Yo, I must be gettin’ soft or somethin’, ’cause last weekend, I be chillin’ at tha Midstate Office Supply company picnic. Sheeit. Ain’t too long ago, tha H-Dog wuz too hard for that socializin’ shizit. All tha time, co-workers be askin’ me, “Hey, Herbert, would you like to sign up for the Red Cross blood drive?” “Are you going to participate in Secret Santa this year?” And all tha time, I give ’em tha same answer: “Step tha FUCK off, you blood-donatin’, Secret Santa-havin’ muthafucka. Tha H-Dog ain’t doin’ that weak-ass shit, not now, not eva.”
And if tha muthafuckas persist, I drags them to tha conference room and holds they domes ova tha overhead projecta until they be cryin’ for mercy. I be at Midstate foe tha fly accountz reeceevin’, not foe rollin’ wit’ a bunch of big-hair hos wit’ they Rice Krispies treats an’ Hi-C. I gots a rep to maintain.
This time, tha sorry muthafucka pesterin’ tha H-Dog be this wack-ass, rice-patty-dick scrub named Dave Weintraub, who be wit’ Inventory downstairs. Now, I be down wit’ tha bruthas in Inventory, but this Dave Weintraub guy be new, an’ he don’t know tha H-Dog protocol yet, which is, DON’T even fuckin’ look me in tha eye if you knows what’s good for you, ’specially if you some wet-behind-tha-ears punk. Now, tha other day, I jus’ happen to be down in Inventory’s crib, pickin’ up some hangin’ file folders foe tha Accountz Reeceevable Krew, when this Dave Weintraub bitch come up to me like he a playa and go, “Say, Herbert, are you coming to the company picnic this weekend?”
Shit, man, I was a split-second from goin’ Sam Peckinpah on that newjack, cocksuckin’ fool, thinkin’ I be Yogi Bear or sumpfin’. But before I can lay down tha hurt, he go, “Herbert, everyone’s going to be there. The guys from Shipping, the folks in Marketing, the cafeteria ladies, everybody in the third-floor administrative office, and all of your coworkers in Accounts Receivable. Oh, and Accounts Payable, too. It sounds like it’s going to be a lot of fun.”
I don’t give no rat’s ass about Shipping or tha cafeteria bitches, but when Dave say Accountz Payabo gonna be in tha house, I grabs the muthafucka an’ jams my Letta Opener Of Death under his chin.
“You better not be shittin’ me, fool,” I say.
“No, really, Herbert, it’ll be fun,” he say.
DAMN. They Accountz Payabo bitches be bum rushin’ tha picnic, which mean I gotta be there to represent and make sure no shit goes down. See, Payabo be hurtin’, ’cause one ’a they temps just left, an’ as a result, they be behind on they accountz payin’ an’ shit. I gots this notion that tha Accountz Payabo supervisa, Myron Schabe, got his old-ass eye on mah Accountz Reeceevin’ homey Gary. Now, Gary, he all that, an’ he loyal to tha A.R. Posse. But all it take is a coupla hot dogs an’ Old English 800s wit’ Schabe and tha office comptrolla, Gerald Luckenbill, an’ Gary could be crossin’ over to Payabo wit’ a quickness. So I decide to bum rush tha picnic my own self, so when suckas start flexin’, I be puttin’ tha 186 on ’em, know what I’m sayin’?
So come Sattiday, I be rollin’ up at tha picnic, an’ it be tha wackest scene eva, y’all. These ugly-ass pigeons from tha secretarial pool be runnin’ around tha place, fishin’ plastic fish outta buckets foe prizes an’ shit, hollerin’ like hell. Some wack M.C. be spinnin’ tha worst beats I eva heard. I see a buncha folks I don’t know, an’ I figure they spouses of tha Midstate Krew. They give me tha evil eye, an’ I give it back. FUCK them playa-haters.
So here I is, casin’ shit, lookin’ foe my man Gary and keepin’ my distance, lest some fool distract me, an’ I lose Gary to tha Payabo muthafuckas. I stakes out a picnic table and sits down, givin’ tha stone-coldest look in my arsenal of facial expressions, so don’t nobody fuck wit’ me. ’Course, that don’t last long.
