Ay yo, wassup, Gs? If y’all aksed me what paradise wuz to tha H-Dog, I’d say it be three things: customas payin’ they accountz on time without me having to go all Walkin’ Tall on they ass, a endless supply o’ Nutrageous barz in tha break-room vendin’ machine, an’ last but not least, a seven-day work week wit’ no muthafukkin’ dayz off to fuck wit’ mah flow.
As I’ve said in this space before, tha H-Dog’s life be all bidness. Weekendz an’ holidayz just ain’t mah thang, know what I’m sayin’? When I ain’t officin’, it’s like I get all unbalanced. Tha only good thang I can say about havin’ time off is that it afford me tha opportunity to spend Q.T. wit’ mah shortie, Baby Prince H. Tha Stone Col’ Dopest Biz-ook-kizeepin’ Muthafukkin’ Badass Supastar Kornfeld Tha Second.
A couple Mondays ago, I be in tha Nite Rida, cruisin’ ova to mah ex-bitch Agnes’ crib to drop off our shortie, who I had foe tha weekend. But who answer tha door? Thass right, Agnes’ old-ass mama. She all in her big-ass flowa-print housecoat, doin’ that slow walk of hers. She ack like she got tha rheumatism, but I know she jus’ takin’ her sweet-ass time ’cause when it comes to Daddy H, she a stone-cold playa hata.
“Yo, Grandma,” I say, handin’ her tha shortie. “Take Baby Prince H. Tha Stone Col’ Dopest Biz-ook-kizeepin’ Muthafukkin’ Badass Supastar Kornfeld Tha Second. I gots bidness to attend to at Midstate.”
“If you’re talking about Tanner, I’ll be glad to,” she say. “Say, what did you do with him all weekend, Herbert? Stuff envelopes? Make coffee? Collate?”
See what I mean ’bout this bitch? A stone-col’ playa hata. She got it in foe officin’ peeps. She don’t even approve o’ her daughta workin’ in tha Midstate cash room, let alone havin’ a baby wit’ a reeceevable bruthah like me. I don’t know why. I gots tha dopest Blu Cross/Blu Shield benefitz package, includin’ full medical and dental foe me an’ mah dependentz.
“Yo,” I tell Agnes’ mama, “you be forgettin’ that I coulda made yo’ daughta a queen if she wuz mah bitch. I gots a rep foe bein’ tha stone-coldest A.R. playa in tha tri-state area. But now you an’ yo’ daughta can get the hell on. So kiss mah Dockas-covered ass, Grandma.”
But this bitch be persistent. “You know, Herbert, for 33 years, I was married to a slick business-type. He was a lot like you, full of hot air and always talking about ’the boss has really taken a shine to me’ this and ’I just know I’ll get that promotion’ that. Thirty years go by, and he’s still in the same lousy junior sales position, never making more than 12K a year. Some hot shot.”
She jabbered some mo’, but I tuned it out. She just bitta ’cause she didn’t have tha goodz to hook up wit’ a real playa. She think that just ’cause her man’s officin’ skeelz wuz wack, that meant officin’ be a dead-end life. Well, thas BULLSHIT.
She runnin’ at tha mouth so much, I almos’ didn’t catch what she saved foe last.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the fact that you dropped Tanner off early, but what kind of person would choose to work on Labor Day?” she say. “I know for a fact that all Midstate Office Supply employees have today off. What, you can’t tear yourself from your precious subsidiary-accounts-receivable ledger for even one day?”
“Layba Day?” DAMN. I fo’got ’bout Layba Day. On tha H-Dog’s calenda, Layba Day be up there wit’ Memorial Day an’ Columbus Day as tha unholiest dayz of tha fiscal year. Think how much tha A.R. bruthahood could get done on those dayz if tha Man would let us do our thang. FUCK tha Man.
I be back in tha Nite Rida and gone before that ol’ bitch could detect any cracks in tha storied H-Kool. Cruisin’ ’round town, I be lookin’ foe some Layba Day officin’ action, but I couldn’t find none. Tha Midstate parkin’ lot be empty, an’ tha public parkz be teemin’ wit’ people who be picnicin’ an’ throwin’ them muthafukkin’ Frisbeez aroun’. It wuz like tha inside of a office be tha last thing on they minds. DAMN.
I wuz contemplatin’ goin’ back to my crib an’ chillin’, only I wuzn’t sure what I’d do there. Watch TV? Vacuum? Sheeit, those ain’t no dignified activities foe a A.R. bruthah on a Monday. Y’all can see what kinda quandary I wuz in.
Fortunately, I hadda hunch to check out mah ol’ alma mater, Eastech Bidness College. Sho ’nuff, when I pull up, I peep some of mah A.R. homies kickin’ back on tha front lawn: AirGoNomic, Sir Casio KL7000, an’ Count von Numbakrunch.
