It’s not piracy if the NSA does it.

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Kick-Ass Females


I, personally, have never had the shit kicked out of me by a woman, but hey — hope springs eternal!

Certainly I have met women that I suspect could do it. Stuntwomen and martial arts instructors, mainly, although there’s a Zumba instructor who hikes the same trail I do that looks like she could take me apart if necessary. She keeps her distance though, as I am generally protected by a pair of Fierce Wiener Dogs.

And while I doubt that either Angelina Jolie or Scarlett Johansson are quite as tough as they have been portrayed in recent movies, I’m fairly certain that someone like Gina Carano could cripple me in moments.

But I never get that lucky.

No, I get plenty of defeat and humiliation at the hands of women, but it’s all from the psychological end. Scary Bank Ladies. Dental hygienists. Siblings. Nieces. And my own wife, who on occasion will start to look tight-lipped about something and when I ask her what is wrong, she replies “Nothing.” In that tone of voice.

You know the one.

At the moment, I am being bullied by Roseann, my accountant. She wants me to fill out my tax preparation forms, and she intends to make my life hell until I do it.

Now, I don’t mind paying taxes (well, actually, I do, I’m not crazy, but I don’t feel like I’m being unfairly picked on or anything) but I don’t understand why I have to deal with all the paperwork. Every dime I make (both of them!) is reported before I even see it. The government already knows all that information. I know they do, because if I make a mistake and forget to report something, they immediately pounce like tigers and soak me not only for the amount, but also additional interest and penalties. Ka-Ching!

I’d wonder why they don’t just take all that information they already have, ram it through a computer, and send me the result along with an invoice, but I guess I just answered my own question.

Besides, Roseann would get mad, and nobody wants that. Especially me.

So enjoy the comic. Me, I’m gonna go party like it’s 1099-K.

— Bob out