• Mr Bigleys

How The IRS Revealed I Was Adopted and Taught Me Sympathy



I think we can all agree that 2020 will be a year we’ll never forget...except for my Grandma. She has dementia; She’ll definitely forget…



For starters, we’re living through a global pandemic that only Bill Gates could have broadly predicted in a Ted video that everyone kept sending me as if the movie Contagion didn’t come out four years prior:



Next came the tragic death of George Floyd and the protests that followed. While much progress has been made, there's still so much more that needs to be done. Luckily, white girls from my native land of suburbia have taken it upon themselves to absolve this world of any such racism through the use of threads, reposted on Instagram.


Typically, these threads are on their IG story jammed between a video of Stacy slanging ass on a boat, another Twitter thread about why the last Twitter thread was wrong #ListeningAndLearning, a Whiteclaw picture, an empowering black and white selfie, and a post used to twist the narrative about that selfie. Sure, they didn't know it was for a Turkish femicide, but now they've brought awareness to both Turkey and women empowerment. So, stand back black people, Kelsey and the girls have this under control.

A thread.

No, I'm just kidding, I get it. A lot of those threads can be very insightful and informative, but also...fuck threads...I'm fucking around....but seriously...

A thread.
This is was made for adults.


Back on topic: Things only got worse after - and I'm absolutely not comparing Yahoo disabling comments to the civil rights movement underway - Yahoo disabled comments.

See, Yahoo has become a parody of itself, and FaHoo started as a parody of that parody. If you wanted to see the worst side of humans, Yahoo's comment section was the place to be. I don't necessarily blame Yahoo for suppressing these subhuman opinions, but it's too bad that we won't get to see more of those terribly placed ads they started testing out:



For myself, 2020 will be especially memorable for a whole other reason. A couple of weeks ago, procrastinators, like myself, were hit with yet another dose of reality. July 15th was here; The extended due date for taxes.


As a 26-year-old man-child who's never filed his own taxes, this couldn't have come at a worse time. I'm a coddled suburbanese kid and my dad always took care of it for me. For years he's hired a lady who drove a Dodge Challenger on 21 inch chromed out rims. Because, who else would you trust with your social security number?


"Oh, so you're assuming because she's black and has chromed rims, that automatically means she's untrustworthy?" yells someone posting a thread.

That's incorrect, you racist, stereotyping piece of shit - she was white...and large. So I assume her lover was black, but that's neither here nor there.


Google Maps. I am not stalking my tax lady...At least not in person.

Shockingly, Ms. Sketchbag dropped off the face of the earth after failing to file my parent's 2018 taxes. She even hit us with an ol' okie doke, depositing my tax return into my parent's bank account for cover. Smart move by her, because it me took eight months to finally look into my missing return. Hence my description, procrastinator.


I'm also about 3 more months of quarantine away from needing a new liver.

While partaking in my civil duties, I was met with a problem: I had no idea what my 2018 gross income was; Something required to file my taxes online. Unfortunately, the lady who filed my taxes the year prior - at a property with a half-cut tree in her front yard - never gave us any paperwork.



I kept my cool and went into problem-solver mode. All I had to do was sign up for an account on the IRS website and pull up my old 2018 records.



I type in my credit card.


**INCORRECT**

I try again.


**INCORRECT**


I very carefully type in the last 8 digits once more.


**INCORRECT. THIS ACCOUNT HAS BEEN LOCKED FOR 24 HOURS**


This, as you might imagine, was very bad news. Taxes were due in approximately 24 hours, so I immediately dialed up the IRS. After a 35 minute hold, a lady picks up.

I proceed to explain my current situation and inquire about my options. She asks if I have another credit card. I articulate that I lost it before the pandemic, but still have it on a freeze in hopes that I'll find it.


Not a joke

She questions if I have a car loan. I tell her I drive a 2009 Honda Fit and bought the tampon on wheels in cold hard cash. She goes on to ask if I have a mortgage. I explain to her that I live with my parents at age 26, which is a completely reasonable age to still live with your parents...


**Silence**


“Hello?” I ask.


“Well, uh, you’re going to need one of those." she responds.


