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Some time ago, I had kind of an insight into myself.

Actually, it was kind of a two-part insight.

The first part was a realization

that the central challenge of my adult life

was for me to try to figure out how I could love a woman

with the same depth and complexity

with which I had loved my father.

That was the first part.

And the second part came right after that.

It was a hunch, but with a force of revelation,

a hunch that the solution to that first problem

was to be found in tax law.

I don't think I ever would have made that connection

between love and taxes

if it hadn't have been for this woman named Mo Glass.

And I certainly would never have met Mo Glass

if I hadn't have worked for Bob Shelby.

Now this goes back to a time

when I had just completed the run

of my first autobiographical monologue.

It was about growing up in New York

with my communist parents, and the run had gone so well

that I was now able to continue working full-time

as a secretary for Bob.

And if you had seen my boss in those days,

if you had seen Bob Shelby ambling down the hallway,

I don't think you would've made much of him.

A tall guy,

kind of non-descript.

White. Extremely white.

Reflecting perhaps 30% more light

than actually hits him. I mean, white.

And a bit hunched over,

you know, from partner money.

And if you were to watch him go inside his office,

you might stand outside and think,

"Oh, he's just a guy, a golfer, maybe."

But if you had followed Bob inside his office,

and had seen him surrounded by

his beloved tax documents,

I think you would've understood something.

You would've understood that this Bob Shelby was no milquetoast. No.

This Bob Shelby was a virile, passionate practitioner

of the taxation arts.

And the thing that got him going,

the thing that activated Bob,

was this.

The U.S. Tax Code.

Now, if you're like me,

and you were to try to read the U.S. Tax Code,

you might find it, I would venture to say, somewhat dry.

But to Bob, it's anything but dry, because what Bob would do

is he'd find two code sections

that are supposed to be right next to each other,

just welded tight, and Bob would find

just the tiniest little hairline crack

between those two code sections.

He'd take his little wedge,

and he'd wiggle his wedge into that crack,

wiggle and worry his wedge into that crack,

pushing those code sections further and further apart,

until finally, they'd be so far apart,

you could push through billions of dollars in tax breaks!

That's why Bob got the big bucks.

Thanks for staying late, Josh. I'm going to need you.

Here they are.

Jerry, good to see you.

Ailene, come on in.

Josh, I'm gonna need your help.

In 1903...

1903.

There was a ruling

before a rural Wisconsin tax court.

Grab that case for me, would you, Josh?

Absolutely.

My mom's a librarian.

You give me the number of a book,

doesn't matter what kind of library it is,

I will go and retrieve it.

Okay, wow, Josh, thank you.

Here's the cutest thing that I can tell you about Bob,

is that each time, Bob treats it

as if it was my idea.

Very good.

Very good, Josh.

I think I know where you're going on this.

Based on this cheese mold ruling,

I think we may very well be able to trigger a shotgun provision.

Shotgun provision? That sounds incredibly exciting.

You done knocked up my daughter.

Josh.

We couldn't trigger the shotgun.

You need to go back to the tax library for me.

In 1913,

that was right after the codification of our U.S. income tax,

there were some loose ends that were memorialized

in a revenue ruling.

Could you grab that for me, Josh?

Here's your rev rule, Bob.

All right.

Well, Josh,

you have outdone yourself this time.

I think we may very well be able to trigger

a collapsible corporation ruling.

I go back to my desk.

This was sounding better and better.

Collapsible corporation.

That sounds like what my parents always wanted.

I'm easily deluded about myself.

I start to think, "Maybe it was my idea."

I'd want my idea to work.

I'd forget things, little things,

like that anomaly against capitalism.

I want my bad guys to beat the other bad guys.

We couldn't collapse the corporation.

Damn it to hell.

I still think we have just enough time

to pull this iron out of the fire.

Listen very closely.

In 1924...

1924.

That's the year my dad was born.

That's interesting information, Josh.

I don't think we need it right now, but thanks.

In 1924, a private letter ruling was issued.

Could be just what we're looking for.

Josh, this time you're thinking way outside the box.

With this 1924 PLR,

I think we may be able to wheel out our heaviest artillery yet.

I think we may be able to use

a reverse double dummy maneuver.

All right, stay with me.

Reverse double dummy maneuver!

I would've imagined even a single dummy would've been enough,

but a double dummy's probably twice as good.

I bet they're expecting us to go forward with the dummy,

so to reverse it's very sneaky. I'm digging it!

Josh.

It worked!

It worked! Your idea, Josh.

A 1924 PLR,

the reverse double dummy maneuver,

it worked, Josh! We won!

Josh!

That's why I love tax law.

So don't try telling me that tax law's boring.

Okay, 'cause I was there.

I saw what tax law did for Bob.

In fact, I learned you didn't have to be

a tax attorney to get the excitement from it.

Just from my own second-hand exposure to tax law

as Bob's secretary, I was getting jazzed.

Jazzed enough that I was coming up with

what I was gonna make my second monologue about.

I decided it was gonna be a piece about me

being this really bad legal secretary,

working for this really great tax attorney,

and I started performing this piece

at a funky little theater around the corner

from where I lived in the Mission, called the Marsh,

and I called this new show "Haiku Tunnel."

I gave it that obscure title mostly so I could

put up flyers all around my work station,

and still, Bob would have no idea

that it was basically about him.

And the run at the Marsh was going okay,

but then, a couple of weeks into the run,

the thing I'd been fearing the most happened.

Bob showed up at the Marsh.

So I went into work the next day

with some trepidation, but Bob called me right into his office. Josh.

Josh.

I have to tell you a little secret.

I was at your show last night.

Oh, really?

I really liked it.

I did.

But I have to tell you.

The funniest joke in your whole piece,

the cleverest little bit,

was that joke where you say

how ironic it is that here you are,

working for a big tax attorney,

and you yourself

haven't done your taxes in seven years.

Bob...

that's... that's no joke.

I actually haven't done my taxes

in seven years.

And everything changes.

Like imagine, I don't know...

Imagine he's Rush Limbaugh, okay,

and he comes into his office one day,

he goes, "Who's that new guy in the corner?

He's been here the last few days.

Is he a clerk or something? He's got the baseball cap.

He seems very intense; is he the new temp?"

"Actually, sir, that's Michael Moore."

Wah-wah-wah, the perimeter's been violated.

Wah-wah-wah-wah.

Sit down over here, Josh.

This has got to end now, Josh.

Take care of this tax thing and pronto.

Actually, Bob, since you bring it up,

I've been thinking, I mean,

you're a big tax guy.

Maybe you could handle this for me.

I would've thought by now

you'd know enough about my practice, Josh.

I don't handle persons such as yourself.

Persons.

In tax terms, you as an individual,

you're a natural person.

I handle fictional,

artificial persons, corporations, Josh.

You're just too natural for me.

There is someone,

a gal I've been seeing around the tax club lately.

Tax club?

Very sharp.

very unusual approach to tax law.

You'd really dig her.

I'm gonna make a call, Josh,

and tomorrow, I want you to go to Mo.

