Start the Tax Day Party Without Me

Tonight will be the 26th tax day party of my accounting career. Pardon me if I don’t stick around very long.

The only really memorable tax day party was my first one. The tax group of the “Big 8” firm where my career started went to across the street to old Busch Stadium in St Louis, where the firm rented a box for the Cardinals baseball game. I happily drank their beer, only to be canned exactly a week later. That sort of took the fun out of the whole thing (though if I did something at the party to get fired from good old PW, it was the best career move I ever made).


So I found a job with the Des Moines tax group of another big firm. There the tax day party doubled as a bachelor party for one of the other staff accountants, and we all (well, the boy accountants) went to a north side strip club. I didn’t have any spare dollars for the garters, and I slipped away home, where I could drink all night for the cost of a single beer at the girlie club. But I just went to bed.

Which is really about all I feel like doing by the end of the day on April 15. By noon today I had already worked a 65-hour week. I’ve been in close company with my co-workers here from early morning to late night for weeks, and, as much as I love them to death, I’ve had enough quality time with them.

There are other awkward things about the tax parties. Like auditors. You can identify them by their animation and their golf tans – a sharp and annoying distinction from us dazed, pallid tax zombies. Bonus annoyance points if they come to the April 15 party straight from the golf course.

These parties typically occur at a local bar, where you run the high possibility of a colleague embarrassing himself in front of a client. Or worse, a drunk client hitting on one of our staff accountants. Worse still, a staff accountant hitting on a client. Unless it goes really well, of course.

Finally, I’m a boss now. Nobody really wants to do serious drinking in front of a boss. So now I’m like the old guys who used to start the Masters with a ceremonial tee shot. I’ll take a ceremonial shot (Templeton Rye, try it sometime), and then leave the field to the youngsters.

So have a good time tonight. If you see me out, I’ll be at dinner with my wife (I think I’m still married). I’ll be the one snoring.

Tonight will be the 26th tax day party of my accounting career. Pardon me if I don’t stick around very long.

The only really memorable tax day party was my first one. The tax group of the “Big 8” firm where my career started went to across the street to old Busch Stadium in St Louis, where the firm rented a box for the Cardinals baseball game. I happily drank their beer, only to be canned exactly a week later. That sort of took the fun out of the whole thing (though if I did something at the party to get fired from good old PW, it was the best career move I ever made).


So I found a job with the Des Moines tax group of another big firm. There the tax day party doubled as a bachelor party for one of the other staff accountants, and we all (well, the boy accountants) went to a north side strip club. I didn’t have any spare dollars for the garters, and I slipped away home, where I could drink all night for the cost of a single beer at the girlie club. But I just went to bed.

Which is really about all I feel like doing by the end of the day on April 15. By noon today I had already worked a 65-hour week. I’ve been in close company with my co-workers here from early morning to late night for weeks, and, as much as I love them to death, I’ve had enough quality time with them.

There are other awkward things about the tax parties. Like auditors. You can identify them by their animation and their golf tans – a sharp and annoying distinction from us dazed, pallid tax zombies. Bonus annoyance points if they come to the April 15 party straight from the golf course.

These parties typically occur at a local bar, where you run the high possibility of a colleague embarrassing himself in front of a client. Or worse, a drunk client hitting on one of our staff accountants. Worse still, a staff accountant hitting on a client. Unless it goes really well, of course.

Finally, I’m a boss now. Nobody really wants to do serious drinking in front of a boss. So now I’m like the old guys who used to start the Masters with a ceremonial tee shot. I’ll take a ceremonial shot (Templeton Rye, try it sometime), and then leave the field to the youngsters.

So have a good time tonight. If you see me out, I’ll be at dinner with my wife (I think I’m still married). I’ll be the one snoring.

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