​There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being told, over and over, that you’re feeling the wrong thing at the wrong volume. Too loud. Too intense. Too much. Women learn early that anger is the emotion they’re supposed to swallow, redirect, or dress up in something more acceptable—frustration, maybe, or disappointment, or that tight smile that says I’m fine when nothing is fine at all.

Venessa Peruda isn’t interested in that performance anymore. Her solo show All the Rage arrives at the 2026 New York City Fringe Festival like a pressure valve finally giving way—loud, messy, funny as hell, and completely unwilling to make female anger palatable for anyone’s comfort.

The show runs April 4, 5, 12, and 14 at The RAT as part of FRIGID New York, and if the title alone doesn’t tell you what you’re walking into, Peruda’s own description should. “I’m a clown. I’m an artist. And IDGAF,” she says. “I’m a woman who has deep feelings about the state of our World and how Patriarchy has driven us to the breaking point. And I’m that bitch who’s going to speak up about it.”

​What makes All the Rage different from the growing shelf of feminist comedy is that it refuses to treat anger as a thesis statement. This isn’t a show that argues women should be allowed to feel rage. It assumes they already do—and asks what happens when they stop pretending otherwise.

Media: For complimentary New York Fringe festival show tickets or to schedule an interview with Venessa Peruda, contact Workhouse, CEO, Adam Nelson via [email protected]

Peruda gets at something that rarely makes it onto stages, even progressive ones: the sheer accumulation of it all. The medical appointments where you weren’t believed. The workplace conversations where you had to explain something three times while a man said it once and got the credit. The constant, low-grade threat assessment that runs in the background of walking home, taking transit, existing in a body that other people feel entitled to comment on, touch, evaluate. None of this is dramatic. All of it adds up.
​
“Displaying the ironies and pitfalls women are forced to endure is hilarious and cathartic in a pee-yourself-a-little kind of way,” Peruda says. The show doesn’t abandon humor for sermon. It uses comedy to point directly at the absurdity of what women are expected to tolerate, then refuses to wrap it up neatly. There’s no moment where the lights soften and everyone learns a lesson. There’s just the mess, the recognition, and the relief of being in a room where nobody’s pretending.

The feminist comedy landscape has expanded in recent years, but there’s still an unspoken expectation that women will make their pain charming. Relatable. Something that goes down easy. All the Rage skips that entirely. Peruda isn’t here to reassure anyone that things are getting better, or that anger can be channeled into something productive and tidy. She’s here to say the thing out loud and let it sit there.

“I’m taking the gloves off,” she explains. “I’m pulling the curtain back to reveal the wizard is a scared man with scrawny legs that probably doesn’t pay his child support.”
​
As for why now, Peruda doesn’t mince words. “If you have to ask that you’re not paying attention. My feed is filled with furious women desperate for answers, for something to do with their inescapable rage they carry with them when they go to work, when they drop their kids off at school, or when they bravely try to go on a first date.”

Her central argument lands like a dare: “Anger is the key. The greatest trick Patriarchy ever pulled was convincing women their anger was wrong and shameful. When in fact it is the key to our liberation, and the path to rebuild the World.”

It’s a line that could scan as bumper-sticker feminism, except that Peruda earns it. The show isn’t built on slogans. It’s built on specificity—the particular texture of being dismissed, the exact weight of being told you’re overreacting when you know you’re not. That’s what makes the comedy land.

Peruda’s path to this work wasn’t linear. “I come from a single mom home with siblings who tortured and loved each other fiercely,” she says. “I had a difficult upbringing which taught me that humor can not only soothe but bring people together. I was a good kid, until I wasn’t. I railed against the World and nearly destroyed myself in the process.” Now, she says, she still rails against the world—”but with a deadly wit and the knowing that I can do great things.”

That confidence matters. Women aren’t exactly encouraged to say things like that out loud. Certainty is unfeminine. Pride is unseemly. Refusal is uncooperative. Peruda’s built a show out of all three.
​
All the Rage isn’t going to solve anything. It’s not trying to. What it offers is simpler and maybe more valuable: a room where women don’t have to perform okayness, where anger isn’t a symptom of something wrong with you, where the mess is just the mess. “Women need this catharsis right now,” Peruda says. “We need to scream, we need to laugh… and be liberated to be the bitch we wish to see in the World.”

All the Rage runs April 4, 5, 12, and 14 at The RAT as part of FRIGID New York. Tickets available through frigid.nyc.

Workhouse grieves the loss of the Asbury Park Casino—iconic history turned to dust. To those committed to preservation, we are prepared to offer pro bono service and resources to advance viable alternatives to demolition.
#asburypark #asburyparkboardwalk #asburyparknj

Cracks in Crypto’s Tax SystemDaniel FuschJanuary 12, 2026

Janna Scott discovered the problem the way most people discover structural flaws: by accident, and then by obsession.
It was late 2021, and Scott—a former government fiscal analyst who’d spent years reviewing Treasury reports and compliance audits—was doing something millions of Americans were attempting that year: filing taxes on cryptocurrency trades. Her wallet contained roughly 300 transactions. Nothing extraordinary by crypto standards. A few trades, some DeFi experiments, the digital equivalent of a moderately active portfolio.

She ran her data through one of the popular crypto tax platforms. Got her numbers. Then, more out of professional habit than suspicion, she ran the same wallet through a second platform.
The results didn’t match.

So she tried a third. Then a fourth. Fourteen platforms in total—essentially the entire landscape of crypto tax software available to American taxpayers.