As I approached Mo's office,

I figured I knew pretty much what to expect.

I mean, I have temped for enough of these tax attorneys

by this point.

Their offices all tended to be quite similar.

All cluttered with a lot of, well, tax documents,

contracts, what have you.

So I was quite surprised when I walked into Mo's office,

and all I saw was shiny, gleaming, reflective surfaces.

There wasn't a stitch of paper to be seen.

It was as if the office was saying,

"Hey, relax. We filed."

In fact, everything about her

initially struck me as short.

Short of stature, short hair.

She even greeted me with short sentences.

Hi, Josh. Mo Glass.

Bob called. Come in, sit down.

So, tell me your tax problem, kiddo.

Well, Mo, I guess my tax problem

is that I haven't filed in seven years.

I guess Bob didn't explain to you

that I have a rather unusual tax practice.

I have what I like to think of as

a holistic tax practice.

- Holistic. - Now in light of that new information,

I want you to think about what you were just starting to tell me.

That isn't your tax problem,

now is it, Josh?

No?

That's your tax symptom.

In order to get at your tax problem,

I want you to think back...

back... back... back!

Back to your early childhood.

I want you to recall for me,

if you can,

your very first memory of tax.

Tax?

I can.

My very first tax memory

is of my dad not filing.

Oh, it was grand.

You see, me and my dad, we only had each other

on the weekends, and here we were,

losing this beautiful Saturday afternoon,

'cause Dad had just been nudged up into the income bracket

where he actually had to file a return.

My son, what was I thinking?

We don't give our information to the Man.

We don't let our humanity be reduced to tiny boxes.

We don't give our money to the system for its wars

and corporations. No, my son.

We Kornbluths go outside!

You see, my father created his own world,

and everything inside that world

felt so protected.

Even as we moved through Manhattan,

it was almost as if me and Dad

had our own country.

Almost as if we were our own, like,

like, floating socialist republic of Kornbluthia.

♪ Hail, Kornbluthia

And everything inside that world

was so graceful.

Even the way my dad moved,

it was practically balletic.

That's how it went, Mo.

All the way until I left home and...

went off to college.

Wait, back up. College?

I assume you went to college on a scholarship.

Of course. I had to.

Eureka! We found it.

If you went to college on a scholarship,

then on at least one occasion,

your parents did file.

She was right.

In fact, a year in advance,

while I was still in high school,

the word filtered down to me that I was going to be

accepted the following year to Princeton University,

and not because my grades were that good or anything.

It was because, okay, look,

it was because they happened to need

an oboist for their student orchestra.

The only catch being, they weren't offering me

an "oboe scholarship," per se.

So in order for us to be able to afford Princeton,

we had to apply for financial aid based on need,

and this was one of those rare occasions

where my parents, divorced virtually my entire life,

where they decided this was important enough

for them to put their heads together,

and scheme on how best to game the situation.

My mom took the lead.

A year in advance, my mother quit her high-paying job

as a public librarian.

And she replaced it with a part-time position.

As a result, at the end of that year,

Mom could enclose a form showing she had earned

only $8,500.

But then, right before Mom enclosed the form, she got cold feet.

Maybe they'll still consider 8,500 to be upper middle class.

Mom...

I don't know the technicalities,

but that's gotta be violating

some major federal law.

Ah, let them call me pisher.

Pisher?

It's a term my mom never bothered to translate

for me from the Yiddish,

but just based on the context,

I got a sense it wasn't necessarily

such a bad thing to be called, pisher.

In fact, maybe it was even kind of an honorific,

like maybe being called pisher entitled you to

like, ten percent off at Zabar's or something.

So now my mom had done her part,

and all that was left to do was for my dad to do his.

He had to fill in a section of the form

swearing he did not support me in any way.

He's filling out the financial aid forms.

At the same time, I'm practically bouncing off the walls.

I'm going, "Dad, this is so cool!"

My whole life, you've been telling me

how we're always being forced to play by

the Man's rules, and to work within the system.

Now for once, Dad, we get to go around the Man's rules!

Thanks to this lie you're putting down on that form,

Dad, this incredible lie,

where you say you don't support me,

when, of course, you do support me.

You work, like, four jobs.

We hardly ever get to see you.

And yet, thanks to this lie...

I'm gonna get to go to Princeton University.

I'm gonna learn everything

the bourgeoisie likes to teach its young.

Then I'll enter the ruling class,

and overthrow the system from within.

Thanks to this lie you're putting on that form, Dad,

I'm even gonna get a free ride!

Dad?

I wish I could just give you the money.

I wish I could just pay for you

to go wherever you wanted to go.

Wow.

Even from my dad,

the communist, the hippie,

even for him,

his dream was to become a provider.

Josh, we're gonna have to stop here today.

But I think we've done some excellent work.

I'm gonna level with you, kiddo.

I like you.

You bring a new kind of spice into my day.

You're different from my other clients.

My other clients are, well, they're successful, Josh,

and yet, I sense in you, kiddo,

the potential to reach that elusive goal

your father never attained.

Josh, I think you have it within you

to become a provider, and I'd like to help you get there.

Will you allow me to help you become a citizen?

- What would that entail? - Only this.

You must file.

Oh, ho, back up.

I don't think you understand.

You're talking about seven years of me putting stuff in garbage bags--

No, just last year.

We just need to get you back into the system.

Tonight, when you go back home

to whatever kind of thing you live in,

I need you to just look around,

and gather all those receipts

- that have last year on them. - Last year.

Then simply take those receipts and...

Josh, I'm sensing you're not able to sort.

So put those receipts in a box,

and bring that box in here tomorrow,

and put it out there on that counter

for my assistant Lydia. Can you do that for me, Josh?

Well, yeah, Mo, I think I can.

But Mo, I should level with you.

I mean, I'm looking around your swanky office here,

and I don't think I can afford you.

And this is what she said to me.

These are the exact words she said.

She said, "Josh..."

You don't have to pay me until you're rich and famous.

And the way I process words...

To me, in a sentence like that,

the "until" essentially becomes the period.

So what I actually heard her say was...

Josh, you don't have to pay me.

No, no, no, no, no.

I'll send someone over there immed... iately.

Um... yeah, absolutely.

Oh, not a problem.

No big deal.

I'll have to call you back.

"Franchisé Tax Board"?

Welcome, Josh.

Come on. Welcome to the Franchisé home.

I am Mario Franchisé.

Josh, meet my wife, Francesca Franchisé.

Josh, put those tax forms down right now.

That's an order.

You look peaked.

Sit. Eat.

Talk with our beautiful daughter, Maria Franchisé.

- Maria Franchis-ay. - Actually, it's franchise.

The Franchise Tax Board is the state tax agency.

Oh. Um, where do I sign?

They had put down arrow stickums.

And to me, an arrow stickum,

that is the finger of God pointing.

I see one of those, I needn't think anymore.

I simply sign; it's Pavlovian.

Um, can I have a couple of envelopes?

They pre-address the envelopes.

They pre-metered postage to the envelopes.

