I had my fun last night. I went out dancing at the Fez ballroom in Portland and shook my tush until my tush could be shooken no more. It was a veritable tushookathon, and I was, like, the princess of the ball.

But then today came.

Today, life is closing in on the impending deadline of yearly taxation doom. My taxes are due on Monday, and I just started doing them about three minutes ago.

To make things more interesting this year, I decided to turn it into a game:

1) Every time I was confronted with a question about my fiduciary carryover from the previous tax year notwithstanding any gains made while fishing on an Indian reservation after purchasing a firearm intended for non-lethal use as it pertains to the cultivation of burgeoning forestland that was planted between the months of April and August in a year which is evenly divisible by PI, I took a drink of rum.

And, actually, that was the whole game. There wasn’t a second part to it. That alone pretty much kept me busy. And I’m totally shitfaced now.

For any questions that didn’t relate to my status as a farmer in any states west of the Rockies prior to the Pacific Ocean oyster-protection amendment act of 2005, I just randomly filled out checkboxes (I was using TurboTax online, which has a cool “Randomize My Tax Lies” feature).

It turned out pretty well, because it looks like I’m going to get about a $496,000 tax return, which is more money than I made this year. It’s probably because of the credit I got for being a one-legged wildlife marshland-protectionist in the state of Alabama, but who knows.

Anyway, when the IRS finally figures out what I’ve done, I’m hoping to share a cell with Willie Nelson, who isn’t exactly getting along well with the ol’ Internal Revenue Service at the moment.

Until then, though, drinks are on me.

Party on, my fellow ‘Mericans.

Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.