Dripping with Sweat

Tied to a post in the blazing sun. Covered with biting red ants. Dripping with sweat. Hoarse from screaming. Mouth too dry to even swallow.
I was stupid and stubborn. I convinced myself I could do my own taxes.
And now look at me.
My audit did not go well. The deductions for stained clothing dry cleaning expenses caused by obsessed fans of my writing slobbering over me did not pass muster. All those contest fees I sent out for which I neglected to document came across as fraud. Six state of the art mouse pads. No good. On and on.
The IRS has given me no indication when or if I will be released. I glanced at the fellow tied to the pole to my right. He kept whining about legitimate writer deductions. People want my book, they want ME, he sobbed. I must travel across country, which costs money and I should have been reimbursed. They said I padded my expenses. Padded is such a nebulous term.
The guy on my left had deducted his sister in law, whose home went underwater mortgage wise, which led to her living with family. Shot down by the fiendish tax blood suckers.
I wonder which of us will have to pee first.