All I had to do was sign the returns

at the arrow stickums, put them in their envelopes,

take them down the street and mail them,

and just like that, I was in the system.

And instantly, I could feel it.

Everything had changed.

I could do things.

Exciting new things like...

like I could get a checking account,

and not just at any little dinky bank either,

but at Wells Fargo,

where, you know, they put horses on their checks.

It's very swanky.

And now thatI was in the system,

people started being drawn to me.

Not just people... dogs.

Stray dogs started following me

through the Mission District. I finally understood why, too.

It's those dogs, they could sense

with their little doggie intuition,

if they ever got hungry, I could write a check.

And my run of "Haiku Tunnel" at the Marsh

was going better and better,

not that I had changed a single word,

but you see, I had changed.

When I had opened the show at the Marsh,

it was a confessional autobiographical piece

about how I hadn't filed in seven years and so on.

Now that I was in the system,

I felt like an actor delivering these lines

about some fictional fuck-up who hadn't filed.

This gave me a distance from my character as a performer,

and the audiences could sense it, I could tell.

They started filling up the seats at the Marsh.

I even started seeing return customers.

Yeah, I had fans.

"Josh, I... pfft... don't mean to interrupt

your... pfft... post-show decompression,

but... pfft... in my terms,

pfft... I'm a grad student

at Stanford in computers."

What you do, Josh, it's...

in our terms, it's kind of

an input-output problem, okay?

Input-output.

Yeah, yeah, you see, you take the, uh,

the input, which is the chaos of your life,

and you turned it into this more streamlined output,

which is your show.

"Josh, I'd love to go into these computer analogies at length."

So I had fans with skills!

Oh, and not just computer skills.

Prompting skills.

This woman started showing up in the front row.

And now, for the first time ever,

occasionally, I was dropping a line or two,

'cause the piece had become fictional to me.

It opens a crack, and his head pops out.

And then...

And then Bob said, "Come into my office, Josh."

And then Bob said, "Come into my office, Josh."

Hi.

I'm so sorry to interrupt, but...

do you accept groupies?

Yes.

Okay then.

Get in.

Input.

So, uh, where we going?

I don't know. You tell me.

I don't live around here.

Well, I go to that cafe,

uh, just across the street.

Just make a left.

That's where...

I said left.

I know.

Well, what's going on?

Um, well, Josh,

there is something that you should know about me,

and that is, uh,

I don't... I don't turn left.

Ever?

Nope. Never.

Why?

Um...

I can't.

Okay, that's fine, it's fine.

We'll get there, I promise.

No, I'm sure, you know, I mean,

the Earth is round.

So you see, um, eventually,

you know, it's just a matter of the amount of time.

And then, she kept turning right

all the way around the Mission District.

I was thinking, I like this woman.

I mean, clearly, she's neurotic.

But her neuroses

seemed to be different from my neuroses.

Perhaps we even have complimentary neuroses.

Oh, here we are, right here.

- Oh, here. - Just pull in right there.

That's good.

Just come to a full stop.

Oh, my God.

Is there a problem?

The sign.

It's the bagel thing.

You care, you care?

You know, what do they mean, bagel "with" cream cheese?

This has been killing me, and nobody cares.

- Those quotes around "with." - And nobody cares.

Do they mean the bagel's near the cream cheese?

Do they mean the bagel is actually sold separately

- from the cream cheese? - Right, or maybe

they're trying to make some kind of ironic comment

about the unsuitability of bagel and cream cheese.

Yeah.

Why bagel "with" cream cheese?

Oh, my God, you're beautiful, you're neurotic,

and you care about punctuation.

Oh, my.

Oh.

Wow!

What's your name?

Sara.

And so it began...

between me and Sara.

Sara, by the way, without an "h."

I mention that only 'cause in my experience,

if you start going out with someone,

and you're not aware of a silent letter in their name,

it can come back and haunt you.

So now I started getting feelers.

Not just feelers from things inside my apartment,

but feelers from, like, out-of-town producers.

Yeah.

- Josh Kornbluth? - Speaking.

This is Carol Rothman from Second Stage Theater.

- In New York? - Yes, New York, Josh. We had this big production

that just fell through,

and the back-up production also fell through,

and the back-up to the back-up

also fell through, and now, well,

we would be... honored

if you'd accept this slot.

Well, of course I would.

But I cannot but wonder why is all this great stuff

happening to me now?

All I can think of is it's because I filed.

And to top it all off, I even got a refund!

It's like, "Welcome back, prodigal son.

We've been expecting you.

Make yourself at home."

So here I am, the prodigal son,

back in my hometown of New York.

I'm at the Second Stage performing my piece,

"Red Diaper Baby," trying to recreate

that snow globe world of my communist childhood

with my dad.

♪ Arise, ye prisoner of starvation ♪

♪ Arise, ye wretched of the earth ♪

Of course, he wasn't there,

which, in fact, was getting to me.

In fact, to the point that,

a couple of weeks into the run,

I became so preoccupied that, in the middle of the show,

I just stopped talking.

I just stood there silently on stage.

Um...

Wake up, little fucker.

He'd go, "Wake up, little fucker."

That was his nickname for me, Little Fucker.

Nothing at all pejorative about it.

For my dad, calling me Little Fucker

was like calling me "Junior."

It was Sara!

She surprised me by flying all the way in

from California to New York.

Are these "nishes" really heavy?

"Nishes." No, knishes.

Knish.

Knish. The "k" is not silent.

I'll never digest this.

Oh, no, really, they look sort of big,

but it's feathery light. It's like an amuse bouche.

- Believe me. - Thank you.

What was that?

I used to do it with my dad all the time.

Just saved us a few bucks.

What's the big... what's the big deal?

A few bucks...

What if you'd gotten caught?

Let them call me pisher.

Ow.

What if everyone did that?

If everyone...

Well, I guess, you know, if everyone...

If everyone did that...

And as we endured

the first extended tense silence of our relationship,

I had ample opportunity to reflect on

one major difference between us.

That difference being that Sara always tried to focus on,

she obsessed about,

all the ramifications of her actions.

Sara lived in "until."

Whereas, here she was with me,

living all the way across the border.

Hello?

- Uh, yeah? - Yeah, John?

- Oh, Josh. - Josh, Josh.

Hey. Sean Boykin. Nice to meet you.

This is my assistant Patty.

- Hey. - Oh, hi.

Or should I call you Little Fucker?

You... can I say something?

You're a big fucker. You're a big fucking deal now, man.

You are a genius.

Excuse me, I'm gonna rewrite that.

You're a fuckin' genius. I don't say this to anybody.

I don't say this to my own fuckin' mother.

This was brilliant. Do you know that?

- Josh, is it? - Josh, yeah.

Josh. I'll make a note of that.

Um, I would love to option this

for a major motion picture.

- Option? - Option.

Take it to a place called Option World,

where it's massaged and developed,

and the next thing you know, boom!

Boom. You're on the red carpet

in a red diaper.

That's a good one.

I'm gonna keep her.

He's gonna keep me!