Not one produced the same result.

One platform reported tens of thousands in taxable income. Another showed a capital loss. The variations weren’t marginal—they were fundamental disagreements about the same financial reality, derived from identical data, with no explanation for the contradictions.

“It wasn’t noise in the data,” Scott says. “It was the math itself that was broken.”
​
For most people, that discovery would have prompted a call to an accountant and a decision to pick the most conservative estimate. For Scott, whose career had been built on identifying exactly these kinds of systemic vulnerabilities, it was an invitation to look deeper.

The Architecture of Error
What followed was a nine-month investigation that unfolded with the methodical precision of academic research and the urgency of a detective story.
Scott went to the source: the blockchain itself. She began manually validating thousands of transactions, pulling raw data directly from distributed ledgers, checking cost basis calculations, timestamps, token movements line by line. She developed her own APIs to bypass the CSV files exported by exchanges—files that, she discovered, often served as the shaky foundation for most tax software—and instead retrieved immutable records directly from the chain.
The patterns that emerged were troubling.
The same wallet produced tax liability swings exceeding $25,000 depending on which platform processed it. Coinbase might report significant taxable income while a partner tax service showed a loss on identical data. In some cases, routine transfers between a user’s own wallets were being classified as taxable sales, creating what the original article describes as “phantom income”—tax obligations on transactions that never actually occurred.
More concerning still: Scott found that many platforms allowed users to edit core transaction data. “These platforms allow users to edit the date, time, value, and currency of a blockchain transaction,” Scott explains. “The moment you do that, the audit trail is gone.”
The implications extended beyond individual tax returns. This was infrastructure failure at the foundation of an emerging asset class.
Scott brought her findings to federal regulators. In March 2023, the IRS quietly suspended crypto audits after reviewing her research and concluding that their CSV-based audit methodology was unreliable. Universities were brought in to peer-review Scott’s analysis. The conclusion held: none of the fourteen platforms tested could consistently produce accurate tax reports from blockchain data.
The Growing Divide
While regulators paused to reconsider their approach, cryptocurrency adoption continued its upward trajectory. Approximately 6 million Americans reported crypto on their 2023 tax returns—roughly double the previous year. Meanwhile, through exchange subpoenas and transaction records, the IRS maintains data on nearly 50 million U.S. residents who have interacted with cryptocurrency at some point, whether they’ve reported it or not.
Scott describes this widening gap between regulatory visibility and reporting accuracy as a “tax time bomb.”
“Crypto evolved,” she says. “Tax software didn’t.”
Most crypto tax platforms, she explains, were designed for straightforward transactions: buying and selling digital assets. But decentralized finance introduced complexity those systems weren’t built to handle—liquidity pools, cross-chain bridges, wrapped assets, staking rewards, yield farming. The old categorical logic doesn’t accommodate the new financial behaviors.
CSV exports from exchanges frequently lack essential data: timestamps, transaction hashes, accurate pricing information. Software fills the gaps with assumptions. And assumptions, in tax reporting, create liability.
“Automation without transparency is just a faster risk,” Scott says.
After presenting her findings to the fourteen companies whose platforms she’d tested, ninety percent declined to address the structural issues she’d identified. That response—or lack thereof—prompted Scott and her team to build an alternative.
Designing for Scrutiny
DeFi Tax launches publicly this month with a different foundational premise. It doesn’t accept user-edited spreadsheets. Instead, it retrieves raw, timestamped transaction data directly from blockchains and exchanges, structures it into a transparent audit trail, and generates reports that can be traced and verified line by line.
“Run the same wallet twice, you get the same answer twice,” Scott says. “That’s not a feature. That’s the baseline for compliance.”
The platform is designed for users with complex on-chain activity—DeFi participants, crypto founders, decentralized organizations, and the accounting professionals who serve them—who need more than speed or simplicity. They need audit readiness: documentation that explains exactly how every calculation was derived and can withstand professional scrutiny.
“Audits don’t ask which tool you used,” Scott says. “They ask how you calculated your numbers.”
With the IRS preparing to expand digital asset reporting requirements and new 1099-DA forms on the horizon, Scott believes the industry is entering a new phase—one where trust-based assurances are no longer sufficient for software handling tax obligations.
Transparency as Design Principle
There’s a particular irony in Scott’s work. Cryptocurrency’s foundational promise was transparency—immutable public ledgers, cryptographic verification, systems designed to operate without requiring trust in centralized authorities.
Yet when it came to the practical task of accounting for activity on those transparent ledgers, the industry largely defaulted to opaque tools that couldn’t explain their own calculations.
“Most people aren’t trying to avoid crypto taxes,” Scott says. “They’re trying to understand them.”
Her research suggests that the barrier to compliance isn’t willful evasion—it’s infrastructure inadequacy. People using flawed tools to meet complex obligations they don’t fully understand, in an emerging regulatory landscape that’s still taking shape.
DeFi Tax’s public launch arrives at a moment when that understanding is becoming essential. As regulators prepare to resume audits and millions of Americans face increasingly sophisticated reporting requirements, Scott’s work offers something that’s been notably absent: clarity derived from verifiable calculation.
“Chaos is optional,” she says. “Clarity is a design choice.”
For an ecosystem that built its identity on transparency and trustless verification, it may be the most important design principle of all.
Those seeking transparent, blockchain-verified tax reporting can find DeFi Tax at https://defitax.us