**Silence from my side as we seem to be stuck in a pickle**


She continues, "We appreciate your call, so if there's nothing else you need, have a wonderful day.”


"Yes, how do you want me to..."


**Click**


At this point, I begin to grow flustered. Out of anger, I strike my food cabinet in the whitest way possible: Hard enough to scare the Maltese, but soft enough that I won't cause any real damage.


Eventually, I man up, take more Adderall, and quit my pouting.


Eventually, I find courage, take more Adderall, and quit my pouting. I face reality and accept my only two rational options: (1) Close on the purchase of a home by tomorrow or (2) Manually mail in my taxes. After breaking down the pro's and con's of each, I choose the mail route.


A couple of weeks pass when the government announced they'll be sending out the second round of stimulus checks. It's at this moment that I realize I should probably figure out where my first stimulus payment is. Following my previous experience, it pained me to dive back down this rabbit hole. Still, I decided to call the IRS again - A call that would change the course of my life forever.


I can't stress enough that this is a true story

I press '1' as the automated voice directs me for any questions regarding the stimulus payment. Immediately, I'm placed on hold. The music is actually quite pleasant; None of those hard violin strings that some companies have. Twenty minutes later, I'm met by a voice which informs me that I am not to give her any information, including name, birthdate, SSN, etc. It's clear I'm about to be put back on hold. After explaining that I haven't received my stimulus money, she hits me with a, "No problem, let me transfer you."


Typically, this is where I begin to lose my shit, maybe get pissy and slam a door super hard. For whatever reason, this hold became, what is arguably, the most insightful 40 minutes of my life.

"Is this how black people have felt this entire time being ignored?" I ever so ignorantly ask myself.


I can confidently say I already fully supported the peaceful protests, but I could never understand the rioting and unhinged anger. That is, until my experience with the IRS. If 4500 seconds of being ignored could force me to consider grabbing a molotov cocktail, I can't say what years of oppression would make me do.


Luckily, before I could finalize my order for the Anarchist Cookbook, and sign up for one of the least diverse groups fighting for diversity - ANTIFA - a nice old lady picked up the phone. She dove into my past tax records. She then explained that the reason I hadn't received my money was because someone had claimed me as a dependent, making me ineligible for the stimulus funds.


My mind began to race. Since my parent's had just sent in their 2018 taxes, it couldn't have been them. I realized this could only mean one thing; I cleared my throat, mustered up some courage, and asked, "You mean…you mean I'm adopted?"

She explained that the tax lady - who owned a house with a garage, but didn't park either of her cars inside of it - had probably stolen my identity or helped steal my….I stopped listening.


The technicalities of it all bored me. Beside's, I'm an optimist. Now wasn't the time to bring up negative mumbo jumbo like "Identity Theft." All I could focus on was that my real mom or dad was out there, sending me clues via my 2018 taxes.


How do you trust someone who can't clear space for one car?

I cut her off and asked if she could provide me with the name of my newly discovered parent, but that information was confidential. I grew increasingly irritated and said, "My lost parent is somewhere out there, and you can't help me find them?" She responded, "Sir, excuse me?"


It was clear that this lady didn't have any sense of the word "family." She simply kept going on about how my step-parents were still my "real" parent's and that I should claim identity theft, fill out this sheet and that sheet, and yadayadayada who the fuck cares.


I was speechless. What will an identity theft claim do? The two people who pretended to be my parents had already robbed me of that. I was never getting those 26 years back.

With the conversation headed nowhere, I hung up. Newly discovered knowledge at hand, I decided to make the "family" group chat all about me, one last time:


Think getting laid off is tough?
This isn't funny, "mom."

This journey started for one simple reason - Money. But life works in mysterious ways. I went into this odyssey expecting $2400; I came out with a dad.


So please, share this story with others. My real mother or father is out there, somewhere, claiming me on their taxes.

My birth mother or father is out there, somewhere, claiming me on their taxes. First, it was ICE. Now, the IRS want's to separate families. Unfortunately for them, I have the same determination of a dog choking itself out to smell another's butt. Finding my real dad is only a matter of time. Whoever you are, wherever you are, I love you.


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