So wait.

You wanna take "Red Diaper Baby" and make it into a movie?

I will see you in Option World, my friend.

- Option... okay. - Hey, forget that.

Okay. Cool.

- We're late. - I bow to thee.

Let's go, baby. We're late.

We're heading to the restaurant. Wanna come?

Later. I'll meet ya. Thanks.

Option World.

So how was New York?

Actually, Mo, it went surprisingly well.

People dug the show.

And I've been meaning to tell you, Mo.

These two guys kept coming backstage

after my show and bugging me.

They said they were from Hollywood Studios,

and they wanted to "option" my pieces.

Option?

Yeah, turn 'em into movies.

Josh, please tell me you didn't sign anything.

Oh, no, Mo. Of course not.

There were no arrows.

Then it's gonna be smooth sailing from here, kiddo.

'Cause, look. I got you into the system,

and now, so quickly, options.

Options. - And, Josh,

I'm going to recommend what I suggest

to all my most successful clients.

I'm going to recommend that you have me

put all your money into an FBO.

FBO?

It's a trust account here at my law firm, Josh.

FBO... for the benefit of Josh Kornbluth.

That way, all your money is centralized.

Much easier for us to do your returns every year.

If you ever need any of that money,

you just let me know and I'll have Lydia cut you a check.

Now I do have to say,

on this one point, I was a bit iffy.

I guess only 'cause I'd always sorta...

I guess fantasized that, on the off chance

that I ever made money,

I guess I'd always kinda hoped

that I would, well, get it.

Well, kiddo?

Okay.

Then get ready for the year of your life.

And the whole next year,

I lived in Option World.

During the weekdays, the studios fly me down

to my air-conditioned bungalow in Hollywood

so I can work on my screenplays,

unmolested by the weird vibes of Northern Californians.

On the weekends, the studios fly me

back up to San Francisco,

so I can re-converge with Sara,

who is turning my dreary studio

into an actual garden apartment.

She's been chunking up the cement with a pick ax,

and then filling the holes with soil, seeds and fertilizer

that she bought.

I'm looking out through my little window

at this beautiful girlfriend

planting this little patch of Eden for us

in a place she only comes to visit on the weekends,

and I'm thinking, how did I get

all this beauty in my life?

I don't understand.

I don't.

'Cause, really, all I've ever done

is fuck up.

No, for real. This is my adult life.

I fucked up.

Then I fucked up.

Then I fucked up, then I fucked up.

Then I napped.

Then I fucked up.

Now, suddenly, girlfriend, garden, options.

Why? All I can think of is it's because I filed!

And then, my little brother even shows up.

- Hey, bro. - Jake.

So I just graduated from college.

I was valedictorian; I can't get a job.

I don't want a job-job, but I do want a job.

I mean, why do they only pay you for things you don't wanna do?

The whole system is bullshit.

Anyway, I just decided on the spur of the moment

to drive across country without stopping,

drinking only Mountain Dew,

and I thought I would stop by and see...

So this is... I thought you had a futon.

Remember how Sandy used to call it the typhoon?

I wonder what Sammy...

Bro?

It was weird to see my little brother Jake like that,

because literally, since he was born,

my brother Jake, he's had this Jake energy.

I mean, literally, when he was born,

I was 13 1/2.

Okay, you looked in at the nursery

at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital.

All these other newborns just kind of drooling.

in their cribs, but one of 'em,

my little brother, he's going, "I'm gonna make a list.

I'm not gonna crawl; crawling's for suckers.

I'm gonna go right to walking.

Then I'm gonna run, then run a non-profit.

Stop war and pollution and...

I'm gonna put off weaning till the last possible minute.

But everything else I'm gonna get done right away!"

Each week, before I headed down to Hollywood,

I'd leave a tray of food next to the futon.

When I came back, the food would be gone,

so presumably, he was feeding himself.

And I'd head down to my Hollywood bungalow,

and try turning my fuck-ups into blockbusters.

Which wasn't easy.

It wasn't easy trying to come up with a middle path

between what the studios seemed to want,

and what I imagined my father would have wanted.

The only progress that got made in that whole year

was reflected in a series of remarkable phone calls

that I got from my little brother.

Yeah?

Hey, bro, I think I've just recovered from graduation.

What are you doing down there, bro?

I'm just working on a couple of movies.

Movies?

I think I'd like to work on a movie, too.

In fact, Josh,

we should make movies together. We're brothers.

Brothers are making movies all over the place these days.

There's hardly any brothers left

who aren't a movie-making team.

Josh...

I'm gonna learn everything we need to know

to make movies together, independently from the ground up.

I'm gonna read some books,

I'm gonna do some work.

And then we're gonna blow some shit up, okay?

Hey, bro, guess what.

I just got my first production gig.

It's a volunteer thing, but still.

I'm a P.A.!

Hey, bro, guess what.

I'm being paid to P.A.!

I've been promoted. Now I'm the second second A.D.

Now I'm the first second A.D.

Now I'm the second first A.D.

Now I'm the first first A.D.,

and I'm dating the A.C.

My goodness, bro, that's a lot of impressive acronyms.

But don't forget who has the FBO here, okay?

Yeah, bro, that FBO,

look, I don't wanna rain on your parade,

but you got your fancy lawyer up here,

and you're in your Hollywood bungalow down there,

and you're trying to take the story of, like,

our communist dad and make it into something palatable to

a multinational corporation, which will then

turn it into a movie that will run in multiplexes.

That doesn't make sense, bro.

That's just doing it the system's way.

It's playing by the Man's rules.

We should do it together.

You and me, independently.

With the people!

Yeah!

Quiet, please. Quiet on the set!

Meanwhile, I'm down here in my Hollywood bungalow.

I'm not getting anything done,

and I'm wracked with nightmares.

I mean, actual nightmares, for real.

This was the worst one that I had, by far.

I kept having this nightmare

that the studio was hiring Schwarzenegger

to play my father in Red Diaper Baby.

Wake up, little fucker.

Time to get out of bed and start the revolution.

Hasta la vista, Trotsky.

Now during this whole second option year,

the studios are treating me very differently from the first.

During this whole second option year,

it's almost as if the studios now feel like

I owe them something.

Come here. Come here, come here.

Nothing to be afraid. All right, so, you're in an elevator.

You notice that the guy standing next to you

is the fuckin' head of this fuckin' studio.

You got four floors to tell him

what the story of your movie is.

It's called an elevator pitch.

Doors are closing, let's hear your elevator pitch.

Three, two, one, boom. Bing, bang.

Big bang, the big bang.

I know I had that one draft

where it's, like, the big bang. This is...

No, we start here on Earth,

'cause we're being efficient, and then, the primordial ooze,

and then, by the end of the first act,

you have society, society,

and this society, they're all interacting,

but what's going on?

- Second floor. - Right, and then,

learning about the different nuances of what's a vanguard.

Is it a vanguard, or is it a cadre?

Vanguard, cadre, and then that becomes like a dance.

- Hold that. - Yeah.

