Why I Left My Eight-Figure Salary To Go To Prison For Tax Fraud

It was time to stop dreaming, and start doing.

Photo by Vladimir Solomyani on Unsplash

By now you’re no doubt wondering to yourself: Why did this schlub give up his EIGHT-FIGURE salary (that’s right) just so he could go to prison for tax evasion?

The answer is quite simple: It was time to begin following my dreams and living my life to the fullest.

Sure, life with an EIGHT-FIGURE salary (read that one more time to let it sink in) is a real sweet peach at first. I drove a fancy car (four wheels, and counting) and could basically buy any kind of lizard that I wanted.

Prominent men and women doted on me at parties like I was a newborn ewe. I did so much cocaine with my lizards that my foyer began to look like the inside of a snow globe, but with considerably more lizards.

I had it all — or so I thought.

As I’m sure you’ve already sensed by now, it didn’t take long before it all began to seem frivolous to me. Life became a haze; the parties left me numb. Even the lizards all began to look the same to me.

Then, almost out of nowhere, I began to fantasize about giving up my EIGHT-FREAKIN-FIGURE salary and being escorted to a cell for falsifying information on my tax return in order to limit my amount of tax liability. But how?

“What the hell kind of an aspiration is that?” said my then-wife, Sheryl Crow, as she ate blue Jell-O off of Leonard Maltin’s bald spot during an afterparty in Reno. “You’re a damn fool.”

“You’ve never supported me,” I said.

“You should listen to your wife,” chimed in Leonard, his voice muffled by pillows.

“Shut up, whore!” Sheryl and I replied.

It seemed an impossible dream, this little aspiration of mine; a question without an answer.

Then, like puberty at age 19, it hit me.

I was standing naked on the roof of the Chrysler Building with Charles Koch, playing a game we’d invented called “Which one of these Zebra Cakes is laced with fentanyl?”, when I thought to myself: Why not give up my EIGHT-FIGURE salary (holy CRAP) and to go prison for tax fraud? Why not say “ta-ta” to my shell of a life, with its lizards and its four-wheeled motor vehicles and Leonard Maltins, in order to live in a tiny windowless room and eat grits?

It was like a weight was lifted off my shoulders. Suddenly, my life wasn’t in the rearview mirror anymore; it was right there in front of me.

My first step was to figure out what taxes were (it turns out it is more than just a rambunctious state in the south). Once I had that settled (thank you, Alexa), everything else just sort of fell into place.

Now, I couldn’t be happier. I am snug and content as a clam that is in prison for tax fraud.

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