A tax return is like winning the lotto for people who don’t realise that it’s their money to begin with, and much like a scratchie-card thousandaire the money will be squandered like the WA boom time profits.
Todd doesn’t want to repeat the mistakes of yesteryear. The tax advice he got from the living silhouettes of Mike Nolan on site proved problematic. As it turns out a “just farken claim anyfink” mentality made Todd’s return stand out like a Hi-Vis’d lollipop man proactively directing traffic.
His stay at hotel auditoria was bleak, so this year he decides to ring Simon, an accountant he used to go to school with. The call is awkward as Simon is the friendship equivalent of a Michael Buble Christmas CD: boring and only useful once a year.
To be fair, Simon is just stoked at the human contact. Plus after overindulging on 3 glasses of wine at the EOFY party, he feels he needs to put a halt to his crazy once-annual party lifestyle. They agree to a carton of beer for his services.
After paying back what he owed from last year, Todd gets back $2,500 and combined with his fortnightly pay he is literally a millionaire. Simon tries to offer some sage wisdom, “transfer it straight to your high interest credit cards mate”. Todd almost contracts nerd-AIDS from that unconsented penetration of his cashed up vibe.
Like the Warren Buffet of Baldivis, he puts $50 to his credit card and goes on a little spending spree. He blows most of it on flights to Bali, new Oakleys and a bottle of dexies. He was the Pablo Escobar of ADD medication and he was loving it.
Upon his return from the land of the dog satay, he stares at his bank balance the way Fyfe stares at his Brownlow chances, “how did I let it come to this”. A week ago he was loaded, and this week he had managed to not only burn through his tax back, but his rent and bill money too.
It seems the newly inked Southern Cross tattoo had mislead this debt sailor onto the shallow reef of fucking dickheadery. His shipwrecked finances looked dire until they attracted the beautiful but deadly siren of the Nimble loan.
“You beauty, what could possibly go wrong?” Todd reckons. After all, if you can’t beat debt, join debt
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the plunkett family owned the berkshire cotton mill in berkshire county, mass that became berkshire hathaway and they built the house longfellow wrote 'the old clock on the stairs' at
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