Sherry, get my car ready. Thanks. Go, third floor.

I'm reading this guy, Pudon.

Is property really thievery?

- Fourth floor. - Uh...

resolution, which is,

world not communism but socialism.

So there's still money, and then I believe

the term is "fade to black."

That is indeed the term, Josh.

It has been a thrill and an honor to work with

somebody of your integrity, uh, up to now,

and I just hope we can do this again.

- Oh, great. - A fuckin' genius, Josh.

- Thank you. I don't know. - No, you're a fuckin' genius.

You're amazing. You're really amazing.

- Get outta here. - I read that in the key book.

Oh, you sure did.

Josh, it's Lydia from up in Mo's office.

Bad news, Josh. Neither studio's picking up the option.

You know, Lydia, I was already kind of getting that vibe.

Great, Josh.

So Mo's about to head off on her ski vacation,

but she's dealing with all the tax ramifications.

Come over as soon as you can.

Okay, Lydia, lay 'em on me.

Show me those returns.

This has become one of my favorite times of year,

when I found out from you guys

what my refunds are gonna be.

And the Franchisés?

I didn't expect this enormous a tax hit.

I guess we're gonna have to do what I didn't wanna do.

We're gonna have to draw down on that FBO thing.

Oh, no, You can't do that.

Your FBO is empty.

Empty?

But how can that be, Lydia?

I mean, I haven't spent that much money, have I?

Josh, haven't you been opening the stuff we've been sending you?

Mo's been paying herself out of your FBO.

Paying herself? But when did Mo decide I was "rich and famous"?

Did she start the meter running when that money began

coming in from all those options deals?

Actually, Josh, the meter's always been running.

Mo's been keeping detailed billable hour records

since the moment you walked in the door.

And Mo considers you to be particularly late

on your payments for some of the early meetings,

so there's a lot of extra interest.

But so much that it's wiped out my entire FBO?

Actually, it's worse than that.

You still owe Mo a lot of money.

You still owe her... $15,000.

Lydia...

what am I gonna do?

What you've always done.

Sign the returns, and send them in.

But aren't you forgetting one tiny little thing?

$27,000!

If you don't have the money, you don't need to enclose it.

Just send in the returns without the money.

Oh!

I guess that's what they mean

when they refer to our tax system as "voluntary."

So I signed the returns at the arrow stickums,

I put them in their envelopes,

I brought them down to the street,

but I wasn't quite ready to mail them just yet.

I wasn't quite ready to admit to the Man

that I owed his system over $27,000.

So clutching those two envelopes to myself,

I went home.

I must've been sitting there in the gathering darkness

for some time when Sara finally came in.

Josh. Josh honey.

Honey.

Honey, what's wrong?

Sara, if I mail in these two returns,

I'm gonna owe the tax people...

over $27,000.

What?!

Yeah.

- Wait. - What?

No, what do you mean, if?

You said if you mail in those returns,

you owe the tax people $27,000.

Right, yeah.

Won't you owe the money whether you send them in or not?

Would you mind just going back to your place?

Just for today, just for today.

Really, look, I'll walk you to your car.

So I'll call you tomorrow.

Yeah, you call me tomorrow.

What are you doing?

If you won't, I will.

Those are my returns.

Sara.

Put down the envelopes.

Don't come any closer. I mean it.

Don't come any closer.

I'm sorry, I just...

I'm sorry, it's just that...

I really, really, really, really

want you to mail these returns.

And then, we'll make a plan, okay?

Together. We have to do this together.

Sara, with all due respect, this is my problem,

and I'm gonna handle it, okay,

so you can go home.

It's not your problem.

It's our... Josh!

And she mailed them! I went...

We're pregnant!

What?

We're pregnant.

We're pregnant, baby.

I just found out.

What?!

I peed on a stick.

And then I peed on another stick.

There were three sticks.

I peed on them and...

that means we're gonna have a...

a baby.

We're gonna have a little tiny baby.

Sara.

- What? - I'm so...

What?

I'm so... I'm so happy.

So... So happy.

- You're happy? - I'm happy.

You're happy?

- I'm happy. - Aww.

I've been thinking,

and I don't want you to think

I'm old-fashioned or anything, baby,

but, well, I've decided that

we really need to be married by the time the baby is born.

Married.

Yeah, married. But here's the thing.

Now you have this ginormous tax problem,

and I really need you to solve it,

so that, you know, once we're married,

the IRS doesn't swoop in and take my stuff.

You don't have any stuff.

That's not the point. The point is,

that we are now a family,

and your problems are my problems,

and the baby's problems.

So I just need for you to promise me...

I mean, do you love me?

Oh, yeah, I love you.

- You love me? - I do. Yeah.

You don't... you don't hate me?

No, I loveyou.

Because you should know

that I can raise this baby by myself.

Honey, I love you.

I... I super love you.

I want to call the baby Cochise.

Yeah, and I think the name Cochise

is the name of a great Indian warrior,

so, you know, I can imagine Cochise

being a boy's name or a girl's name.

Cochise. Cochise.

I just want you to think about little Cochise right now.

Cochise. Oh, no, Cochise.

I am going to eat so many leafy greens.

We can't fuck up our kid, Josh. Do you get that?

- Mm-hmm. - Because the thing is,

look at us.

We can't replicate that.

Oh, God, no.

So I need you to promise me

and the baby...

I need you to swear

that you will solve your tax problems completely,

so we can get married before the baby's born.

I swear to you, and to Cochise...

Hey, bro. Oh, Sara.

I'm not interrupting anything.

I just realized something. I've reached the tipping point.

I now know everything we need to know

to make the Haiku Tunnel movie together,

independently, from the ground up.

And... what?

Oh, shit! Oh, shit!

Come on in.

I'll tell you how I did it.

Bro, if you owe $27,000 to the tax people,

we can't go around soliciting money from investors.

You gotta take care of your tax problem right away.

As it happens, bro, I was just having

a very similar conversation with Sara just now,

and you know what, you're both right,

okay, and I'm gonna deal with it.

In fact, I'm gonna take care of it tomorrow.

I'm gonna go to Mo.

- No! - Don't go to Mo!

Oh, gosh, honey.

No, no, no. You owe that woman so much money.

Bro, she's absolutely right.

I mean, think about it. What's a Kornbluth doing

going to a lawyer who has an office with a view?

It doesn't compute.

Look, there's this really cool grassroots couple

- who've been doing my returns. - I don't know.

Before you go see Mo again,

will you at least go visit my tax people?

Will you at least go visit...

the tax goddesses?

The tax goddesses were a couple.

Kristin and Betty.

And appropriately enough for goddesses,

they lived at the top of a mighty hill

in a beautiful house...

fronted by a lovely garden.

As I was making my way through the garden,

I thought, I can't believe I'm about to talk

about tax stuff in this beautiful place.

They sat me down behind this big table.

I'm on one side, Kristin and Betty are on the other.

Kristin's there, Betty's there, between them, their cat.

Who, I have to say,

this is the most intense cat

I have ever seen.

