If the IRS was replaced by a bunch of monkeys banging on typewriters, it might be better for the taxpayers of this country.

Note the word “might.” Even the monkeys might refuse to give me a refund.

I was looking over my accounts the other day and discovered that I had overpaid my taxes by $200.

Okay, fine. It was actually $193.78. But it was definitely an overpayment.

“Is this what people email their senators for?” I wondered. Then I realized New Jersey had a Division of Taxation. Moreover, that division had a phone number.

I called and spent 45 minutes listening to a strained version of “The Magic Flute.” It should have been called “The Dying Bassoon,” the way it was being played.

At last a lady on the other end picked up. “Who, may I ask, is calling?” she asked.

“An irate taxpayer,” I snapped. Actually, what I really mumbled was my name and social security number.

Then I asked about my refund. I could almost feel a metaphorical wall going up the moment the R-word passed my lips.

“Ms. Paskachoover,” she said, “In our records you have paid your taxes in full this year, and are not eligible for a refund.”

I resorted to my usual tactic: stony silence. Actually, what I really did was bleat like a stricken goat.

“But I calculated how much money I owed you and I overpaid by $200. I mean, $193.78!” I stammered.

“Ms. Pakshaver,” came the inevitable reply. “Please consult with a tax professional.”

“Aren’t you a tax professional?” I inquired.

“Yes, but I’m not the kind you want,” sighed the lady over the phone. It was a deep sigh, like the sort one would heave when having 47 such conversations a day.

“I’m pretty sure I overpaid,” I said in the most confident voice I could muster, which I hoped might at least persuade her to say my last name correctly.

“Ms. Pakanshawaver,” said the lady on the other end, “I suggest if you want to pursue a refund that you call this number again.”

“Why should I do that?” I said, trying to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

“Because then I will have time to put my colleague on the line, and he’s a yeller,” she said quietly. “If you value your eardrums, I suggest you don’t call again.”

So I hung up. And I almost dialed the taxation department again. But I didn’t. I’m rather attached to my ears, and I didn’t want to endanger them.

Perhaps the colleague at the taxation department was fictional, but I never found out.

What I do remember is wavering around the phone for a little while, with the hope for a refund slowly deflating like a poorly-tied balloon.

Now, I may not have won the battle with the Division of Taxation this year. But next year, when I file my taxes, I’ll come up $193.78 short. Or not.

I don’t want them to send the yeller after me.

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Copyright 2026 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Alexandra Paskhaver is a software engineer and writer. Both jobs require knowing where to stick semicolons, but she’s never quite; figured; it; out. For more information, check out her website at https://apaskhaver.github.io.