my hands behind my head, bored as hell. It was a slow day… No clients, all the payroll and bookeeping was done, and the phones were dead. Soon my eyes were closed and I pretended I was at a Bluebeats show. In my dreams I wasn’t some junior CPA. I was Prince Coozer –Rudeboy Supreme! A throat was cleared and I was shaken out of my reverie. Gaining my composure, I soaked in the object of my disturbance. Eyes so violet they could put the flower to shame. Short black shiny hair, crowning an angelic cute face. Breasts the size of small peaches, and just as sweet. Legs that seemed to go on forever beneath a checkered skirt.

Whoever he was, he was the sexiest damn drag queen I have ever seen. (Just kidding) “What could I do to you?” I asked helpfully as she took a seat and fumbled in her purse for a cigarette. “Here, let me get that for you,” I said as I leaned over and offered her a light with my authentic Moon Ska Zippo (only 50 ever made!). She blew lazy blue smoke in the air and slowly crossed her legs. When she succeeded in giving me a monster hard-on, she stated her problem. “I need an accountant,” she said firmly, with conviction. “A strong, virile, sexy hunk of a CPA.” Since I was none of those things I remained quiet. She continued: “I don’t want to owe money this year, and I’ll do anything, ANYTHING for a Federal refund.” She emphasized ‘ANYTHING’ by closing her eyes, biting her lip, and rubbing her hands along her neck. I decided to take the job. “OK, honey, ya got last year’s Form 1040 on you?” Her calm composure broke down and she bursted into tears. “I’ve never f-filed before,” she sobbed. “I’m not even sure h-h-how m-many dependants I should claim!” Now there’s something about a girl crying that clutches my heart and squeezes it. I walked around my desk and put my arms around her, holding her, as my shoulders got salty wet. The door crashed open, I felt myself being lifted, and the next thing I knew I was lying on the ground across the room.

Regaining consciousness, I looked up to see a mountain of flesh — It was the biggest skinhead I’ve ever seen outside of an Inspecter 7 show. Faintly, I heard the girl screaming at him to stop. “It’s not what you think!” or some such cliche. I smiled. He booted me in the stomach and stars exploded. I opened my eyes, and on the floor next to me was one of those plastic pencils that never need sharpening. I grabbed it and held it up, just as his boot came down again. Up through the imitation Docs the pencil went, implanting itself deep in his size 16 foot. The Goliath Skinhead screamed bloody murder and fell backwards. I used the opportunity to get back on my wobbily feet. Shakily, I snatched my adding machine off the desk. WHACK! I smashed it in his fat face and he went down like a demolished skyscraper. The girl ran into my arms and I kissed her long and passionately, caressing her face and hair. With my other hand, I swept everything off my desk as our steamy embrace continued on the desk top. As my rudegirl professionally undid my belt, and I lifted her skirt, a thought came to me: Accounting is a dangerous job, but the rewards are far, far greater.