I mean, even... I mean, truly,

sometimes it even seemed to me

like the cat was following the tax stuff.

You know, with its little eyes.

I mean, it was spooky!

So... Josh,

tell us your tax problem.

I guess to tell you my tax problem,

I'm gonna have to think back to my infancy,

and call up memories of my early childhood.

No, Josh, just, um...

What's your tax problem right now?

Oh, all right. I can do that.

Well, you see, I...

I was just minding my own business...

It all began...

I owe 27...

I owe 27 th...

I owe $27,000.

Josh, that is the worst tax nightmare

we have ever heard in here.

This Mo person is killing you.

She's ruining your life,

and charging you a pretty penny to do so.

So...

the obvious thing to do would be...

You should file for bankruptcy.

Bankruptcy?

But wouldn't that be...

like an admission of failure?

Okay, bankruptcy.

What do I have to do?

I hope you know what you're doing, kiddo.

You just got me out of a major deposition.

I'm sorry, Mo,

but this is a really big deal.

In fact, it's so big,

I don't even know where to begin.

Okay, I'll start here.

Mo...

Sara and I are having a baby.

That's fantastic, kiddo!

Oh, Josh, I'm touched.

Huh, I can't help it.

I'm thinking back to when you first

walked through my door.

And I'm thinking about how far you've come since then.

Congratulations to both of us.

Well, Mo, there's one other thing.

I, uh...

We wanna be married by the time the baby is born,

and Sara won't marry me until I solve

my incredibly horrible tax problem,

and frankly, Mo, I mean,

okay, true, when I first walked in your door here,

yeah, I had nothing.

But Mo, I have to say that now,

I have, like,

way less than nothing,

and I don't know what I did wrong.

I mean, I've worked super hard.

I did everything you told me.

Okay, kiddo, I see where this is going.

So let me just share one more lesson with you, Josh.

I call it the lesson of returning the toaster.

Toaster?

It's an analogy, Josh.

Let's say you just bought a toaster,

and for some reason, you want to bring it back.

You don't have to do a whole song and dance

to the lady at the return counter.

It's your right to simply return the toaster.

Okay, Mo.

You're fired.

Okay, kiddo, come back tomorrow,

and Lydia will have all your stuff ready for you.

Oh, and Josh.

There may come a time when you wish

you'd hung onto the toaster.

A time when you may miss the toast.

Well, that seemed to go well.

I mean, it went a lot better than I thought it would go.

I like this new me.

This new action-taking me.

This new, well, bankrupt me.

When you think about it, too, me and bankruptcy,

that's like a marriage made in heaven.

I'm surprised no one came up with it before.

Promissory note.

Mo says you need to sign it before you can take your stuff.

The first sign I had

that something was going terribly wrong

came from the cat. The cat was going... rowr!

I said what's wrong?

You have any idea what you signed here?

No. There was an arrow.

What you signed on this page says

that if you declare bankruptcy,

or in any other way fail to pay Mo what you owe her,

then Mo will own the movie of Haiku Tunnel.

Mo.

Back in my apartment,

what am I gonna do?

You have reached the Internal Revenue Service.

I was instantly placed on hold.

But as it happens,

the music that they were playing on hold

was from the early Baroque period,

and those were the halcyon days for the oboe.

Please enter your social security number,

then hit pound.

And instantly, I was seized with a visceral sensation

that I had just done the wrong thing.

I had just taken the one unsteppable step.

I had done the single thing my dad had told me

when I was a little kid never to do.

I had just given my essential information

to the Man.

Never.

Not the tax man, not the census man,

and especially not the gas man.

They're all government agents.

The gas man?

Josh, I can't always be here with you.

If the gas man should come and I'm not around,

don't let him in. Hear me?

And if he should try to force his way in,

shoot him.

Hello. Internal Revenue Service.

Mrs. Williams speaking.

ID number 4567297.

Mrs. Williams, you're not the Man.

You're a woman.

I said, Hello, Mrs. Williams.

And then I thought, but I didn't say,

if that is, in fact, your real name.

I owe you guys a lot of money.

It's a little over $20,000.

No, no, dear.

That's what you owed us last month.

As of today, you owe $22,118.

Wait, how did it jump so high?

Interest and penalties.

Interest andpenalties?

Mrs. Williams, isn't that kind of overkill?

I mean, hey, I get it.

How can I help you, Mr. Kornbluth?

I don't have the money,

and I don't know what to do.

O.I.C.

Oh, you see what?

No, dear, O.I.C.

Offer In Compromise.

Would you like me to send you the forms?

Yes, I would love to file

an O.I.C.

Mrs. Williams, you don't even have to send me any forms.

I'm gonna be totally honest.

We're just two people talking.

So I'm just... I'm gonna tell you,

I'm just gonna lay it out.

All the money that I have in the world.

I have, in total, $22.

And...

Since I wanna get this thing done, Mrs. Williams,

I'm gonna offer you all 22.

But since you yourself brought up compromise,

if you could even leave me eight,

that way I can go out and get a nice dinner,

maybe dess... actually, I don't need dessert, Mrs. Williams.

I need to tighten the belt. How about just six?

In fact, a dollar. I'll live on Ramen for a while.

Leave me a buck. Mrs. Williams,

what's going on here? I'm doing all the compromising.

Aren't you going to do something at your end?

I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Mr. Kornbluth.

I'm going to send you some forms.

What happened?

Nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing.

Look, Sara, I gotta go meet my brother

for a fundraiser, so, um,

I'll catch you later on.

Josh. Josh.

What?

I just...

I want you to look me in the eye,

and tell me that you have everything under control.

I have everything under control.

Good.

It was worth a shot, bro.

All those pizza parties.

How much did we raise, total?

Not enough to make a feature film.

Maybe enough to make a really slick flip book.

I think I feel okay about failure though.

I prefer it to apathy.

Um, Josh.

Is this the, uh, the fundraiser?

Yeah, yeah, this is the fundraiser.

But wait, don't I remember you?

Didn't you used to come see my shows here at the Marsh?

Oh, yeah, Josh.

You remember me; that's cool.

Of course I remember you.

You're the input-output guy.

You're the computer grad student.

Well, actually, I graduated from grad school,

and, you know, I've done...

pretty well.

Okay, now this guy, his name's David,

he was being typically modest.

In the early days of the internet,

and this isn't my field, so I don't know the specifics,

but something like in the early days of the internet,

they were using, like, all zeroes.

And he's the guy who went, "Pfft.

Why don't you try putting in a couple of ones?"

Huge!

So, uh...

you guys got a pitch?

The gross is the amount, it's sort of like the net.

Money.

It's true, our producer and director have no experience,

but in a way, that's fresh.

If it's not in Vancouver, L.A., New York, or other,

almost certainly it's from San Francisco.

In short, that is why you, sir,

should invest in our film, Haiku Tunnel.

That was the worst pitch I've ever heard.

But you know something, Josh?

Back when you used to develop your new shows here,

I used to sit in the audience,

and I felt like I was a part of that process.

And, I guess, I'd like to be part of

the movie-making process as well.