“Hey, Herbert, why the long face?” I looks up, an’ it be that no-titty Payabo bitch Judy Metzger, who fucked up my desk once wit’ her wack smiley-face cupcakes during Employee Appreciation Week, an’ I had to pull tha Letta Opener Of Death on her and that Myron Schabe fucka, ’cause don’t nobody put no shit on tha H-Dog’s fuckin’ desk. I brace myself in case this bitch wanna step to me again.
“Yo, Judy, get tha fuck outta my face,” I say. That stone-cold freak be jonesin’ foe my jock, I can tell. But this ain’t tha time foe mackin’. Damn. Problem is wit’ these office bitches, bein’ hard around them don’t work, ’cause they think you just depressed or sad or sumpfin’. Since bitches is always sad and depressed, they think you is too, so they won’t leave you be.
“I know what will cheer you up, Herbert!” Judy say. She gots her hands behind her back tha whole time, an’ when she whip ’em out, I springs up outta my seat flashin’ my Letta Opener. She scream, an’ this big-ass plate of brownies fall outta her hands. She start cryin’ and runs away. But I ain’t gots time for regrets. Tha H-Dog come fully strapped at all times, an’ it gonna stay that way, Gs.
So I gets up an’ scopes tha scene some more. Sure enuf, in tha beer tent, I spots Gary chillin’ wit Luckenbill an’ that scrub Myron. I whips out tha Letta Opener, ready foe action, but before I can reach ’em, someone else get up in my face. This time, it be mah homey Ken from Inventory.
“Herbert, I’m sorry, but you’ve got to come with me right away,” Ken say. “It’s Dave Weintraub. I think he’s OD’d on Liquid Paper.”
I shoulda known that joker would fuck shit up foe me. Not only wuz he a fool, he wuz a fuckin’ Paypahead, too. An’ only I knew tha antidote. Plus, I didn’t want to cause bad blood between tha A.R. Posse an’ tha Inventory Krew. “Show me tha way, Ken,” I says. “Only we gots to do it wit’ a quickness, ’cuz I gots bidness to attend to in tha beer tent.”
Sho ’nuf, Dave Weintraub be layin’ behind tha rest rooms, twitchin’ like a headless chicken, Liquid Paypa foamin’ outta he mouth. Didn’t I tell y’all he was a crazy-ass fool? Anyhow, I learned tha antidote back when I wuz accountz reeceevin’ on tha street: two parts Elmer’s Glue to one part Coffee Mate, throw in three-quarters of a Pink Pearl eraser, mix tha shit up, pour it into a Cathy coffee mug and shove it down tha Paypahead’s throat. In less than a minute, tha fool wuz on his feet, an’, man, he be so grateful, I thought he wuz gonna suck my dick or sumpfin’.
“You owe me big time, muthafucka,” I says. “An’ if I eva see you tokin’ up on tha L.P., I’ll smoke yo’ sorry li’l ass, true dat.”
Shit, I ain’t no Nancy Muthafuckin’ Reagan, but when I see abuse of office supplies like what that fool be doin’, it be muthafuckin’ ZERO HOUR. Man, I better get Employee Of Tha Month foe that shit.
By tha time I gets back to tha beer tent, Gary be all alone, knockin’ down a Bud Light. Damn. I be thinkin’ I be too late.
Ends up, I didn’t hafta worry. Luckenbill an’ Myron did aks Gary do he wanna work foe Accountz Payabo, jus’ as I predicted, but Gary turned ’em down. Even afta they offer him crazy Benjamins. He say he happy rollin’ wit’ tha Reeceevable Posse, and tha Payabo Krew can’t teach him more than what he learn wit tha A.R. Jus’ like tha H-Dog, Gary A.R. foe life.
I gotta give stoopid mad props to my man Gary. Ain’t nobody can buy that kinda loyalty, ’specially not them no-game muthafuckas ova in Payabo. They can’t even hold onto a sorry-ass temp, an’ everybody knows they temp muthafuckas be desperate bitches who’ll do anything foe tha scratch. Fo-get that shizit I said earlier ’bout gettin’ soft ’cause I be at tha company picnic. I be doin’ what I always do, defendin’ my turf, lookin’ out foe my krew. One thing you learn when you tha Accountz Reeceevable supervisa, you gots to attend to yo bidness, 24/7. Yo, I’m Audi 5000, Gs.
Prior to his death on April 30th, 2007, Herbert Kornfeld wrote about workplace issues for The Onion. He worked as the Accounts Receivable Supervisor at Midstate Office Supply, the state’s oldest wholesaler and retailer of office supplies and business machines.
