I could put strychnine in the guacamole

We got our taxes done last night, and went to the same guy who's done them for us the past three years. I love our tax guy, but he is a huge nerd. Actually, that's probably why I love our tax guy. He's super nerdy, really nice, and slightly socially inappropriate (two years ago he told us about his second honeymoon trip to the Catskills; this time he mentioned that all three of his kids were one-mistake pregnancies. He said that he'd told his wife they should do some field testing to see if he was super virile or if she was super fertile, but she never gave the go-ahead for the "cross pollination" experiments.)

This year I learned something about him which explains so much:  he's an engineer. No offense to MB, who is actually remarkably well-adjusted, but in my experience engineers tend to fall on a predictable spectrum from totally socially frightening through what my friend Spence has dubbed "engiwiener" and (if they're lucky) up to almost normal. Tax Guy falls squarely in the endearing engiwiener part of the spectrum.

Early in our appointment, I noticed that he had a red Swingline stapler on his desk. Because I am not an engiwiener, I restrained myself and did not start throwing Office Space lines at him. But then at the end of the appointment, he pointed to the stapler and said, "You've seen Office Space, right? I am Milton!" Tax Guy, te amo. You'd better get us a good return, though. I could burn this place to the ground.