So... pfft...

I'm in.

In fact, you know what.

On my way here, I was thinking of investing

ten, maybe 15K,

but I tell you what.

I'll match every investment dollar you guys raise

up to... pfft...

500,000.

And this infusion of passion

was all my little brother needed.

A couple of weeks later, we're in production.

We're filmingHaiku Tunnel with a local cast and crew.

Be me. All right.

Eighteen days later, we're done filming.

Now our editor's madly constructing a rough cut

so we can submit our movie to the Sundance Film Festival.

And Sara, she's also swung into action.

Sara has found an apartment for us to move into together.

Now for the first time in my life,

I'm gonna be living all week with the person I love.

I thought, my God, maybe despite myself,

I do have everything under control.

'Cause how can you explain all this great stuff

that's been happening to me?

I was getting gigs like never before,

all over the state of California, mostly in universities.

all from my new calculus piece.

It turns out college students all over the state

were dying to see a guy

reenact his flunking of calculus.

It was cathartic for them.

And I thought, wow, maybe if I get enough of these, to me,

quite lucrative gigs, then I can make enough money

so I can call back Mrs. Williams

and arrange a reasonable offer in compromise.

Oh, and I can call Mo and set up

a payment plan.

Hey, look at me.

I'm planning into the future.

I'm Mr. "Until."

So now, here I am,

backstage before the very first of these lucrative gigs.

Right before the gig, the presenter comes in,

and hands me an envelope, I open the envelope right away.

I like looking at the check before I go out onstage.

I find it motivates me.

Thanks a lot. Thank you.

The check.

But what I pulled out of the envelope was not a check.

It was a form from the Franchisés.

MARIO'S VOICE: "Dear Josh:

It is I, Mario Franchisé.

Maria, Francesca, and I want to thank you in advance

for donating all the money from this, what you call, gig,

towards paying down your enormous debt to the state.

I have to admit, I was of two minds.

I mean, on the negative side,

I had just lost my sole means of income.

Though I do have to say, on the positive side,

it did warm my heart to think that someone at the Franchisés

thought enough of my work to follow it this closely.

Oh, and follow it they did.

It got to the point that at the end of each gig,

I'd be madly working the phones,

trying to find at least one high-paying gig

out of state, away from the long arm of the Franchisés.

Yeah, hi, is this Theater J in Washington, D.C.?

What does the J stand for anyhow?

Jew.

You know what, I'm a Jew,

and you're a theater.

Let's make something happen.

I have to say, the opening night party

was quite impressive.

I'm not used to rubbing shoulders

with Beltway insiders.

Really wonderful.

Hello, Mr. Under Secretary.

Hello, Ms. Over Secretary.

Hello, Inner and Outer Secretary.

- Well done, boychick. - Thank you, sir.

Hello, Mr. Former Commissioner of the IRS.

I suppose I didn't need to actually grab the guy's tie,

but I was excited.

I said, "Sir, I cannot believe that Fate has brought me to you.

You need to help me solve this incredibly horrible tax problem I have.

Otherwise, I won't be able to marry my girlfriend

before our baby is born!"

"Mr. Kornbluth, it sounds like an urgent matter indeed.

Perhaps we should talk about this in my office sometime.

Here's my card."

Which, in retrospect, may have been intended as a brush-off,

but in my manic state, I thought, ooh, he invited me to his office.

And overnight, I had a chance

to look this guy up on the internet.

Turns out he's the real deal.

Sheldon S. Cohen.

Commissioner of Internal Revenue under President Johnson.

And the law firm he's working at now

clearly is not on the fringes

of Washington's power structure.

I mean, just based on the location.

1605 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Mr. Cohen.

Okay, as it happens, I used to work for

a really terrific tax attorney, so I know about

all the magical kinds of things that you guys can do

in and around the tax code.

Sir, I was just wondering if you could do for me

what my old boss used to do for his clients.

Sir, could you trigger a shotgun provision

or maybe do a reverse double dummy?

Even a single dummy would probably be enough.

Let me get this straight.

You want me

to try to find a law that will enable you

to avoid tax liabilities that you admit you owe.

Yes.

You know, Mr. Kornbluth,

there's a word for people like you.

You know what that word is?

You're a pisher.

He just called me pisher!

And it didn't feel good.

In fact, you know who you remind me of, Mr. Kornbluth?

You remind me of our neighbors across the street.

Yeah, they'd be happy

if the tax was zero,

as long as it didn't hurt them

and their cronies.

Is that what we want, Mr. Kornbluth?

Mr. Cohen, you have me all wrong.

They're the bad guys.

They don't wanna pay their fair share.

I'm a good guy,

and I'm being asked to pay more than my fair share.

But of course, it makes sense, doesn't it, sir?

I mean, after all, they are the "rulers,"

right, so they get to write the rules.

Actually, Mr. Kornbluth, I've gotta correct you there.

They did not write these rules.

I wrote these rules.

I, along with my fellow civil servants,

based upon legislation

enacted by people who you elected.

Mr. Kornbluth, without those taxes,

there would be no money.

Okay, sir, I get that.

But with all due respect,

I think you're still kind of dodging the issue.

I mean, look, here we are in your beautiful office,

right across the street from the White House.

From what I can tell, sir,

you have made quite a pretty penny

from helping those pishers get out of paying

their fair share.

You don't know me, Mr. Kornbluth.

But sir, I do know you.

You're the Man.

Your actions help this whole corrupt system

fund its wars and bail out its corporations,

while at the same time,

the public schools, the libraries,

health insurance, everything I care about,

is falling apart.

Mr. Kornbluth, anyone can criticize the system.

You don't like how the tax burden is allocated.

You don't like public spending

and where it goes.

Then elect different representatives.

It's on you, Mr. Kornbluth.

I am not the Man.

You are the Man.

Hey, bro, guess what.

We got into Sundance. Whoo hoo!

Mo will own the movie ofHaiku Tunnel.

As I gathered stuff up from around the apartment

for my trip to Utah for the festival,

I couldn't help but reflect on

how deep a hole I'd managed to dig for myself,

and how, thanks to what I had done,

some of the people I loved the most

were gonna suffer.

Really, the only thread of hope

I had to cling to at this point

was that maybe, when we got to Sundance,

and we showed our movie,

maybe everyone would just hate it.

'Cause if everyone hated our film,

then probably, no one would pick it up.

And if no one picked it up for distribution,

then it wouldn't matter who owned it.

But as it turns out, people liked our movie.

Evil! Ich bin ein evil secretary.

I'm a bad seed.

Josh, I don't mean to pry,

but I can't help but notice...

I mean, we're all so proud and happy,

and yet, you seem to be so... down.

I must ask.

Is it your tax thing?

What do you know about my tax thing?

Pfft.

Only, pfft...

what your brother has told me.

That you owe a lot of money,

and until you pay it,

you and Sara can't get married,

and until you and Sara get married,

you can't get on her health insurance,

and Josh, anyone who looks at you

knows you could use health insurance.

Josh, may I ask,

how much?

