— You're out on the town. Yeah, you're partying hearty. You're knocking boots with the chicky babes. Oh, who's this? It's the tax man. And he's looking at you. Now, what does he see? He sees a young fellow with a big fancy house... unlimited cash supply and no job. Now, what is the conclusion the tax man makes?
— I'm a drug dealer.
— Wrong. Million times worse. You're a tax cheat.
— Is this real?
— Yes.
— I've seen one of these before. A friend of mine had himself declared a minister of his own religion. Away to fuck the IRS.
Well, greetings from your friendly neighborhood tax collector!