Y’all may not realize this, but tha Accountz Reeceevin’ bruthahood be forced to live in two worlds: tha supafly world o’ officin’ an’ tha bleak-ass world of all y’all amateurs. And it ain’t easy. When punchout time roll around, there be a lot o’ A.R. bruthahs who don’t know what to do with theyselves. Sometimes, they go to Chiliz or Applebeez, but them places be full of playa-hatas who don’t approve of tha reeceevin’ lifestyle, and in no time, suckaz start flexin’.
’Bout a month ago, me and mah homes Petty Ka$h wuz in T.G.I. Fridayz, and some o’ dem stripey-shirt muthafukkaz didn’t like how he ordered a jalapeño-poppah appetizah ’steada a full entrée. They dragged his ass into tha kitchen, doused him with that teriyaki-lime-juice-mesquite-sauce shit all they food be cooked in, an’ stabbed him wit’ them wack pins an’ buttons they wear on they suspendas. Then they threw him in tha Dumpsta outside. A month lata, Ka$h still be tryin’ to get that teriyaki-margarita-whateva-tha-fuck-it-is smell outta his Dockaz.
Shit’s gotten so bad, some A.R. bruthahs don’t even go out no more afta work. They just chill in they cribs wit’ they bitchez an’ shortiez, wishin’ they could be out on tha street reeceevin’. Ever read in tha police blotta ’bout some A.R. bruthah gettin’ arrested foe bustin’ into his own place-a work aftahourz to do a li’l freestyle numba-krunchin’? Or jus’ to dick aroun’ on tha addin’ machine a little, even if it just be to punch in 7734 40, which upside-down read “OH HELL”? Bruthahs jus’ wanna keep they minds active, but in tha fucked-up non-officin’ world, all tha 5-0 see is breakin’ an’ enterin’.
In spite o’ all that bullshit, tha A.R. krew still be willin’ to play by tha rulez o’ tha non-reeceevin’ world. We tip our waitressez, park our hoopties in designated spotz, an’ sort our lightz an’ darkz. An’ if all y’all show tha proper respect, shit, we be known to tie our cardboard recyclables into bundlez.
But, dag, yo—y’all crossed tha line when y’all tried to force yo’ lame-ass jury-duty shit on mah homie Sir Casio KL7000.
Last month, I was kickin’ tha spreadsheetz in my dope cubicle when tha phone rang. It be Petty Ka$h. I’m thinkin’, shit, where he gettin’ his ass throwed outta now, Bombay Bicycle Club? Instead, Ka$h say Casio got this summons to appear down at tha county courthouse an’ serve on some weak-ass jury.
“Ka$h, get tha posse together wit’ a quickness,” I say. “We gonna bum-rush tha courthouse an’ bust our homie out.”
A.R. bruthahs gots to contend wit’ this jury-duty shit from time to time. And we ain’t havin’ it. We such stone-col’ supastars in our respective officez, it be out o’ tha question foe us to serve on a jury. Not only dat, Casio’s fiscal year wuz set to end May 1, so it wuz muthafukkin’ krunch time all around.
Time wuz runnin’ out. Petty Ka$h called just afta lunch hour, which meant Casio mighta been picked foe juryin’ already. I arrived at tha courthouse in tha Nite Rida ’round 1:20, an’ a few minutes later, I see Petty Ka$h, Kount Von Numbakrunch, AirGoNomic, and 3-Holepunch pull up in Ka$h’s Tercel. Everybody come fully strapped, but I told ’em to leave they letta openers an’ bindah clips in tha hoopty, lest they want tha courthouse metal detectaz to go apeshit.
See, I know dat courthouse up an’ down from mah own run-ins wit’ Tha Man. I go into tha trunk o’ tha Nite Rida an’ hauls out some leatha sportz jacketz an’ baseball capz, an’ tells everybody to put them on. Tha homiez start in to bitchin’, but I say that if tha courthouse muscle see us in our officin’ gear, they might get wise to our scheme. As anotha smokescreen, I give ’em all some juror passes I sweet-talked from this courtroom stenographa I once balled.
“An’ deep-six tha street verbals,” I tell mah homies. “Talk like this: ’How do you do, I am an average citizen, and I like jury duty and other activities that take place outside offices.’ I know it wack, but that be how these muthafukkaz talk.”
Afta some tense momentz (tha guardz want to know why Ka$h stank of honey-mustard sauce), we made it inside an’ split up to find Casio. I had tha mad stealth of a muthafukkin’ jungle cat an’ chameleon combined, stalkin’ tha corridorz foe mah homie an’ blendin’ in wit’ tha suckaz. It all paid off when I found Casio gettin’ his drink on from a water fountain outside a courtroom on tha fourth flo’. He say somethin’ about gettin’ picked foe some civil case that settle outta court befoe tha trial can begin, but I ain’t got time to listen. I get his ass downstairz to tha lobby, callin’ Ka$h on his cell an’ leavin’ a coded message foe the krew to split tha courthouse, lest tha 5-0 be listenin’ in. Wit’ Numbakrunch an’ 3-Holepunch distractin’ tha pigz wit’ questions ’bout where tha Soldiers An’ Sailors’ Memorial at, Casio an’ me hustle tha fuck outta there an’ into tha Nite Rida.
It wuz mad dangerous foe Casio to return to his office. That’s tha first place tha 5-0 woulda looked, no diggity. So I takes him to a safehouse tha A.R. posse keep foe when one-a our own gots to lay low. Casio stay there foe almost three weekz, doin’ all of his end-o’-fiscal-year bidness from undaground. He use a network o’ couriers to relay his shit to his office by foot every night, cuz e-mail can be traced. An’ I ain’t tellin’ none o’ y’all where tha safehouse at, ’cause when you reeceeve accountz foe a livin’, tha first thang you learn is TRUST NO ONE.
Yo, headz up, non-officin’ muthafukkaz. Peep this: We know yo’ world be bigger than ours, an’ that y’all gots tha benjamins, tha muscle, an’ tha sheer numbahz to do yo’ biddin’. But we got tha brains an’ tha cunning. An’ if you try to push us, we push back. We push playa-hatas back to tha muthafukkin’ Stone Age, know what I’m sayin’? An’ we wouldn’t trade tha 24-7 Reeceevin’ Life foe yo’ gardenin’ or yo’ bowlin’ league or yo’ microwave-cookery classes or whatever weak shit all y’all do in yo’ spare time. In tha A.R. World, ain’t no such thing as spare time. Tha only spare time we eva gonna have be in tha grave. An’ thass all good wit’ us, ’cause we be straight-bangin’ hardcore badasses to tha end. 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.