“Yo, H-Dog, we wuz tryin’ to call you all mornin’,” says KL7000, tossin’ me a Zima. “It Layba Day, we ain’t gotta do no laborin’, an’ we got tha whole Eastech crib to ourselves. This be tha life, blood.”
“Sheeit, what a pitiful sight you bruthas be,” I say. “We all should be journalizin’ an’ reconcilin’ right now. Y’all be reduced to drinkin’ Zimas on a school lawn. Tha accountz-reeceevin’ life ain’t got no room foe that.”
“Yo, when did you get so uptight, Dog?” Numbakrunch say. “If Tha Man give us a day off every now an’ then, so what? We muthafukkin’ deserve it. I don’t see no Accountz Payabo knockas frettin’ ’bout no day off. Why should we?”
Man, when Numbakrunch say that, I see RED. I kick that sucka to tha curb, open his attaché case, and dump his paypas all ova him.
“Thas why, mutherfukka,” I say. “What you think be written on them paypas, muthafukka? Sniglets? Shit, no. Numbas. Numbas you been given tha task to reconcile. Y’all oughta be proud that y’all gots this responsibility. When tha work day be done, do you think them Accountz Payabo bitches take they work back to they cribs like we do sometimes? Hell no. They get they eat on, watch Everybody Loves Raymond, and maybe take a long hot shower. Then they have a cuppa chamomile tea and go to sleep. Well, fuck that boo-ya.”
Numbakrunch just lay there unda his paypas, lookin’ all confused. Suddenly, it dawn on me that maybe I just pissin’ into tha wind. Numbakrunch be five, six yearz younga than me, and already I can see that tha new breed o’ A.R. bruthah be soft. They all think accountz reeceevin’ be about tha bitchez an’ tha money and tha fame. Thas part of it, no doubt, but us old-school homies know there be more.
But, yo, check out what happens next: A Ford Escort rolls up to us, an’ this muthafukka on tha passenger side pops his pasty face out. I can make out three more in tha back seat.
“Hey, Kornpone—balance this,” tha muthafukka say, flippin’ me tha bird. So I flips him my Letta Opener Of Death. I be aimin’ foe tha area betwixt his eyes, only it miss him an’ just bounce off tha car door. That scare them enough, though, an’ tha Escort peels off.
AirGoNomic grab my arm. “I know that punk: He be Don Kadish, tha new Accountz Payabo supavisa at Datech Management Systems. He all cocky an’ think he got somethin’ to prove, so he goin’ afta all tha top A.R. playaz. I bet they headin’ foe tha Payabo picnic at tha fairgroundz. You got tha fastest ride, Dog—let’s ice those fuckas.”
At that moment, I fo’gets all about my beef wit’ mah A.R. bruthahs. I help Numbakrunch to his feet, an’ we all pile into tha Nite Rida. KL7000 knew a dope shortcut to tha fairgroundz, so when those A.P. foolz pulled up, we wuz lyin’ in wait. BAM. They never knew what hit ’em. We disabled ’em by sneakin’ up on them ninja-style an’ snappin’ binder rings on the palms of they hands. While they wuz screamin’ in pain, we grabbed they polo-shirt collas, pulled them ova they heads, and buttoned they collas to the top so’s they couldn’t see nuthin’.
Don Kadish panicked and started runnin’ blindly in tha direction of tha Payabo picnic, but tha sucka only got as far as that old-ass A.P. geeza Myron Schabe. Schabe and his bone-ugly wife Sandy be sittin’ on a blanket, havin’ a picnic, when Kadish come runnin’ straight at ’em. Kadish runs onto the blanket and wipes out all ova tha potato salad an’ baloney meat. I be followin’ in hot pursuit an’ proceed to hand out tha beatdowns in rapid succession. Even though Kadish had me in his crosshairs, I hands Numbakrunch mah three-hole punch an’ let him deliver tha final blow. Kadish be screamin’ foe mercy and Sandy Schabe be screamin’ foe tha 5-0, but ol’ Myron jus’ be sittin’ there wit’ his usual hangdog look on his face. That geeza ain’t got no self-respect at all. If he did, he’d-a been defendin’ his turf an’ his A.P. bruthah in need. It jus’ go to show what kinda pussies tha A.P. krew truly be.
That whole Layba Day incident taught me that when tha A.R. bruthahood be in a tight corner, we come through foe each other. We may diffa in our philosophizeez, but challengin’ us be like wakin’ a sleepin’ dragon or some Oriental shit like that. ’Cuz at heart, y’all, a true A.R. bruthah never takes no day off. H-Dog OUT.
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.
