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Zelinsky: The End Is Near
Or is it the new uninhibited era of BS presented cynically as Free speech ? -
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Bangkok Bank Now Doing FATCA
I am not sure about the penalty, but the IRS does have what they call a streamlined procedure which they describe the criteria and some of the steps here: https://www.irs.gov/individuals/international-taxpayers/us-taxpayers-residing-outside-the-united-states Went through the process - five years of missed FinCEN 114s for my wife and three years of amended 1040 for us. No penalties but it did cost a little bit of late payments and interest and a LOT of research through our financial records. In the end I was glad I no longer had it hanging over us going forward. The good faith 'non-willful' reason was that I (the tax filer in the family) did not realize that my wife's remarriage accounts needed to be reported. Some tax preparation firm offer to do the filing, but you are still on the hook for the research and coming up with a believable reason you failed to file. -
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The Laundry Caper: Another Day, Another Injustice
Lads, let me tell you, I’ve suffered my share of great injustices in this place during my time here over the ages; crooked bar tabs, dodgy tailors, fake Rolexes, women who swear up and down they’ve never seen me before despite me single-handedly funding their sick buffalo repairs upcountry for months, but this latest one? This one sucks all the mickey out of me mates. It all started a few days ago when I decided to get my laundry done. I hadn’t had any of my valuable threads washed since getting back to Thailand from Dubai. Now, as a man of fine distinction and high class, I don’t wear your average market-stall tat like some of the skint geezers slumming around Patts. No, my wardrobe is a carefully curated collection of high-quality, Hong Kong-tailored, Italian-cotton, investment-grade garments. So when it’s time to freshen them up, I don’t just toss them into some grimy, coin-operated youth-hostel washing machine. No, I go professional only. So I take my laundry to a sparkling new laundry shop just a few Sois off Buakhao recommended by Billy the Blagger. Small place, local operation, looks clean to me. The attentive woman behind the counter nods, smiles, and hands me a little slip to fill out. Smooth process, right? What could possibly go wrong? Well, everything lads. I return two days later, expecting my 24 beloved designer shirts to be professionally ironed and my 16 tailored trousers to be folded up nicely, smelling of jasmine-scented starch and ready for another week of me hitting the bar scene hard and looking more dapper than every other sweaty knob in town. But instead, the woman hands me a suspiciously lightweight plastic bag. I open it up and immediately feel a chill run down my spine. Inside, I find: • One neon-green tank top with “Full Moon Party” printed across the front. • A pair of cargo shorts that smell like motorbike exhaust and Soi 6 regret. • Two crusty socks, one torn nearly in half. • An old pair of underwear with a waistband stretched wider than a ladyboy’s port of entry. • No sign at all of any of my actual expensive clothes. Now, at this point, I’m reasonably concerned. So I do what any man in my position would, I hold up the insulting looking tank top and say, “Oi, love, what the frigg is this tosh?” And do you know what she does? She nods at me, like a schoolteacher trying to explain the first 3 letters of the alphabet to a slow learner, and says, “Same same you bring. Look very good now, Khun Bob.” Lads, I nearly passed out from sheer rage. “Same same?” I hold up the torn sock. “You telling me I walked in here with this rag?” She nods again. “Yes, you give. You wear before sir.” Before? BEFORE?! Now, I’m not a violent man, but in that moment, I understood why some blokes snap and end up in a real legal jam over something daft. I demand she check again, and after much sighing, eye-rolling, and a quick chat with her sleepy mate in the back, she suddenly produces another bag. Finally. My actual clothes. Or so I think. I rip it open, and what do I see? • One of my white linen shirts… looking like it’s been used as a napkin at a somtam stall. • My favorite navy trousers… now featuring a weird bleach mark in the shape of Soi Cowboy over the crotch area. • My lucky pink polo… now somehow three sizes smaller. • And worst of all? My best collared dress shirt… now sporting what looks suspiciously like a bright red lipstick kiss on the collar. I look at her, petrified. She shrugs and delivers the final insult: “Like that when you bring, Khun Bob.” Like what when I bring?! Really, doll??? Lads, at this point, I knew there was no winning. I could argue, I could call the BIB, I could get a forensic investigator to analyze the stains and prove they weren’t mine, and it wouldn’t matter. The house always wins. So, there I was, standing outside the laundry shop, out 3,200 baht in laundry fees, and another 3,000 quid in ruined HK wardrobe kit, for the mere privilege of getting somebody else’s sweaty, lost tank top AND my own clothes destroyed. And do you know what the worst part is? The only thing they didn’t lose were the minging cargo shorts that looked like they’d been rescued from a bin along Beach Road. Like they knew I’d rather set myself on fire than wear them. So there’s your moral of the story, boys: If you value your wardrobe like I do, either do your own washing or accept that one day, you too may end up dressed like a backpacker named Nobby from Nottingham, drowning his sorrows in a piss-warm draft Leo beer. Now here I am, nothing left of me mates but a feeling of pure defeat. What would you do if you were in my Doc Martins? Best regards, The Original Bob.
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