Brushing the fringes of fame

[zibacco]

Today I got a call from some guy in Canada who works for the show Battlestar Galactica in some sort of accounting capacity.  We serviced one of their printers at an office here in SoCal, and he needed us to fax over a copy of a standard tax document in order to issue payment.   I told him I would send it to him, but only if he revealed the identity of the final Cylon.  Apparently they train their staff to resist that kind of blackmail because the bastard wouldn't tell me.   I was forced to send the document anyway, or face the full force of the Internal Revenue Service's righteous wrath.

I bet he doesn't know anyway, but he acted like he did.  What a jerk.