Our uncle used a penguin for a tax attorney one year. Then, three years down the road? Audit. And where was the penguin? Ant-fucking-arctica. Where, conveniently, there’s no cell phone signal. Our uncle couldn’t explain to the IRS why he thought “yummy, yummy fish” was a legitimate tax write-off, and but so ended up doing six years at a federal penitentiary for tax fraud, and now his face is covered in gang tattoos and he keeps asking us to sneak in a shank for him. Every time we mention that we have to go through a metal detector to see him, he says that if we really loved him, we could easily smuggle in a shank in our rectum. The guy wasn’t even our favorite uncle to begin with, you know? And now this.
So: penguins. Don’t let them do your taxes.