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It’s About Time a Race Car Driver with a Drug Problem Got in Trouble with IRS

Among the celebrity/athlete tax delinquents we get a decent variety – hip–hop artists, topless girl magnates/douches of the decade, juiced-up baseball players, washed-up actors, people stupid enough to have their picture taken in a Nazi visor and doing the “sieg heil.” It’s a potpourri.

Well, today we’re happy (not literally happy, tax delinquency is not a laughing matter) to report that tax troubles have now found their way into new area of the celebrity culture: race car drivers. And not just any race car driver, one that is rumored to have used meth! Lots of it!


We’re not too familiar with Jeremy Mayfield’s problems but after a quick glance at one article we’ve learned that A) he’s not crazy about NASCAR leadership B) dude has done a fair amount of crank in his day C) he’s not a fan of his “whore” stepmom who, he says, killed his Dad.

Between the work trouble, drug trouble and family trouble J May’s brain has to be mush; of course he’s going to forget to pay $300,000 in taxes. This is no different than the Snoop Dogg tax situation. Sure the drugs are different but the principle is the same. The guy just needs a solid CPA to take care of these things for him, preferably one that isn’t easily sketched out and can handle paranoid junkie types with money to throw around (assuming there’s money left).

Mayfield Has A Bigger Foe Than NASCAR: The IRS [SpeedTV]

Start the Tax Day Party Without Me

Tonight will be the 26th tax day party of my accounting career. Pardon me if I don’t stick around very long.

The only really memorable tax day party was my first one. The tax group of the “Big 8” firm where my career started went to across the street to old Busch Stadium in St Louis, where the firm rented a box for the Cardinals baseball game. I happily drank their beer, only to be canned exactly a week later. That sort of took the fun out of the whole thing (though if I did something at the party to get fired from good old PW, it was the best career move I ever made).


So I found a job with the Des Moines tax group of another big firm. There the tax day party doubled as a bachelor party for one of the other staff accountants, and we all (well, the boy accountants) went to a north side strip club. I didn’t have any spare dollars for the garters, and I slipped away home, where I could drink all night for the cost of a single beer at the girlie club. But I just went to bed.

Which is really about all I feel like doing by the end of the day on April 15. By noon today I had already worked a 65-hour week. I’ve been in close company with my co-workers here from early morning to late night for weeks, and, as much as I love them to death, I’ve had enough quality time with them.

There are other awkward things about the tax parties. Like auditors. You can identify them by their animation and their golf tans – a sharp and annoying distinction from us dazed, pallid tax zombies. Bonus annoyance points if they come to the April 15 party straight from the golf course.

These parties typically occur at a local bar, where you run the high possibility of a colleague embarrassing himself in front of a client. Or worse, a drunk client hitting on one of our staff accountants. Worse still, a staff accountant hitting on a client. Unless it goes really well, of course.

Finally, I’m a boss now. Nobody really wants to do serious drinking in front of a boss. So now I’m like the old guys who used to start the Masters with a ceremonial tee shot. I’ll take a ceremonial shot (Templeton Rye, try it sometime), and then leave the field to the youngsters.

So have a good time tonight. If you see me out, I’ll be at dinner with my wife (I think I’m still married). I’ll be the one snoring.