Adding it all up,

the IRS, the Franchisés, Mo,

about $50,000.

You know, Josh,

ever since those days at the Marsh,

you've done what you loved.

And I've done what I've loved,

and randomly, Josh, totally randomly,

what I've done has been lucrative

in these years.

But it's just random, Josh.

Of course there's no intrinsic value

to my work over yours,

or yours over anyone else's.

And I would consider it a gift

to me, Josh,

if you would allow me to at least stop the meter running here,

and loan you the $50,000

at zero interest.

Until?

Until... infinity.

Oh, how'd the screening go, baby?

It was fine, fine.

And how are you feeling?

I'm okay. I have to pee.

Uh-huh.

I decided I prefer not peeing and having to pee,

and being on this couch and being cozy

than getting up from the couch.

I haven't been utterly,

holistically... honest with you.

Have you been having an affair?

No.

- Have you been having multiple affairs? - No.

Well... what?

I haven't been totally on top of the tax thing.

Oh, God!

I thought you were...

I thought you were paying it off.

You said... you said you had it...

No, I remember this very clearly.

You said you had it under control.

Yeah, yeah, I did,

but I... I thought I did.

You didn't have it under control.

It got bigger.

When did it stop being...

You lied to me.

The good thing is--

Oh, no, no, no. There is no good thing.

- I have a plan. - Oh, you have a plan.

Oh, I have a plan, too.

I'm gonna move back in with my parents.

No, I was talking with David--

You clearly wanna get out of this.

I was just talking with David,

and David offered to loan me

all $50,000.

Zero interest.

Till infinity.

It's my fault.

It is, it's my fault.

Because I was so stupid.

I actually...

I believed you would follow through.

I...

It's okay, it's all right. I don't blame you.

You can't help yourself.

You're a child.

Oh, I want to kill you!

God, I want to kill you!

Oh!

I feel like I should kill you.

I should, I should kill you.

No, but...

What, so you're gonna...

you're gonna set up a payment plan,

and you're gonna pay David back all his money?

Yeah.

And, and you're going to pay your taxes,

on time from now on.

Yes.

And when these scary envelopes come,

you're going to open them,

like, right away.

Yes, I promise.

So do you still love me?

I'm sorry.

Mr. Kornbluth,

this is too big for me to deposit.

50,000.

Here. That's too big?

I'll have to get my supervisor.

Excuse me.

I can certainly deposit this check, Mr. Kornbluth.

You should have access to these funds

in seven to ten business days.

I need all that money tomorrow.

You can't put any kind of hold on that check.

Well, I'll have to get the vice-president.

Of the United States?

Nice to see you, Mr. Kornbluth.

Wanna go hunting with me and Scalia tomorrow?

Shoot some drugged-up ducks?

No, the vice-president of the bank.

Oh. Okay.

That makes more sense.

Mr. Kornbluth, I can deposit this check for you

with no hold, but first,

I have to check to see if this David fellow

has enough money in his account to cover it.

Okay.

Okay. Here's David's account.

And his balance...

Mr. Kornbluth, I can make this deposit with no hold whatsoever.

Before I do that...

why don't you take a load off, have a free cup of joe,

and have a chat with one of our friendly investment counselors.

Mr. Kornbluth, I'm looking at your checking account,

and with today's deposit,

the total amount in your checking

is $50,022.

Exactly.

Mr. Kornbluth, are you aware that there's no interest at all

on this checking account?

You should at least consider moving it into

an interest-bearing account, or even better,

we have this new policy.

I don't need to go into the details,

but basically, you put your money in one account,

we instantly transfer it into another account.

Then you earn more interest, we earn more interest,

and the beauty part is,

neither of us has to pay any taxes.

Do you know what that is?

That is pishertalk.

What would happen if everyone did that?

What would happen if no one paid their taxes?

How would we even fix a little pothole?

What, someone puts a tin can next to the pothole,

and then people toss in coins as they go driving by,

and someone else goes, "Hmm, that seems to be enough money.

I'm going to learn how to fix a pothole now."

No, our taxes are us collecting

our own money from ourselves for ourselves.

Our tax laws are what allow us to provide for our children,

and for their children.

That's why I love tax law!

Oh.

And the next day, back in our kitchen,

I made out three checks.

Made them out to the IRS,

to the Franchisés, and to Mo.

I filled out the cover letters, I put them in their envelopes,

and then, on each envelope,

I put not one, but two stamps.

I knew each envelope just had a cover letter and check.

I just thought, if a check was worth that much,

somehow, maybe mystically, it'll weigh down the scale.

Then Sara and I had a brief but totally serious discussion

on what we felt would be the most secure mailbox to use

in our new neighborhood in Berkeley.

We decided on the mailbox

at the corner of University and Shattuck.

I kissed Sara good-bye,

and clutching those three envelopes to myself,

I began the walk up the hill to the mailbox.

On this walk, I passed Washington Elementary School.

I passed, on the other side of the street,

Berkeley High School.

I passed the downtown branch of the Berkeley public library.

Retrofit for earthquake protection,

but also really beautiful.

I passed a bus stop.

I passed a BART station.

Everything I saw on this walk

had been paid for with tax dollars.

I got up to the mailbox,

I opened it,

I put in the three envelopes,

I shut it, and then,

as I had been trained to do

by both sets of grandparents,

I opened it again.

You wanna make sure nothing stuck.

Nothing had stuck.

I closed the mailbox, and as I turned,

and began heading back down the hill,

back towards my new family,

I could feel my father...

flying away from me.

I will say this, bro.

My portrayal of you, in the monologue

and in the movie, is 100% accurate.

It's exactly realistic.

In fact, come here, I want people...

Don't take my word for it, but just check this out.

This is my actual brother, the director of this film.

Okay, now you can see him,

and then you see the actor who plays him.

The actor, because he's an actor, he's handsome,

so that's different, but otherwise it's exactly the same.

You can go back to your side of the camera now.

Let's go.

I do remember crashing.

Yeah, I'm amazed you even remember it at all.

And this is before we recycled Mountain Dew

as a typical thing.

It's before we really knew about the Earth.

So Josh, what were you thinking

when David made you that offer?

I was...

I was speechless, I was blown away.

It was magical.

He's my David ex machina.

Do you wanna... David, why don't you come here?

This is the actual David, so...

Uh... uh... Why'd you do it?

'Cause I cared about you, and I could do something about it.

That's unbelievably simple and beautiful.

And happens to be true.

There you have it.

The actual David is way sweeter

than I actually portrayed, and doesn't go "pfft."

I don't think they had a cat.

You don't think they ever had a cat.

So you're, like, completely questioning

- my veracity, or my memory. - Well, this is--

I live in some sort of illusionary world

or something, illusional.

The tax goddesses are part of your story

that I introduced you to,

'cause they were the people who did my taxes,

and I don't remember a cat.

It's freaking me out. I'm starting to think,

was there a cat, or do I now remember a cat

because I've been doing the show over and over again,

in which they have a cat?

Did I at some point make believe that...

Okay.

Shit.