Jim Prufrock is hard at work when an anonymous supporter of the television arts dials up 1-800-PLOT-NOT-PLOD, which appears to be the very number that causes Jim's fax machine to ring. He looks over as a two-page fax from the Versailles Casino rolls in, the blank cover sheet in front of a page containing several lines of financial mumbo-jumbo. The top of the fax tells us that the sender is one "Silas Bodnick" of the Versailles Casino, phone number 866/540-5837. A clue! Clearly. Who's on that? Are you dialing yet? Don't make me make you. I can always return to my endless congressional filibuster about the manifold joys of Winslow, Arizona while you guys call that number and report back with findings. I've got all the time in the world. It's only 7:31 AM. Prufrock (middle initial "A," according to the nameplate on his desk, for all you Eliot fans and takers of the English AP out there) picks up the phone and dials 866/540-5837 (as should you all being doing right now, lest I resort to reporting the population and elevation of Winslow and start loudly serenading you with the lyrics to their town song), and a Polito-esque voice (which, in such disembodied form, is starting to resemble the vocal timbre of the love child of Harvey Fierstein and Fred Flintstone…sorry, Jon!) answers.
Prufrock asks if he has reached Silas Bodnick, and we cut to The Lips Of Silas Bodnick, cagily asking who wants to know. Prufrock informs The Lips Of Silas Bodnick that someone specifically sent his office a fax, and when The Lips Of Silas Bodnick tell him to "throw it away," Prufrock forges one too many lines of Affleck-drenched dialogue in responding, "Well, sir, that brings me to what I'm calling in regards to. It seems there is a sizable accounting error…" The Lips of Silas Bodnick tell Prufrock that he is a "yahoo," and tells him not to call again: "End of story." Prufrock keeps his cool but grimaces slightly, hanging up and intoning all growly, like Dirty Harry if Dirty Harry were less a tough cop out for vengeance than, well, an accountant, "No. Not end of story." A quick, zoomy cut zooms us to the outside of the building, where we espy a sign reading "Internal Revenue Service," and just as quickly we're zooming back inside to where Prufrock sits brooding. Oh, great. How are we supposed to revel in our million-dollar payday when the show has already used the cash defending themselves in their Affleck vs. Doug Liman plagiarism case? Prufrock calls into the next room: "Grace…how far away is Push, Nevada?" Silas, I've got your number. I need to make you mi-ine. Silas, don't change that number: 866/540-5837.
Opening credits: Thirty seconds of washed-out, overexposed, and reverse-printed photographs, newspaper clippings, and tax forms are accompanied by a rock-out beat. Woo hoo! Techno taxes! I declare my love for it! I am its sole dependent! My passion for the IRS I cannot, uh, write off! Sigh. Oh, pipe down, Mathletes. You try making jokes about math sometime. Also featured in the opening credits are a URL -- www.dmvf.com. Near the end of the credits, this accusatory sentence appears in print across the screen: "You are being audited." Ooooh. That's got the shelf life the X-Files would have if they'd gone for the opening credits promise, "The proof is tax-deductible."